“I thought you’d be busy with your fan club,” I said as I took the cup he offered. He dropped down next to me, long legs stretched over the row in front of us, close enough that our shoulders almost touched but didn’t.

“They’ll survive without me for a few minutes.”

A lie. People orbit him the way moons orbit planets—helpless. And I was one of them, one moon in a crowded sky. But in twelve days that would change. He’d be gone, accepted early to some university three prefectures away, the kind that sends its offers on thick cream paper. Our town would shrink to the size of a matchbox in his rearview mirror, and I would stay behind and count the days until the matchbox burned.

I raised the cup and took a sip. It was overly sweet.

Fireflies drifted above the wide soccer field, blinking like tiny stars in the growing dark. Behind us the graduation party spilled noise across the open air, laughter that sounded too loud, too hopeful, too unsure, the nostalgia of people already turning this place into a story, happy to escape and secretly wishing the time back.

I didn’t want to hide out here. I thought I’ve overcome my cowardness years ago but looks like I didn’t. I slipped away from the party when the celebration began to weight heavy on my heart, when each congratulation directed at them felt like a small funeral for the version of me that believed nothing would ever change.

Sixteen is a stupid age. Old enough to know people leave, young enough to believe you might be the exception.

And I didn’t want to be so sad that day. I really tried. It was Satoru and Suguru’s graduation party, after all. A happy day. The last great hurrah before they left. But I couldn’t shake the thought that I would stay here, finish school alone, rooted to this small town like someone had pinned me down with no chance to catch up.

I probably should have stayed with my friends, let their chatter about summer trips and movie stars wash over me and pretend I care about the same things. I could have passed for normal. Instead I followed the same worn path, trailing after my brother and his best friend because that had always been what I do.

Saturday mornings in our school gyms with my textbooks open while they ran drills, or late-night convenience store trips where they bought me ice cream and ruffled my hair. Birthdays, holidays, ordinary afternoons that somehow turned special because the two of them filled every moment with a brightness I never learned to create on my own.

My adolescence shaped itself around them. Suguru’s little sister. Satoru’s friend’s kid sister. I answered to those roles more readily than to my own name some days.

And somewhere between my childhood and this humid summer night, I convinced myself that if I stayed tucked inside the pocket they made for me, it would never stop fitting. I let myself believe the story would hold steady forever.

But it wouldn’t. Everything would change. In two weeks the house would go quiet. And I would still be here, sixteen and small and so unbearably left behind. Still in love with someone who called me kid and probably didn’t know my favorite color.

Two years felt like forever at that age. Seven hundred thirty days. Seven hundred thirty nights of maybe texting, maybe not. Long enough for new cities to leave their marks on his skin, for inside jokes to form in languages I wouldn’t speak, for girls with longer legs and brighter smiles to learn the exact pressure of his hand at the small of their back.

By the time I’d be old enough to board a train without permission, I would be the footnote he mentioned when someone asked about home. Remember Suguru’s little sister? Yeah, she was always around.

I hated that thought.

“Nervous about Osaka?” I asked, mostly to fill the silence before my thoughts ate me alive.

“I guess I should be. New city, more competition, living on my own for the first time…” He drank from his cup. “It doesn’t feel real yet.”

“It will when you’re playing in front of thousands of people.”

“Maybe.” He fell quiet for a moment, then asked, “What about you? Nervous about next year?”

“A little. But also… excited? I want to do well. I need to do well if I want any chance of getting into Tokyo’s chemistry program. My grades have to be perfect.”

“Hey.” He bumped my shoulder gently. “You’ll be fine. You’re the smartest person I know.”

“You’re just saying that to be nice.”

“I’m serious. You dragged me and Suguru through every year of chemistry, even though we’re two years ahead of you. Remember all those Sundays in your kitchen when you explained stoichiometry to us like it’s the easiest thing ever? And I still couldn’t get it.”

“You weren’t that bad.”

“I absolutely was,” he said. “Suguru was only slightly less terrible. But you saved our asses every time. Point is, Tokyo would be idiots if they didn’t take you.”

“You really think so?”

He didn’t hesitate. “I know so. You’re going to get exactly where you want to go.”

I looked down and picked at the rim of my cup, hoping my heartbeat wasn’t as loud as it felt.

“You’re lucky,” he said after a moment.

“Why’s that?”

He smiled, small and fragile, the kind that used to make teachers forgive him for never doing his homework.

“You know what you want,” he said. “You’ve got everything lined up. You’re gonna be some famous chemist or something, probably discover a new element and win a Nobel Prize.”

“That’s absurd.”

“It’s not. You’re stupidly smart. It’s honestly terrifying.” He leaned back on his elbows, eyes drifting to the first stars poking through the sky. “Meanwhile I’m just following Suguru and hoping I don’t screw everything up.”

“You won’t screw it up.”

“I’m not so sure.”

“I know so,” I said, throwing his own words back at him. “You and Suguru are gonna be amazing. You’ll travel the world, play in big and famous arenas, maybe even the Olympics.”

“You really think that?”

“I do. I always have.”

“But what if it doesn’t work out? What if I get there and I’m not good enough? What if I fail and have to come back with nothing… I don’t know. I’m talking nonsense.”

“You won’t fail. You’re too good for that. And you know it.”

He gave another fragile smile. “Must be nice, having everything figured out already.”

“I don’t,” I said. “I mean, I know what I want to study, but everything else is just—” I swirled the last of the punch. The ice had melted into pink water. “A total mess.”

“Like what?”

I stared straight ahead, at the dark line where the field ended and the rest of the world began. 

“Like wondering if the people I care about will still be around when I graduate. If anything will be the same in two years. If I’ll still matter to them when they’re off chasing dreams somewhere far away.”

He was quiet so long I thought he hadn’t heard. I wanted to disappear into the bleachers.

“You’ll always matter,” he said at last.

I wanted to laugh at how small the promise sounded against the size of what I needed. I wanted to cry because it was the most he’d ever given me. I wanted to beg him to say it again, louder so the night could keep it forever. Instead I bit the inside of my cheek.

“Will I?” I asked, foolishly.

“Of course. You think I could forget you?”

“Even when you’re in Osaka? When you’re playing for one of the best teams in the country, with scouts probably circling you after every game?” I should have stopped there. “Or girls?”

“Is that what you think my life is gonna look like?”

“I don’t know. I don’t know anything about what you’ll do. I just know you’ll be too busy living your amazing new life to think about home.”

“You’re not just home,” he said. “You’re—”

“I’m what?” I hated it. I didn’t take it back.

“You’re important to me. You’ve always been.”

I could barely contain my little heart from exploding.

“Satoru,” I said, and it sounded like please and don’t and stay all at the same time.

His hand moved first. His fingertips brushed the back of mine where it rested on the warm metal. It was barely a touch. It should have been nothing. It felt like everything. I was so foolishly in love.

“I know I shouldn’t—”

His knuckles grazed my cheek. And for a heartbeat—one impossibly long, impossibly hopeful moment—I thought he might close the distance. I thought he might actually—

But something in him snapped shut. His hand fell. His gaze dropped to the ground.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

He stood and moved fast, long legs taking the bleacher steps two at a time. I have to go, he said and didn’t even look back as he took my stupid childhood dreams with him.

I don’t know how long I sat there. Long enough for the punch to go warm, for the music to loop twice, for the hollow in my chest to stretch into something too big for my small body to hold.

Eventually I walked home alone. I locked myself in my room, pressed my face into the pillow, and cried until my ribs hurt. When Mom knocked, I told her I was emotional about graduation. She believed me because mothers want to.

Two weeks later he left for Osaka without saying goodbye. Suguru hugged me in the driveway, ruffled my hair the way he always had, and promised he’d call every week. Satoru stood by the car with sunglasses on even though the sky was overcast, and lifted one hand in a wave that never became anything more.

The car pulled away. I watched until the taillights vanished, then went inside and closed the door on the rest of my childhood.

That was eight years ago.

Eight years of no contact. Eight years of pretending I was over it, that I was mature and unbothered, that time had made me sensible. Until now. Because there he was.

Across the mall.

In full view.

Dressed in a Santa costume that was both too tight and too short, with a fake beard hanging slightly askew. A glittery vinyl banner screamed SANTA’S VILLAGE! above his head, and a line of toddlers and parents stretched toward the plastic throne where he sat, all six-foot-three of him.

Startled, I stood behind the register of the bookstore where I worked over the holidays, arms full of orders and trying not to drop all of them as my brain forgot how to function.

I should’ve walked away. I should’ve pretended I was needed in the cookbook section, or called in sick, or quit on the spot, or fled the country—literally anything except stand there and stare. But, of course, I stared. Because of course I would.

And eventually Satoru Gojo—my brother’s best friend, my could-have-been, my nearly-was, the unfinished story I left back in high school—looked up, and his eyes caught mine.

Satoru blinked.

I blinked.

And in the middle of a crowded mall, surrounded by Mariah Carey promising she didn’t want a lot for Christmas, angry toddlers, and a mall cop eating his fifth donut of the day and not in the slightest doing his job… Satoru Gojo, the wound I never recovered from, whispered—

“…oh shit.”

Merry Christmas to me.

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

We stared at each other.

Not long—maybe three seconds, maybe an eternity—hard to tell when lungs suddenly forgot how to work and the world stretched so thin it felt like one wrong breath might tear straight through it.

His eyes, that winter-sky blue right before the first snow decides to fall, held mine across the cheap tinsel and screaming toddlers. Eight years should have dulled them, turned them ordinary. But they hadn’t. If anything, time had sharpened them, made them brighter, more unmistakably his.

“Excuse me?” a woman said beside him. She nudged a small child forward—a little girl with pink cheeks and wide eyes staring up at the giant red figure in front of her.

Satoru blinked.

I blinked.

And the moment shattered like ice.

The little girl took one look at him—this weary Santa with the slipping beard and faint panic rising in his eyes—and immediately burst into tears.

“Ho… ho…?” Satoru tried, but it came out more like a question. 

The child wailed louder.

My own heart wasn’t doing much better. It beat too fast, too hard, too uneven, like it wasn’t sure whether to sprint or stop entirely. Because Satoru Gojo was here. Here. After eight years of nothing but secondhand mentions from Suguru, a few blurry appearances in my brother’s stories, and a whole lot of distance.

He was here. In this mall. In my town.

It wasn’t even his job. It was Suguru’s stupid annual winter side hustle—the one he uses up for his gaming habit instead of buying needed textbooks. But he was nowhere in sight. Why hadn’t he mentioned anything?

A strange pressure built behind my ribs.

None of it made sense. Satoru lived somewhere far away now. He had med-school lectures to attend, clinical rotations to do, an entire life that had nothing to do with our nowhere town or me. He had no reason to be here. He shouldn’t be here. And he absolutely had no right to make me feel like I’d been hit by a train I’d spent years convincing myself had already left the station with one single glance. And yet—

He came back.

“Hey.”

I startled so violently the top three books slid off the stack and hit the carpet with a dull thud. Maki stood right beside me, one eyebrow arched like she’d caught me—which, I guess, she did.

“…Who.” She followed the line of my stare. “—are you staring at?”

“I—uh—no one.”

Maki’s gaze flicked back to the disaster across the mall. A too tall and too broad Santa with white hair poking out from under the hat, velvet pants that stopped far too high on his legs, and a fake beard held in place by a rubber band stretched thin enough to snap from a single sigh.

She looked at him.

She looked at me.

She looked at him again.

Her face didn’t move, but somehow she managed to deliver several very loud thoughts at once, including:

You absolute clown.

You’re lying to my face.

What the hell is that man wearing?

“Right,” she said. “So you’re just… admiring mall Santa.”

“I wasn’t—he’s—”

“Tall? Weirdly attractive for someone who looks like he got kicked out of the North Pole? Doing a bad job?”

I stared at her, betrayed.

She shrugged. “I’m not blind.”

Across the mall, Santa-Satoru was squatting awkwardly, his beard slipping lower by the second. He whispered something to the sniffling girl; whatever it was worked, because her wail turned into a hiccup, and then a shy smile. For one heartbeat he looked up again, scanning, searching. And landed on me.

Maki followed the trajectory of his eyes. 

“Oh,” she said. “Now I get it.”

“I—he’s not—it’s not—”

“You know him,” she said, deadpan. “You know mall Santa.”

“Stop calling him that.”

“Then give me a better title.”

I didn’t answer. I couldn’t. Not when Satoru Gojo—my almost, my what-if, my forever something—stood twenty meter away in a stupid Santa costume, staring at me like he’d just seen something he thought had died years ago suddenly open its eyes again. And I had no idea what any of it meant.

Maki didn’t drop it. Of course she didn’t.

“So you gonna explain why hot mall Santa is staring at you like he wants you as his gift under the christmas tree?”

“He’s not—he wasn’t—Maki, stop.”

“Nope. Because you’re doing that thing.”

“What thing?”

“The thing where you’re panicking like you’re some teenager.”

I winced. She was, as usual, correct. Maki waited. I stayed silent. She lifted an eyebrow. I gave up.

“Fine. He’s my brother’s best friend.”

Maki blinked. Once. “That’s it?”

“No.”

“I figured.”

Before I could elaborate—or panic further—I grabbed her sleeve and pulled her sideways, past the game section and manga, straight into the self-help aisle, because—let’s be real, no one’s ever there. Maki stared at me, waiting for me to talk between a sea of motivational quotes, cheerful covers, and titles like Finding Your Inner Light, Feel the Fear and Do It Anyway, and You’re Not Crazy You’re Just Healing!

I wanted to die.

“So he’s kinda, like—” I rubbed my face; tried again. “I mean, he is—was—is, I guess, still is but also no, was and—”

Maki tapped a book titled Stop Walking on Eggshells and gestured at me.

“You’re enjoying this,” I said.

“Yes. I very much enjoy watching you malfunction. Now tell me why mall Santa is making you lose your mind.”

“He used to be around all the time. When we were kids. Like every single day.”

“So childhood friend crush. Classic. Continue.”

“It wasn’t—I mean—” My fingers found a book at random to have something to hold. It was titled How Not to Fall for the Wrong Guy. I shoved it back. “He went to Osaka with my brother to play basketball and I’ve never seen him again since.”

“That happens,” Maki said, not unkindly.

“Yeah, but there was… something. Right before he left. Something that almost happened. And then didn’t.”

“Ah. Now were’re getting to the interesting part.”

“There’s nothing interesting because nothing happened. Or maybe it did, I don’t know. And I know it’s stupid. I’ve spent years trying to get over it. Over him. And now he’s here? In a Santa costume? In my mall? I mean—what is happening? What am I supposed to do with that?”

Maki made a thoughtful face, then pointed at a pink paperback beside my elbow titled Managing Panic Before It Manages You.

“You might need that.”

“Not helpful.”

She crossed her arms and leaned a shoulder against the Mindfulness and Meditation shelf. “Do you still have feelings for him?”

“No! God, no. I’m too busy for feelings. I have deadlines, rent, a succulent that’s on the verge of death. You know how it is.” I reached for the nearest row of books and began rearranging them, pulling one forward, nudging another back, straightening a row that didn’t actually need straightening. “It’s just—A lot happened. After he left.”

“Like what?”

“Satoru got injured.” My fingers found the corner of some pastel book about radical forgiveness and pulled at it until the edge curled. “About four years ago. It was bad. He had to quit basketball.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah.”

“What happened?”

“Suguru didn’t give me details—or better said, I didn’t ask really. But it was serious and Satoru wasn’t the same after. After his injury he moved to another city and started studying sports medicine.” I slid a book half an inch to the left, paused, then slid it right back again. “Suguru said he got quieter. More closed off. I never asked. I didn’t think it was my place. I still don’t think it is.”

“So you two haven’t talked since before the injury,” she said.

“Not once.”

“And now he’s standing in the middle of this mall in a Santa costume, looking at you like you’re his long lost girlfriend.”

I traced the raised letters on a book cover. After his injury, everything between us—between the three of us, really—changed in ways none of us ever named. Suguru and Satoru grew a little distant, their calls got shorter, the laughter between them sounded different. Satoru transferred to another university, and Suguru quit too. Said he didn’t want it anymore if they couldn’t have it together. And now, standing here with him somewhere in this building, too close and too far at the same time, I realized I wasn’t even sure I knew who Satoru Gojo was anymore.

“It’s strange,” I said. “Seeing him again. After so long.”

My fingers closed around a bright green paperback titled Overcome Anything in 30 Days! I pulled it forward, pushed it back, shifted the angle, aligned the spine with the others, then pulled it out again because the spacing felt wrong.

Maki watched with the look of someone witnessing a car crash and unable to tear her eyes away, while somewhere past the shelves, the mall’s Christmas playlist kept looping.

“You’ve rearranged that book six times,” she said.

“It’s crooked.”

“It’s not crooked.”

“It feels crooked.”

I adjusted it again. Now it actually was crooked, leaning forward like it was trying to escape the shelf, which I couldn’t blame it for. If I were trapped between self-help books on a Thursday afternoon, I’d try to flee too. I frowned, tried to fix it, made it worse, and finally gave up with a long exhale and shoved it back into place.

Maki raised an eyebrow. “Feel better?”

“No.”

“Didn’t think so.”

A sudden burst of noise pulled me back to reality—voices, footsteps, the unmistakable ding of the front register. Customers had already begun to line up, a small crowd gathering at the cashier as if Maki and I had been hiding in this aisle far longer than I’d meant to. 

Before either of us could move, our manager appeared at the end of the row with that flat expression of someone who had been searching for quite a while and absolutely expected to find us doing nothing productive.

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

I tried to keep myself as busy as possible in the last hours of my shift, which wasn’t exactly hard. Holiday shoppers swarmed the aisles like we were giving things away for free. I answered their questions on autopilot.

“Do you have anything for a twelve-year-old who likes dragons?”

“Fantasy section, back left corner.”

“What about cookbooks?”

“Front table, next to the registers.”

I didn’t halt for a second—scanned barcodes, tied twine around brown paper, shoved purchases into gift bags. I even covered for Maki, so she could sneak away for a quick nap in the staff room. Anything to keep my brain occupied and keep my eyes from drifting toward the open hall, where Satoru was probably still traumatizing small children in that absurd costume.

But every time the line thinned and I had four seconds to breathe, my gaze betrayed me. It sought him out, the same way it had during those long, sunburnt summers, when watching him felt easier than looking anywhere else.

And there he was.

Satoru. 

Santa-Satoru.

Still somehow looking like himself even under all that red velvet and cheap polyester fur. Now and then I caught the flash of white hair when he tugged the beard down to breathe, or the striped socks he definitely hadn’t owned at eighteen when the pants rode up. And the way he leaned down when a kid climbed into his lap—careful, gentle—was the same way he used to lean over my homework when I was twelve and pretending I didn’t know the answer just to keep him close.

I watched, transfixed. And every time, something in my chest tightened, like it recognized him before the rest of me could decide whether it wanted to. He was still him. And I was still watching.

He was older, of course—eight years will do that. But it was more than time. His face had lost the last traces of boyhood softness; his jaw was sharper, the faint roundness in his cheeks long gone. He’d always been tall, but now his shoulders looked broader, his arms stronger. 

I hated that I couldn’t look away from the man he’d grown into. I thought I’d never get to see this version of him. 

After he left, I treated his Instagram like a minefield—one wrong tap and I’d blow off a limb. It was this dramatic. But the nights got longer, and discipline thinned. Eventually I’d find myself awake in the middle of the night, thumb hovering, then giving in.

Action shots from games. Group photos after practice with his arm slung around people I didn’t recognize. Stories from away trips—hotel rooms, bus rides, teammates laughing. 

And the comments. God, the comments.

Girls—dozens of them—flooding every post with heart emojis and comments that got worse the more you scrolled. marry me. ruin my life. hello beautiful boy. I told myself it didn’t matter, that I didn’t care, that I was above this kind of teenage stuff. But I did care. And then came the night I fell down the fan-edit rabbit hole.

One accidental tap and there he was in slow motion—sweat catching stadium lights, fingers in damp white hair, laughing like the world had never said no to him with captions like why is he so perfect and imagine being the girl he smiles at like this. I wanted to throw my phone against the wall.

I knew I was stupid to feel jealous. An almost-something on a summer bleacher didn’t buy me a single inch of him or give me a say in his new life, the people he met, or the girl he leaned into after wins. I was the girl he almost kissed, then apologised to, then left without a glance back. Nothing more. I cared anyway.

And it had hurt. If I let myself be honest—which I tried very hard not to—it had hurt like hell watching him build a whole bright life without me. Watching him smile in photos with people who got to orbit him the way I once had, while I stayed here, still in high school, still the kid sister who didn’t matter enough to visit.

After the injury I stopped looking altogether. Suguru called one night and told me Satoru had gone down during a game. Something about his knee, about surgery and physical therapy and an unclear recovery, possibly even career end. 

I opened Instagram that same night, but I couldn’t look. Couldn’t handle seeing dreams I’d watched form since childhood splinter. Couldn’t handle seeing him hurt, even through a screen. Later I learned he’d deleted his account.

And now he was here, not in a screen but breathing and wearing a supid red costume and all. A memory that had learned how to walk again.

None of it helped. I needed answers. Or at least one answer. So during a moment of quiet—no crying children, no stressed shoppers, no requests for “that book with the blue cover that everyone talks about on TikTok”—I ducked behind the counter and pulled out my phone.

you: why is satoru here

The three dots appeared almost immediately.

suguru: you saw him??

suguru: he lost a bet

suguru: had to take over my shift

you: you couldn’t have warned me???

suguru: sorry i was busy

suguru: besides you’ve been avoiding him for years

suguru: figured you two should talk

you: we have nothing to talk about

suguru: sure

suguru: that’s why you always flee the room when i mention him, right?

you: i hate you

suguru: love you too little sister

suguru: be nice to him okay? he’s going through it rn

My fingers paused above the keyboard. Going through it? Was it about his injury? I started to type, but another message landed before I could finish.

suguru: gotta run

suguru: don’t kill each other

I stared at the screen. A bet. He was here because he lost a bet. Not because he missed the town, not because Suguru asked him to come home for the holidays, not because some part of him wondered what I looked like at twenty-four. 

Just bad luck and worse timing.

It should have been a relief. A door slamming shut on every stupid hope I’d refused to admit I was still carrying. But it landed like a punch. I shoved my phone back into my pocket and swallowed the heavy feeling it left behind.

“Customer at the register,” Maki called, and I went back to work.

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

By evening the holiday chaos finally thinned, and we were supposed to be closing soon, but I moved slower than necessary. I closed the register a little too late, counted the till twice, pretended the receipt paper needed replacing. Anything to keep me here a bit longer. 

I wasn’t walking out those doors yet. Not after hearing Satoru’s voice drift across the hall earlier, telling some security guard he’d be “out of here soon.” I would wait him out.

“I’ll close,” I told Maki as she shrugged into her coat. “I’ve got inventory to finish anyway.”

She gave me a look that said she knew exactly what I was doing and found it deeply pathetic, but not pathetic enough to call me out on it. 

“Don’t stay too late,” she said. “Empty malls are creepy as hell.”

“Lock up when you’re done!” Our manager was already halfway out the door. “And actually finish the inventory this time!”

I waited until I couldn’t hear their footsteps anymore, until the overhead lights dimmed and the holiday music finally, goddamn finally, shut off. Mariah Carey might not want a lot for Christmas, but I sure as hell didn’t want to hear that song anymore for my Christmas.

I exhaled and opened the ordering tablet. One hour, I decided. Sixty safe minutes. By then the red suit would be folded in some staff room and he’d be gone—out the doors, into the cold, back to whatever life he lived now.

It felt like a solid plan. Reasonable. Adult, even. Which should have been my first clue it wouldn’t work.

I made it fifty-three minutes. 

Footsteps echoed down the empty mall. Could’ve been security; they did rounds at this hour. But something in the rhythm pulled at me in a way I felt in my chest before I recognized anything in my head.

“You still here?”

I turned. And there he was.

He still wore the stupid red velvet jacket and pants, but the hat and beard were gone, exposing pale skin and the soft freckles across his nose and cheeks. Somehow that made it worse—made him look less like mall Santa and more like himself. 

Like the boy on the bleachers. 

Like the boy who almost kissed me.

Like the boy who ran.

“What are you doing here?” I asked. “I thought you left.”

“Yeah, well.” He shrugged, hands disappearing into red pockets. “Didn’t feel right to leave without saying a real hello.”

“We don’t have to do that.”

“Do what?”

“This awkward reunion thing. It’s late. You can just go. It’s fine.”

“What if I wanted to see you?”

I hated the way my pulse stumbled at the sound of his voice, how my whole body still tensed like we were back on that bleacher, suspended in an almost that never happened. I hated that after I’d buried him so deep I swore the dirt was packed, one stupid question cracked the grave open again. And that I wanted him to stay almost as much as I wanted him to leave.

“Satoru—”

“It’s been years,” he said. “And you’re still avoiding me.”

“I’ve been avoiding you?”

“Yeah. You have.”

“You left,” I said. “You and Suguru packed your bags and went off to Osaka, and I haven’t seen you once. Not once in eight years.”

“You could’ve called—”

“So could you! Don’t stand there and act like I’m the one who disappeared. You never called either, Satoru. You were the one too busy living your perfect little dream life while I was still here. Alone.”

“That’s not fair.”

“Not fair? From what I saw, you were the university athlete, the basketball star. Had all the parties, the attention, all the girls tripping over themselves in your comments and—”

Heat rose straight up my cheeks. Did I just admit to stalking his social media?—Yes, but I pushed forward anyway, because halting now felt like stepping off a cliff.

“You were busy,” I said. “I get it. You didn’t have time for your best friend’s little sister anymore.”

“That’s not—You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Then tell me! Tell me why you left that night on the bleachers. Tell me why eight years went by and you never—” I couldn’t push the last words out. “You never came back.”

“I was in Osaka. I had practice, games, classes—”

“Suguru came home. Every break. You couldn’t manage it once?”

“It’s complicated—”

“It’s really not.” My fingers tightened around the tablet I was still holding. “You wanted to pretend that night never happened. Okay, fine. You did. But don’t stand here acting like I’m the one who—”

“I was trying to give us both space!”

“I didn’t want space! I wanted my friend back.” Something in his face went still, like I’d struck a nerve. “You were my friend, Satoru. Before anything else, before everything else, you were my friend. And then you just… left.”

“You were Suguru’s little sister,” he said. “You still are.”

“So that night was what? Something you wanted until you remembered whose sister I was?”

“I didn’t say that—”

“You didn’t have to.” My chest felt too small for all of this. “You ran away fast enough.”

“You were sixteen—”

“I was sixteen and in love with you! God, Satoru, was that not painfully obvious? You could’ve said something—anything. ‘Sorry, I’m not interested,’ or ‘Don’t fall for your brother’s best friend,’ or literally any sentence other than just stand up and run.”

“I was sixteen,” I went on, quieter now but no less fierce. “Sixteen and stupid and desperate for you. Any stupid excuse would’ve worked. My frontal lobe wasn’t even fully developed yet, you know—I would’ve swallowed whatever explanation you handed me without a second thought. And you could’ve spared me years of wondering what I did wrong. Of wondering what we almost were. Of wondering why I wasn’t enough.”

“And now I’m twenty-four. I’m doing a PhD. I’m supposed to be an adult. I’m supposed to be past this. But I still—I still wonder if you were my one true love and I just… missed my only chance.”

The bookstore went suddenly, violently quiet, the way a room falls silent after a glass shatters. I didn’t understand why everything I’d been holding back was suddenly spilling out, but by the time I noticed, I was already speaking again.

“I didn’t deserve this,” I said. “I didn’t deserve years of worrying. Of not knowing. I didn’t deserve to feel like that.”

Satoru stood three meters away, looking as though I had punched him. He opened his mouth, then closed it again. 

“I… I don’t know what to say.”

“That’s actually the worst thing you could have said. Congratulations.”

I moved past him, my shoulder brushing his. I grabbed my coat from behind the counter with hands that trembled.

“Wait—”

“Don’t.” I didn’t look back. I couldn’t watch the plea form and die on his mouth once more. “Just don’t, Satoru. Go home. Go anywhere that’s not here.”

I reached the glass door of the bookstore and pushed. Nothing. I pushed harder. Still nothing. “What—” I rattled the handle, panic rising. I moved to the next door. Locked. I tried the emergency exit. Also locked.

“No, no, no—” 

I pulled my phone out of my pocket. It was 9:02 p.m—the mall had closed two minutes ago. Security must’ve already done their final round and closed the building, and left.

“You’ve got to be kidding me.”

“What’s wrong?” Satoru came up beside me. He tried the handle himself. It didn’t budge.

“We’re locked in.” I stared past my own reflection in the glass into the darkened mall—shuttered storefronts, shadowed corridors, not a single soul left. “Security closed the building already.”

“Can you call someone?”

I pulled out my phone again—2% battery—and then the screen went black. I blinked, tapped the side button. Nothing. “No, no, no—don’t you dare.” I pressed the power button harder like that would magically fix it. “Come on—” A faint battery icon flickered once, then—darkness. 

I let my head thunk against the glass.

“I’ve got mine,” Satoru said, pulling his hand from his pocket and reaching for his phone—except his fingers closed around empty air. He searched the other pocket, then the inside of his coat, then the Santa jacket. His face went still.

“I…” he began.

I looked at him.

He winced.

“…think my phone is still at the Santa booth.”

I wanted to die. Again.

“They won’t be back till 6 a.m.,” I said. “That’s when the cleaning crew comes.”

Nine hours. Nine hours locked in with the person I’d spent years trying not to think about.

“There has to be another exit,” Satoru said. “Emergency exits, loading docks—something.”

“All alarmed,” I said. “We open one, the cops show up.”

“So let the cops show up.”

“And explain why we’re here after hours? My boss will fire me on the spot.” I slid down until I was sitting against the cold glass of the door, burying my face in my hands. “This cannot be happening.”

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

High school gymnasiums always smell like teenage sweat and floor wax, packed so tightly with people one can barely breathe. I can still remember it so vividly, feel the humidity on my skin, damp and heavy, and suddenly, I’m fifteen again, lungs burning on that early spring day of the regional semifinals.

We were up against Saitama West, with their star player who’d already been scouted by university coaches. Everyone said our team didn’t stand a chance.

I showed up two hours before the game and saved myself a seat in the front row. My friends told me I was insane to sit there alone for that long, staring at an empty court, but I didn’t care. This mattered, because it mattered to them—to him.

Slowly, the silence was replaced by a low hum, then a roar. Parents, students, and teachers—people who usually couldn’t be bothered to attend a sports event—flooded the bleachers, while the opposing team’s section was a sea of their colors, three times the size of ours, their chants already deafening during warm-up.

I sat there with my knees pulled tight to my chest, wearing Suguru’s old practice jersey. It was comically large, the hem hanging past my knees like a dress and it still smelt faintly of teenage boy that never truly washes out of polyester no matter how often you clean it. I had stolen Mom’s liquid eyeliner to draw their numbers on my cheeks. On my left cheek, a 7 for Suguru and on my right cheek, a 10 for Satoru.

I clung to the edge of the bleacher, the metal cold against my palms, my stomach twisted into a tight knot. I was terrified they would lose. But beneath that fear was a selfish ache—a hope that maybe, if they won, Satoru would look up into the stands and finally see me, really see me, not as Suguru’s little sister, but as the girl wearing his number on her cheek. 

It was a stupid, I know. But when you are young, you believe everything you read on Wattpad or see in Disney movies. You believe that magic happens if you just wish hard enough. And for once, just once, I wanted to be the Disney princess.

And for a heartbeat, I was.

Satoru found me first. Even across the crowded gymnasium, with hundreds of people between us, his blue eyes locked onto mine. He grinned—that wide, cocky, impossibly boyish grin I had always been helpless against—and pointed a finger at his chest, then at the number 10 painted on my cheek. I was so happy.

Suguru noticed a second later, shaking his head and rolling his eyes. I stuck my tongue out. 

And then the game began. Suddenly everything moved at once, my eyes barely catching up. When Saitama West scored first, my stomach dropped through the floor. It looked too easy for them. But then Suguru took the ball. He slipped past a defender, drove toward the basket, and flicked a pass back over his shoulder. Satoru was already there, catching it in stride for a layup.

“Let’s go!” I screamed, leaping to my feet with the rest of the student section. “Go! Go! Go!”

By halftime, we were down by eight. My friends went out to get nachos and soda while I stayed glued to the edge of the bleachers, alone in the crowd, watching the third quarter go downhill fast.

Saitama West’s star player was a nightmare—faster, meaner, moving like he already belonged on a pro court. He was unstoppable, sinking shot after shot as if it were nothing, silencing our side of the gym with every clean swish. With four minutes left, we were down by twelve. Someone behind me already declared that it’s over. I refused to stop believing.

I had watched them run drills around our block until their shirts clung with sweat to their skin and their laughter turned to groans. I had sat on the porch steps and watched them practice until darkness swallowed the driveway, until Suguru had to drag Satoru inside by his hood because Satoru refused to go home until he hit ten throws in a row.

They didn’t quit when it was dark. They didn’t quit when they were tired. They wouldn’t quit now.

In the fourth quarter, something changed. Suguru turned into a wall, holding the opposing star player to zero points, while Satoru caught fire. He sank three straight shots, each one seeming to hang in the air for eternity before slicing through the net and surging the entire gym to its feet.

With thirty seconds left, the score was tied. My voice was gone by then, nothing more than an awkward rasp, but I was still screaming—or trying to. It didn’t matter. Everyone was standing, the floorboards rattling under our feet, the noise so loud that I couldn’t even hear the referee’s whistle anymore.

Suguru brought the ball up. Ten seconds. The defense collapsed around him—three bodies closing in, arms up, trapping him near the arc. Nine seconds. He drove right, and then I saw it—the tiny opening. It was the backdoor cut, the exact same tactic they’d rehearsed under the flickering streetlamps of our driveway a thousand times, right up until the neighbors complained about the noise.

Eight seconds. Satoru caught the pass. He took one dribble and went up. Seven seconds. The ball left his fingertips. It hit the iron. It rolled around the rim once, twice. Six seconds.

It fell through.

Sound crashed over me like a tidal wave—screams, the thunder of stomping feet and the roar of the student section flooding the court before the teachers even had time to stop them. Suguru and Satoru were swept up in the riptide, vanishing into a sea of people.

I hung back at the edge of the celebration, heart pounding so hard against my ribs I thought it might bruise the bone. I watched them rise from the crowd, breathless and sweating, but they looked impossibly bright and alive.

And then, through the surge of bodies and noise, Satoru’s eyes found mine. He lifted his hand and traced the arc of his layup in the air, then pointed a finger directly at the 10 painted on my cheek and mouthed the words, silent but unmistakable:

Saw that?

A heartbeat.

For you.

A smile broke over his face like sunlight.

I went home that night and wrote it down in my diary, pressing the ballpoint pen so hard into the page that it carved the words into the next page.

He didn’t look at the cheerleaders. He didn’t look at the scouts. He looked at me, I wrote and underlined the word me three times. It was my Disney moment.

I stared at the ink drying on the page, convinced that this was the start of my happily ever after. I didn’t know yet that the thing about blue springs and youth is that they burn out, and that being the princess usually just means you have the furthest to fall.

Afterwards, when the chaos died down and people started to filter out, I’d waited by the locker rooms like always. Mom was running late—stuck at work, as usual—so I had time to kill and nowhere else to be.

The gym was nearly empty now, just the janitor starting to sweep up confetti and a few students taking photos near the exit. 

I wandered back onto the court and stared up at the scoreboard, which still showed the final score in red LEDs. A forgotten basketball lay on the edge of the court. I picked it up, dribbled once, twice, and took a shot. It clanged off the rim and bounced away.

“You’re doing it all wrong.”

I spun around so fast I nearly tripped over my feet.

Satoru was standing at the edge of the court. He had showered, white hair damp and darkened, falling messily over his forehead. Suguru was probably still in there, using up all the hot water—just like home.

“I wasn’t—I was just messing around.”

“Here, let me show you.” He dropped his gym bag, picked up the basketball and walked over. “You’re holding the ball wrong. Fingers spread—like this.” He demonstrated the grip, and then passed it to me. “And your stance—feet shoulder-width apart.”

I adjusted my feet, feeling foolish.

“Better,” he said, stepping closer, too close. “Now, when you shoot, it’s all in the wrist. You have to follow through.”

He moved behind me, a sudden warmth at my back. I stopped breathing. His hands slid along my arms, then guided my arms upward and corrected the angle of my elbows. His hand wrapped around my forearm to steady it, and I froze entirely.

I had always known Satoru was tall, that he was strong. I’d watched him grow into his height like a weed, watched his shoulders broaden year by year. But knowing it and feeling it were two different things.

His fingers circled my wrist with room to spare, where mine would have barely met. My heart was doing something stupid and frantic in my chest, a hummingbird battering against its cage, the way only teenage hearts do when they suddenly realize how much bigger a boy’s hand is than hers.

“Don’t throw it. Guide it,” he said, his breath brushing my hair. I prayed he wouldn’t notice the goosebumps rising along my arms. 

I took a breath and pushed the ball. It rose in a high arc, mostly guided by his strength. It spun once, a perfect rotation, and dropped clean through the net. Swish.

“Oh my god!” I hopped in place. “I made it!”

“See? Natural talent.”

“I wouldn’t say that. You did all the work.”

“Nah.” A grin pulled at his lips. “That was all you.” He grabbed the rebound and tossed it back to me. “Try again. On your own this time.”

I squared my feet. I tried to remember the angle he’d pulled my elbows into and shot.

Clang.

“Not bad,” he encouraged. “Again.”

I shot again. This time the ball hit the rim before bouncing off.

“See? You’re getting it.”

Satoru caught the rebound with one hand and spun it on the tip of his index finger, the ball blurring into a perfect orange sphere. It was effortless, showy, and unfairly cool.

“You ever think about joining the team?” he asked, watching the rotation.

“The girls’ team?”

“Yeah.” He shrugged, letting the ball drop into his palm. “Why not?”

“Because…” I had never really considered it. Basketball was their world—Suguru’s and Satoru’s. I was only the spectator, the one who held the towels. I didn't belong inside the lines. “I don’t know. I’m not good enough.”

“You could be. With practice.” He nudged the ball back into my hands. “Plus,” he added, looking down at me, “then you’d be around more. You know, at practices and stuff. Not just games.”

I looked up at him, searching his face, risking everything on a single question.

“You want me around more?”

“Yeah,” he said “I mean, you’re our good luck charm, right? Gotta keep you close.”

Our. Not my. It hurt.

In one syllable, he had tied himself back to Suguru, reminding me of the unshakeable bond they formed. To him, I wasn’t a girl he wanted. I was the mascot. I was the little sister of the duo.

“Right.” I tucked a stray strand behind my ear and pretended my little heart didn’t hurt. “I’ll think about it.” 

I would never join. And if I ever did, it would’ve been only because he suggested it. But by the time tryouts came around, I’d always talk myself out of it—tell myself it was stupid, forcing my way into their world just to be near him. Wanting something that much makes you terrified to reach for it. 

But right then, standing alone with him in that quiet gym, I felt brave enough for one last act of stupidity.

“I, um… I made you something. For winning.”

I pulled the bracelet I’d made for him out of my jeans pocket. It was simple—woven thread in blue and white, the team colors. I’ve spent three lunch periods hiding in the library, watching YouTube tutorials on my phone, starting over twice, because it had to be right. It had to be perfect.

Satoru took it and he held it up to the light. “You made this?” He turned the woven band over in his large hands like it was something impossibly precious instead of cheap embroidery thread.

“It’s dumb, I know. But I thought… I don’t know. For luck. Or whatever.”

“It’s not dumb.”

He’d slipped it onto his wrist immediately and tugged it in place. “It’s perfect.”

I’d tried not to melt on the spot. “Don’t tell Suguru, okay?” I added quickly. “He’ll be weird about it.”

He smiled. “Then it’s out secret.”

Our secret.

After all the ours that meant him and Suguru, here was one that was just mine and his.

I looked up at him from where I was still sitting on the cold floor, leaning against the glass door that refused to open. And from this angle, I saw it.

He was still wearing it.

Blue and white thread. It was frayed and faded now, the vibrant colors of our high school team washed out by years of sun and water and life. It sat tighter on his wrist than it had back then, almost too small for the man he had grown into. But he had kept it.

Had worn it enough for it to fade, enough for it to fray, enough for it to become a part of him.

“You’re still wearing it,” I said.

His hand moved to his wrist, thumb brushing over the worn threads.

“Yeah.”

“Why?”

His gaze stayed on the bracelet, on the knots I had tied a lifetime ago. 

“We should find somewhere to sit,” he said. “Nine hours is a long time to spend on the floor.”

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

The staff room was barely a room at all. A narrow table, a couple of chairs that didn’t match, a mini-fridge that hummed too loud and lockers that didn’t quite close.

I switched on the electric kettle. It was old and took forever to boil, but I needed something to do with my hands. While it hissed, I dug through my locker and pulled out the emergency snacks I kept for long shifts. A few pieces of leftover Halloween candy and a box of cereal bars that were probably close to expired but still edible—or so I hoped.

“Here.” I tossed one to Satoru.

Satoru caught it with one hand—a reflex that hadn’t dulled with time, it seemed—and turned it over. “Cranberry?”

“It’s all I have.”

He tore the wrapper open with his teeth and took a bite. I reached into the cabinet for two mugs—one chipped, one with the bookstore’s fading logo—and grabbed two tea bags from the staff box, and hoped they weren’t close to expired too.

I leaned against the counter, watching the first thin wisps of steam rise from the kettle, and tried my best not to look at him. But then the cheap chair creaked behind me and I glanced over my shoulder anyway because apparently I’m weak.

He looked too big for the space, legs stretched out under the tiny table. I didn’t know what to make of him anymore.

There was a time when I knew him without trying. He spent half his life in our house, raiding our fridge and coming and going like he lived there. He knew which drawer held the good biscuits, which floorboard squeaked, which window stuck in summer. And I knew the way he stretched out his words when he was tired, the way he’d drop onto our couch and be asleep in ten seconds, the way he hovered in the kitchen when he didn’t want to go home yet.

Back then, he filled every room he walked into. He talked fast and laughed loud, pulling me and Suguru into his orbit whether we wanted to be there or not. Stillness didn’t suit him. It never had. He was the boy who almost kissed me once, then left before I could decide what it meant. Perhaps I should have anticipated that. He’d never stayed still a day in his life.

And now there was this person I hardly knew. His hair was cut short at the neck, and there was a stillness to him I had never seen before. He looked like someone who had decided exactly how much of himself the world was allowed to see and locked the rest away. Someone I recognized, but no longer understood. 

I watched him chew the cranberry bar, jaw sharper than I remembered. A man where my memory still tried to put a boy.

“Your manager takes photos?”

I followed his gaze to the corkboard above the table. A scatter of Polaroids pinned up with pushpins. There was Maki making a face behind a rude customer’s back. Nobara and I laughing over a spilled box of inventory. A group photo from Halloween where we were all dressed up as different book characters.

“Yeah,” I said. “She looks strict, but she really cares.”

“Which one is she?”

“The blonde in the back. Yuki.” I pointed to a candid shot of her laughing. “She started it when she opened the store. Said everyone who would work here should leave a piece of themselves behind.”

Satoru still chewed the cereal bar while his gaze moved across the corkboard until he stopped on one specific square near the center.

It was from my birthday last month. I wore a silly paper party hat that had already half slid off my head, while the rest of the staff crowded around me. Everyone had their hands lifted in heart signs, laughing and shouting at the same time at some poor customer we’d asked to take the picture, but held the camera wrong so the whole picture came out crooked.

My fourth birthday without so much as a text from him.

“You look happy here,” he said.

“I am happy.”

He was still looking at the wall. At the evidence of a life he hadn’t been part of.

“I didn’t know you worked here.”

“Why would you,” I said. “We don’t exactly talk.” 

Right then, the kettle clicked off.

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

I clicked on the floor lamp near the two overstuffed green velvet armchairs in the reading corner; its yellow light barely reached the edges of the shelves that framed the nook. I grabbed two blankets from the storage closet and tossed one over his chair. It smelled like something that had been stored too long in the closet, but warmth was warmth.

Sliding into my own chair, I pulled my knees up and tucked the wool around my legs. The chairs were angled toward each other—close enough to talk without raising our voices, far enough that our legs wouldn’t accidentally touch. 

It would be absurdly easy to pretend this was normal, to imagine it was just a random Thursday night and we were simply two people who knew each other—rather than two people who hadn’t spoken in years and were now trapped together in a city mall until morning.

Silence filled the store. After a while, Satoru shifted. I felt his eyes on me before I met them.

“Suguru told me you’re pursuing your PhD.”

He was watching me with something careful in his expression, like he was stepping onto ice and testing how much it would hold.

“I’m just starting out,” I said. “It’s not a big deal.”

“What are you researching?”

“It’s technical.”

“Tell me anyway.”

I sighed. “I’m part of a group studying photophysics. Basically, how molecules behave under extreme light conditions. We’re trying to figure out how to make energy transfer more efficient, how to stop things from losing power as heat. It’s complicated and half the time the data makes no sense, but when something finally behaves the way it’s supposed to…” I trailed off, realizing my hands were moving, emphasizing the words. I pulled the blanket tighter. “It’s pretty cool. That’s all.”

“Tell me more,” he said.

“It’s boring, really. Dry math and a hell lot of experiments. You’d regret asking.”

“I won’t.”

He said it without a beat of hesitation. I eyed him, waiting for the smirk, the punchline where he’d admit he was just asking to be polite but to be honest he doesn’t really care. It didn’t come. He sat there in the dim lamplight, turned towards me, and waited.

“Fine,” I said. “But don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

“Promise.”

I shifted the blanket higher over my knees. “We study behavior under pressure. Specifically, how molecules react when you hit them with really intense light, lke stronger than sunlight intense. We use lasers to push them into highly unstable states, and then track what they do in the few nanoseconds before they calm down.”

“Calm down?”

“Return to their original state,” I said. “Their lowest energy level. Where they’re stable again.”

“So you’re stressing them out and watch what happens?”

“Pretty much, yeah. We push electrons to higher energy levels, and when they drop back down, they release energy—sometimes as light, sometimes as heat. The goal is to make that release cleaner and more efficient. If we understand the pathways, we might be able to design better solar cells, more efficient catalysts, that kind of thing.”

“Huh.” He leaned back in the chair. “Sounds pretty cool.”

“You don’t have to pretend to be interested.”

“I’m not pretending.”

I shot him a look. I almost believed him. But I’d been made fun of enough times to know when someone was lying.

“Shouldn’t you know all this anyway?” I said. “Don’t med students have to take chemistry?”

“Yeah. We do.”

“And?”

“I failed it.” He touched the back of his neck. “Twice.”

I blinked. “Wait—what?”

“Passed on the third attempt.” A thin smile. “Barely. I think my professor felt sorry for me by then.”

“Satoru, you—” I stared at him, genuinely shocked. “You—the person I tutored in chemistry throughout his entire school life—failed chemistry in university? Twice?”

“In my defense, organic chemistry in med is completely different to what they teach you in school.”

“Oh my god. All those hours. All those diagrams I drew. The flashcards I made you—”

“Those were great—”

“You memorized the entire periodic table!”

“I forgot it immediately after finals,” he admitted. “Like, the next day. Gone.”

I wanted to throw my blanket at him. “How are you even still in med school?”

“Anatomy makes sense to me. Physiology too. But chemistry is just—” He waved a hand vaguely. “Invisible things doing invisible things.”

“That’s what I explained! For months!”

“I know.” He had the decency to look sheepish. “I’m really sorry about that, by the way. You put in a lot of effort for nothing.”

I slumped back in my chair. “You’re telling me you almost failed out of med school because of chemistry?”

“I didn’t almost fail out.”

“Third attempt, Satoru.”

He sighed, defeated. “Fine. I almost dropped out of med because of chemistry.”

“I can’t believe it.”

“I know.”

“All those hours.”

“I know.”

“The flashcards had little drawings on them.”

“They were very cute drawings,” he said. “Didn’t help me pass, but still cute.”

“You’re impossible.”

“Always have been.”

After that, we fell into a quiet that wasn’t awkward so much as familiar—the kind of easy silence shared by people who have too much history to feel compelled to fill every gap with noise. I leaned back a little farther in my chair and listened to the faint hum of the refrigerator in the break room that carried through the empty aisles.

“You look different when you talk about it,” he said. “Chemistry, I mean.”

“Different how?”

“I don’t know. Lighter, maybe. Like you’ve found your place.”

Satoru shifted again, sinking a bit deeper into his armchair, his long legs stretched out into the pool of lamplight.

“Can you show me sometime?” he asked.

“Show you?”

“The lab. Your work. If that’s allowed. If you want.”

I blinked, surprised. And suddenly the reading corner felt smaller, warmer, as if the night had pulled our chairs inches closer together without us moving.

“If I had known how important chemistry would become in my life,” he mused, looking up at the ceiling, “I’d have paid more attention to your lectures.”

“I didn’t lecture you.”

“You did. And you were brutal about it. You were two grades below me and still smarter in every way.”

“That’s an exaggeration.”

“It’s not,” he insisted. “You’d look at my homework, make that tiny annoyed face—the one where your nose scrunches up just a little—and I’d feel… weirdly ashamed of myself.”

“Because I scolded you?”

“Because you scolded me,” he confirmed immediately. “You’d correct one equation, pointing out where I missed a valence electron or whatever, and I’d think—Wow, I’m an idiot.” He went quiet for a moment. “You made me nervous.”

“I made you nervous?”

“Yeah,” he said. “You always did.”

I stared at him, the words still hanging between us like smoke I couldn’t wave away. Anger hit me so suddenly I didn’t have time to brace for it—hot and ugly, like a match struck too close to skin.

I made him nervous.

What was the point of that confession now? What did it count for, eight years too late, spoken in a locked mall at midnight like some kind of punchline to a joke I’d stopped finding funny?

He’d been nervous. He’d felt something. And he’d left anyway. Not because he didn’t feel the same. Not because it wouldn’t work. But because I was Suguru’s little sister. A label he slapped over every other part of me until I disappeared beneath it.

And I realized, I was never a person to him in those moments—only a rule. A bright line drawn in the carpet of someone else’s house. Crossing it would have been messy, inconvenient, a conversation with his best friend he apparently couldn’t stomach. So he chose the cleaner story: honor, loyalty, restraint. He kept his hands spotless while I learned to breathe around the ache of what almost happened.

It hurt. Because if he’d felt it too—if he’d been nervous, if I’d mattered—then why hadn’t I been worth the risk? Why hadn’t I been worth a single conversation, a single attempt, a single goddamn phone call in eight years? What good was his nervousness if he never let it matter? 

I would have followed him anywhere if he’d only asked. If he’d only gave me some small proof that I mattered more than the principle of not betraying Suguru.

I would have forgiven the missed birthdays. I would have forgiven the months of radio silence. I would have wiped my eyes and picked up the phone if he had called, even on the nights I swore I hated him, even when I was crying into my pillow over the sheer unfairness of loving him. I would have forgiven him for breaking my heart if he had just shown up to hold the pieces.

One call. One stupid, cowardly call and I would have run to him, arms wide, dignity in shreds, because back then love felt bigger than pride and I was young enough to believe forgiveness could fix a person. I was that stupid. I was that in love.

But he didn’t. He waited. He waited until the wanting had turned into resentment, until the girl who would have waited forever grew up into a woman who knew better.

I turned my face before he could read any of it.

“Suguru talks about you a lot,” he went on, ignoring my silence. “He’s proud of you. Says you work too much.” A small pause. “He worries, you know. But he also thinks you’re incredible. He always has.” Another pause, quieter. “I do too.”

I closed my eyes.

It would have been easier if he’d said nothing. If he’d stayed on his side of the chasm, playing the role of the distant family friend. But instead, he reached across it, offering me something warm, something earnest—something I didn’t know how to hold anymore.

“You don’t know me,” I said.

“You’re still you. I know you.”

“No. You don’t.” I pushed myself out of the armchair, the wool blanket pooling at my feet. “You have no idea.”

“Then tell me.”

“You don’t get to ask that. You don’t get to walk in here after eight years and talk like you understand who I am now.”

“Then help me understand! Tell me what’s wrong. Don’t you have everything you wanted? The PhD, the future, all of it. You’re doing exactly what you always said you would. Isn’t this the life you dreamed about?”

“Fuck you,” I spat, spinning around to face him. “You don’t know anything.”

He flinched, but the anger was already rising in him too. 

“Maybe I don’t,” he said. “Maybe I don’t understand you anymore. Because what else could you possibly want? You already have everything you ever wanted.”

“You left! You promised me I’d always matter, and then you left and never looked back. And I was alone again. I was the nerd of the school again—the pathetic girl who’d been left behind.” I took a shaking breath. “I needed you. And you left. And you made it look so easy—having girlfriends in every other city and never once picked up the phone.”

He opened his mouth, but I cut him off.

“Do you know what the worst part was? It wasn’t the bullying. It wasn’t eating lunch alone. It was realizing that you were right.”

“About what?”

“That I wasn’t worth staying for.” My voice barely made it past the knot in my throat. “That I was just Suguru’s little sister. Just some kid with a crush. Nothing more.”

“No—That’s not—”

“Then what was I, Satoru? Because from where I’m standing, I was someone you found it very easy to leave behind.”

He went quiet. So quiet I could hear the distant creak of the building settling into the night.

“I never had a girlfriend,” he said at last.

“What?”

“I said I never had a girlfriend.” His fingers found the bracelet on his wrist and twisted it absently. “You said I was too busy with girlfriends but I wasn’t. I never—I couldn’t.”

“That’s bullshit. I saw the comments—the pictures. All those girls—”

“Commented on my Instagram, yeah. Showed up at games. Asked for my number. But I never… I didn’t want them.” He was still staring at the bracelet, then looked up. “You want to know why?”

“No. I really don’t”

“Because none of them were you.”

I tried to make sense of his words, but I couldn’t.

“Why didn’t you ever call?” I whispered.

“To tell you what? That I couldn’t stop thinking about you? That every game I played, I was looking for your face in the crowd even though I knew you weren’t there? That I—”

“What? That you what?”

“That I’m still in love with you.”

I stood there, mouth half open, trying to stitch his confession into the fabric of everything I knew to be true, with the conviction I’d carried for yers that he’d simply forgotten I existed, but the thread kept slipping. Still in love, still in love, the thought looped endlessly in my head. He couldn’t mean it. People didn’t keep years of silences for love; they kept them for indifference.

And I had proof—the empty inbox, the unanswered texts, the birthdays I stopped mentioning because he never remembered. I had built an entire house of evidence that I was forgettable, and now he wanted to torch it with one sentence?

My pulse hammered, too loud and too fast. If he was telling the truth, then every night I cried myself to sleep had been for nothing. Every time I stalked his Instagram and hated myself for it, every time I called myself pathetic for still caring—wrong. I’d spent years learning to live inside the shape of his absence, carving out space for the ache until it fit me, and now he was saying the absence itself had been a lie?

“Is this all a joke to you?” I choked out, tears spilling over. “You left me thinking for years that there was something wrong with me. That you regretted almost kissing me. That I was just some stupid kid you wanted to forget about.”

I wiped at my face, hating the tears, hating him.

“Do you know what that did to me? Watching you live this whole perfect life in Osaka while I was stuck here wondering what I did wrong?”

“You didn’t do anything wrong—”

“Then why does it feel like I did? Why does it feel like I’ve been punished for years for having feelings I didn’t ask for? Do you know how lost I’ve been? Wondering if I’m enough. Being so fucking unsure and scared about everything. How many nights I stayed up wondering if I was making the right choices, if any of it mattered, if I mattered?”

I couldn't breathe around the tightness in my chest. It felt like drowning on dry land.

“I needed you,” I said—the confession punched its way out and took half my lung with it. “I needed you so much, and you weren’t there. I’ve felt so alone. So fucking alone. And all I wanted—all I needed—was for you to come back and tell me it would be okay. That I would be okay.”

A pause.

“I’m sorry I left,” he said at last. “I didn’t know how to be around you without wanting—without wanting everything.”

I looked at him through tears. 

“You’re such an idiot,” I said.

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

I still remember the bite of the wind that autumn day.

I was twelve. My schoolbag was cutting into my shoulder, and my breath fogged the air in puffy clouds. I stood outside the school gates as the sun sank lower, turning the sky that particular shade of bruised purple and orange that meant evening was coming.

All the other kids had been picked up hours ago. The last bus home had left an hour earlier. Even the teachers’ cars were gone.

I realized then, in that small and shattering way children do, that she had simply forgotten. Again. It wasn’t intentional; it was just that her work was loud and urgent, and I was quiet and easy to overlook. But sometimes being forgotten hurt more than if she had done it on purpose. It confirmed what the girls in the bathroom had said earlier: that I was invisible.

I had tried calling home three times from the payphone down the road. No answer. Suguru wasn’t home either—he was helping Mrs. Harukawa from next door getting her groceries, like he did on Wednesdays. So I sat on the curb, backpack clutched to my chest, trying not to move my head. 

If I moved, the clump of sticky, grape-scented gum stuck to the back of my hair pulled at my scalp. The girls from 6-B had put it there during lunch, laughing as they mashed it in. I hadn’t cried then because I refused to give them the satisfaction. And I wasn’t going to cry now, because I was twelve, and crying was for babies.

But then the streetlights flickered on, buzzing overhead, and for the first time, I understood what it meant to be an afterthought.

“Hey.” I didn’t noice him until he stood in front of me. “What are you doing out here? It’s freezing.”

I looked up to see Satoru. He’d found me. 

He must have come from basketball practice, his gym bag hanging from one shoulder. He had just turned fourteen the week before, but to me he looked so much older—confident and sure of himself in a way that seemed almost adult. He had that short, cropped haircut everyone at school suddenly wanted, the kind that made boys look cooler, like they were on the verge of becoming something bigger than they were, while I was still so scared and unsure about everything.

“Waiting for my mom.” I looked back at the pavement, terrified that if I looked up again, the tears I was holding back would spill over. “She’s just running late.”

“How late?”

I shrugged, a tiny movement that made the gum pull at my hair. I flinched.

Satoru didn’t miss it. He crouched down in front of me, bringing his face level with mine. He reached out and gently tilted my chin up, forcing me to look at him. Then he turned my head slightly.

“Who did that?”

“Did what?”

“Don’t.” He guided my face back to his. “Who?”

I shook my head, big tears falling onto tiny hands.

“Okay.” He stood and slung his gym bag over his shoulder. “Suguru’s helping your neighbour today, right?”

I managed a little nod, not trusting my voice.

“Come on.” He offered me his hand. It was large and warm, his fingers taped up for practice. “We’re not waiting here.”

“But my mom—”

“I’ll leave a note on the gate. She won’t kill us. And anyway, we’re getting hot chocolate first.”

He took me to that small café near the train station—the warm one that smelled of roasted almonds and vanilla. He sat me down in a booth in the back, then went to the counter. He came back with a cup of crushed ice and two hot chocolates—the fancy kind with real melted chocolate and caramel drizzle that cost twice as much as I had pocket money for the week.

He slid into the booth next to me instead of across and told me to turn around. And then, the most popular boy in middle school sat in this quiet café, painstakingly working hand lotion and ice cubes into my hair to get the gum out of my hair. He was incredibly gentle. He didn’t pull. He didn’t make fun of me.

It had felt weird. And embarrassing. And I’d wanted to cry all over again, because I couldn’t even fix it myself—because I was sitting there like a helpless little kid while he tried to undo something cruel and stupid those girls at school thought was funny.

“Why do they do it?” I asked quietly, watching the caramel drizzle sliding down the inside of my glass.

“Because they’re bored,” he said. “And mean. And probably unhappy.”

“Unhappy with what?”

“With themselves.” He carefully separated another sticky strand. “Happy people don’t go around putting gum in other’s people hair. Only people who feel small try to make other people feel smaller. It makes them feel better about themselves.”

I wanted to believe him. I wanted to believe that the gum in my hair was proof that I was in some way better than them, that I made them feel bad about themselves, and not only a sign that I was easy to bully.

“Does it get better?” I asked. “When you’re older?”

“Yeah. It does. My mom always says you stop caring about the people who don’t matter, and you find the ones who do.”

“You believe her?”

“I do. Because I’ve found mine. You and Suguru.” His voice softened. “And you’ll find your people too. I promise.”

But I had my people.

It took almost an hour.

Satoru told me about the constellations starting to appear in the darkening sky outside the window while he worked at my hair, about a documentary on black holes he’d watched the other night, about his stupid couch and how Suguru had tripped over his own feet in practice yesterday. He built a wall of words to keep the world out.

When he finally worked the last of it loose, leaving only the faintest sweet smell of bubblegum behind, he set down the comb and turned me around in the booth to face him.

“Listen to me,” he said, suddenly serious. “Those girls? They don’t matter. They don’t get to make you feel small. You’re worth a hundred of them. Got it?”

I nodded, my throat tight.

“And if they do this again—if they do anything—you tell me. Or Suguru. We’ll handle it.”

I wiped at my eyes. “You can’t fight middle school girls, Satoru.”

“Watch me.”

A grin cracked his serious expression. He reached out and ruffled my damp, sticky hair.

“Actually, you’re right. I can’t fight them but I’ll stand behind you and look intimidating. You can fight your own battles. But you don’t have to fight them alone.”

When Suguru finally came home, he found us in the living room—Satoru and me playing Mario Kart on the old Nintendo 64, like nothing had happened, like he hadn’t just spent an hour fixing something that wasn’t his problem.

The next morning, Satoru was leaning against the school gates when I arrived and walked me to my classroom. He didn’t say anything to the girls. He didn’t have to. He was tall and looked scary if he wanted to, and that was enough.

On the days Suguru had afternoon activities, Satoru was always there. I found out weeks later that he was skipping the first hour of his basketball practice to walk me home—trading his playing time and enduring his coach’s complaints just to make sure I made it to my front door without looking over my shoulder. 

For years, I lived inside the bubble of his protection. I walked tall because his shadow was long enough to cover me. But gravity is a temporary force, and eventually, orbits deteriorate.

Satoru graduated. He packed his bags for a university in Osaka, taking his brightness and protection with him. And the moment he left, the air around me grew thin again.

The bullying didn’t come back the way it had before. There was no gum in my hair, no shoved lockers. It was smarter now. Quieter. It was the silence when I walked into a room. It was the way conversations stopped dead when I approached. It was the collective decision that I was, once again, invisible. 

Without Satoru and my brother to look intimidating behind me, I became that unsure little girl again, the one who’d never figured out how to stand up for herself and was scared senseless to try.

I stopped going to the cafeteria. I stopped trying to find a seat at the tables where I wasn’t wanted. I retreated to the library. I ate my lunch alone between shelves of dusty encyclopedias and fiction, surrounded by characters who were brave in ways I didn’t know how to be. I wanted to believe that I was like the heroines in the books—misunderstood, waiting for her story to start, for my real Disney moment. But really, I was just waiting for him to come back and save me.

And when that realization finally settled in—that no one was coming, that the cavalry had moved on—I felt a kind of desolation that nearly swallowed me whole. I was so lost. Without them, I didn’t know who I was anymore. I was just an outline of a person, defined by who I was related to and who I was waiting for.

I had to claw my way out of that library. I had to fight so hard, so goddamn hard, to invent a version of myself that didn’t need a bodyguard. I had to build a spine out of something other than their approval. I turned to books, to science, to the cold, hard certainty of facts—things that couldn’t leave me, things that didn’t make promises they wouldn’t keep.

I found myself in the vacuum they left behind. But someday you have to decide you cannot hide anymore, cannot keep curling into the space someone else used to fill. Someday you have to stand up, even if your hands are shaking, and declare yourself the leader of your own life. And God, it was a lonely, brutal birth. 

“I found more.”

Satoru crouched beside me, holding out a fresh box of tissues from the break room.

“Thanks.” 

I took one, dabbing at my face even though I was pretty sure I’d run out of tears. I curled up on the floor, back against the rough fabric of the armchair, knees pulled tight to my chest. The adrenaline that had fueled me earlier had drained away, leaving my limbs heavy and my head throbbing with that dull, dehydration headache that always follows a good cry.

Satoru set the tissue packet on the carpet between us and lowered himself to the floor across from me, long legs folding awkwardly as he leaned against the opposite chair. The red velvet pants rode up, exposing his striped socks again.

“You should really get out of that costume. It looks miserable. And I can’t take you seriously when you look like Santa.”

He looked down at the suit—at the fake white trim, and the velvet already pilling in places—as if realizing for the first time that he was still wearing it.

“Yeah,” he said. “It’s itchy as hell, anyway.”

He unbuckled the wide black belt and let it fall onto the carpet, then unzipped the jacket. The padded red bulk slid off his shoulders and crumpled behind him. Underneath, he wore a fitted white tank top.

I immediately regretted suggesting it.

He rolled his neck, stretching out his shoulders, and the cotton pulled tight across a frame I no longer recognized. I had spent the last hours grieving the boy I used to know—the lanky teenager who lived in basketball shorts all year round and ate cereal straight from the box. But the person in front of me wasn’t that boy anymore. Not even close.

I looked away.

“Better?” I asked, aiming for casual and landing somewhere near pathetic.

“Much better.” He tossed the Santa jacket over the arm of the chair and leaned back on his hands, veins standing out in sharp lines along his forearms. “Though now I’m wondering if I should put it back on.”

“Why?”

“You tell me.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Sure you don’t.”

I threw my blanket at him.

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

It was nearly four in the morning when we gave up on sleep entirely.

We’d tried. Both of us retreating to our armchairs with blankets pulled up to our chins, pretending the silence was comfortable, pretending we weren’t aware of every shift and breath the other made. But sleep was not possible. My mind kept circling back to everything we’d said, everything still left unsaid, replaying it on an endless loop until I wanted to scream.

Satoru had been the first to break. Suggested we find something to do, anything. And now, here we were, sprawled on the carpet between the velvet armchairs with a board game spread between us—something with a dice and complicated cards that he’d pulled from the store’s game section, promising he’d pay for it later when the register worked again.

Two more hours. Just two more hours until the cleaning crew arrived and shattered this strange, suspended reality we were trapped in.

The game was simple enough that we didn’t need to think too hard, complicated enough that it keept our heads busy. A welcome distraction. I watched him roll the dice, watched his fingers—those stupidly long fingers—move his piece across the board. 

He was cheating. Probably. I wasn’t paying close enough attention to be sure, but it seemed like the kind of thing he’d do just to get under my skin. It felt painfully domestic. It felt like the rainy Sunday afternoons of our childhood, when we’d play card games too, rewritten in a language I was only just learning to speak.

And as the minute hand ticked closer to dawn, I found myself wishing, selfishly, that the sun wouldn’t rise. I didn’t want the locks to open.

“Don’t take it too hard.” Satoru nudged his winning piece forward with a flick of his finger, already grinning. “I’m just naturally gifted at board games.”

I lost, of course. “You cheated.”

“Prove it.”

“I don’t need to prove it. I know you did.”

“Sounds like something a loser would say.” 

He was still smiling in that infuriating, boyish way that had always made it impossible to stay mad at him for long. 

He pushed himself up from the carpet and stretched his arms overhead. A sharp hiss escaped through his teeth. He reached down, gripping his knee, his face tightening in pain that wiped the smile clean off his face.

He sank back down, stretched his leg out in front of him, and shoved the Santa polyester up over his knee. I watched him dig his fingers into skin.

“Suguru told me.”

“Suguru talks too much.”

“He said a surgery could fix it. He said the doctors told you that you could play again. If you wanted to.”

“Yeah,” he breathed out, the word rough. “Maybe.”

“Maybe?”

He stared at his knee, thumb tracing the line of the scar, somehow pretty and ugly at the same time. 

“The surgery is expensive,” he said. “And even then, there’s no guarantee it will work. No guarantee I’d ever play at the level I used to.”

“But there’s a chance.”

“There’s a chance.”

It was hard to see him like that—so unsure of himself, unsure of the one thing he’d always loved. This was the boy who used to fall asleep with a basketball in his bed. The boy I once believed would die if he couldn’t run.

“You love it,” I said.

“I still do. But I don’t know if that’s what I want anymore.”

“What do you mean?”

He leaned his head back against the armchair, staring up at the shadows on the ceiling.

“Basketball was everything for so long, and I was so sure that this is what I always wanted—what my life’s gonna be like.” His hand slowed on his knee. “And then it was just... gone. One bad landing, and the future I had always imagined myself in disappeared, and I had no idea who I was without it.”

“I’m sorry,” I said, because I didn’t know what else to say.

“It’s okay.” A faint smile touched his lips. “Turns out losing everything forces you to figure out what you actually want. Not what you’re supposed to want, or your parents or whatever—just what matters to you.”

“And basketball doesn’t matter anymore?”

“I don’t know. I loved it. I really loved it. But I don’t know if I loved it for the right reasons. Or if I was just good at it, so I kept doing it.” His thumb found the bracelet on his wrist, worrying at the frayed blue and white threads. “Sports medicine makes sense. I get to stay close to the game, help other kids the way I wish someone had helped me. And if I never play again maybe that’s okay.”

“You don’t have to decide right now,” I said.

“I know. Doesn’t stop everyone from asking, though.” He lowered himself fully onto the carpet, lying flat on his back with one arm folded behind his head, staring up at the dark. “It was bad. After the injury. Everyone kept telling me it would be okay, that I’d come back from it. But I knew the second I hit the floor that it was over.”

“The surgery didn’t go as well as they hoped,” he continued. “Recovery took longer. And every day I wasn’t on the court was another day watching everyone else move forward without me. I didn’t know who I was if I wasn’t that guy anymore—the basketball player, the one everyone expected things from.” His voice dropped lower. “I felt like I’d lost everything, and that I failed at the only thing I was ever supposed to be good at.”

I lowered myself onto the carpet beside him and turned onto my side. I watched the rise and fall of his chest and thought about the boy who used to write be a pro basketball player at the top of every Christmas wish list he’d ever made.

How cruel growing up is. It takes the brightest certainties and shatters them, leaving us to sweep up the pieces and pretend we’re fine because that’s what adulthood is about. It’s no fairytale.

One day you’re the boy who will never stop running; the next you’re learning how to walk without pain. One day you’re the girl who knows exactly who she is; the next you’re teaching yourself how to be someone again.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “I’m sorry I wasn’t there.”

He pushed himself up and rested on one elbow. I could count the pale lashes framing those impossible blue eyes, and in that moment, I wanted him never to look away.

“It’s okay. I was probably terrible company anyway.” 

And I wanted to tell him it didn’t matter, that I would’ve taken him grumpy and bitter and unfair and broken if that was all he had to give.

“I envied you, you know,” he said. “Back then. A lot more than I want to admit.”

“You… envied me?”

“I did. I asked Suguru about you all the time. And he’d tell me you got into your dream university, that you were top of your class, that you got into your PhD program. You sounded so sure of yourself. And I had—nothing. I didn’t know who I was or what I’m gonna do. And you looked like you were becoming everything you always said you wanted.”

Stupid, I thought. I had everything except him.

“I’m sorry I never called. I was—” his voice thinned, almost broke. “I was afraid.”

“Of what?”

“That you would hate me.”

He looked away, eyes drifting to the shelves, then to the carpet between us, anywhere but me. Amber light slid across his cheekbones, settling into the faint hollow beneath his eyes that made him look older, more worn than I’d ever seen him.

“I was afraid you’d moved on and find someone other, someone better. Someone who wouldn’t hurt you. Someone who would show up, who would be there for you. Not someone who would disappear because he got scared of what his own feelings meant.”

His hand moved to the bracelet, fingers working the frayed threads again.

“I wanted to visit so many times. I wanted to call. But what would that even be? Me on the phone saying, ‘I’m thinking about you, but I can’t come home because basketball takes up so much of my life’? What kind of relationship would that be?”

I was grateful I was already on the floor, because I was sure my legs would’ve given out at the way he said relationship—like it was something real, something we could have actually had. And it felt so unbearably unfair.

Because I’d spent eight years trying to kill that want. I’d folded it into the smallest, sharpest square possible and shoved it somewhere deep behind my ribs where it couldn’t embarrass me anymore. 

I dated people who were kind and uncomplicated, people who never made my heart behave like it was trying to escape my chest. I told myself what I’d felt for Satoru was only the dramatic intensity of adolescence, the kind of thing everyone goes through and grows out of.

I’d spent years and years terrifying myself out of hoping for anything else—only for it to come back as if nothing had changed at all. And I’m still sixteen and stupid and desperate for him.

He pushed himself upright then, turning away. 

“I wanted something better for you,” he said quietly.

It is strange how time changes people—how it can turn even the most confident person adrift. It hollows people out in places you didn’t know were soft.

“Do you remember the winter ball in tenth grade?”

He didn’t turn around.

“Mom and I spent hours trying to find a dress,” I went on. “We came home with empty hands because I didn’t feel pretty enough for any of them. And you were out in the driveway playing basketball with Suguru. You asked if I’d found anything, and I told you no, and that I might not even go because the only person who asked me was Souta from math, and I wasn’t sure I wanted to go with him.” I took a breath. “Do you remember what you said?”

I think he knew, but he wanted me to say it anyway.

“You told me I deserved someone better. You told me I deserved someone who’d treat me right. Someone who’d show up with flowers and tell me I looked beautiful and actually mean it. Someone who wasn’t asking just because he thought I’d be an easy yes.”

“I remember,” he said quietly.

“And then you asked me to go with you instead,” I said. “You picked me up at seven. You wore a suit that Suguru made fun of for weeks, but you didn’t care. You brought me purple dahlias because you remembered they were my favorite. And you danced with me all night.”

I could still feel his hand at the small of my back it if I closed my eyes. Could feel the way he held me like I was something precious, something breakable, even though I’d never felt stronger than I did in his arms. We moved in this uneven little sway to the music because neither of us could dance, and I remember thinking that I didn’t care if the whole world was watching, because he looked at me like I was the only person in that overheated gym.

I remember the exact moment the slow song started—how his grip tightened, how he pulled me closer without asking, and I let him. I pressed my cheek to his shoulder and breathed him in, thinking this is it, this is the moment everything changes. My heart was beating so violently I was terrified he’d feel it through his shirt. I was so sure he’d kiss me before the night ended.

He didn’t. But for those few hours, I was the girl from the movies—the one who gets chosen.

“I was so happy.”

He turned his head slightly. “You were?”

“Of course. Can you imagine my smile when I heard you’d hit Souta in the face with the basketball during practice? Everyone said it was an accident, but I let myself hope it wasn’t.”

“That was kind of stupid.”

“I thought you were so cool.”

“Because I broke someone’s nose with a ball?”

“Because you did it for me. Back then, you always showed up—for everything. When I was scared, when I needed help, when I didn’t even know how to ask for it.” A beat. “You told me I deserved better that night. You told me I deserved everything. You were my everything—my better.”

“And then I left.”

“And then you left,” I said, softer than I meant to.

Something in him seemed to give way then. He lowered himself down on the carpet beside me and turned onto his side, eyes level with mine, and rested his head on the crook of his arm.

We were so close now. Close enough that I could see the faint scar on the bridge of his nose he got from a backboard in sophomore year. Close enough that I could count every faint freckle scattered across his cheekbones. Close enough that I could feel the pulse in his wrist where it lay inches from my fingers, betraying him. Close enough that when he exhaled, I breathed him in.

Almost touching. Always almost. The way everything with us had always been—almost, but not quite. We’d been rehearsing this story since we were kids and stupid enough to believe almost counted as yes.

“I’m sorry I was such a coward back then. Still am,” he said, pushing up on his elbow. “I was afraid you wouldn’t want me if I wasn’t him anymore. If I was just… me.”

I wanted to laugh and cry in the same breath.

As if there were a single version of him that I wouldn’t have loved with the same helpless certainty. As if I hadn’t already loved him in every lifetime we never got to live—the boy I grew up with, the one who shielded me, the one who flew, the one who fell, and the familiar stranger beside me now.

I would love him no matter what. I would find him and choose him in every version, in every lifetime, until the stars burned out.

“You’re so stupid,” I said.

I didn’t wait for a response. I reached out to cradle his face in my hands. His skin was warm, and I ran my thumbs over his cheekbones, forcing him to look at me.

“I’ll always want you.”

And then there was no distance left at all. I leaned in and kissed him. And for the first time in a very long time, the ache finally felt like coming home.

He froze for a single stunned heartbeat—a soft, breathless shock against my mouth, like he couldn’t quite believe I’d chosen him after everything. But the hesitation lasted only a fraction of a second, and the shock melted out of him like frost under sudden sun. He exhaled into the kiss.

His hand slid up the back of my neck, his long fingers weaving deep into my hair to cradle my head. He guided me back against the floor, rolling us so gently the carpet barely shifted beneath us. I was on my back before I could catch my breath, the faint light of the lamp spilling across his face as he hovered above me, eyes wide and bright as frost, searching mine for permission he already had. 

And I answered by pulling him down.

Our lips met again, surer now, no hesitation left in either of us. His weight settled over me, careful and close, the heat of him sinking into my chest until I couldn’t tell where my heartbeat ended and his began.

A mechanical click broke through the quiet. Fluorescent lights hummed awake overhead. The entire mall lurched from night to morning in a single breath.

6:00 a.m.

I pulled back slightly. “The security—they’re here—”

“I know,” he murmured against my mouth. 

“We should—”

“Probably.” But he didn’t move. His thumb traced along my jaw, eyes searching mine. “In a second.”

“Satoru—”

And then he kissed me again. Deeper this time, more insistent, like he’d been holding this moment inside him for years, like he was trying to erase every empty second we’d spent apart.

He kissed me like he’d finally come home.

“I’m still mad at you,” I said against his mouth.

“I know.” He kissed me again, softer this time. “I’ll spend the rest of my life making it up to you.”

“That’s a big promise.”

“I’m not running this time.”

He pushed himself up, pulling me with him to sit in his lap. “I won’t,” he said. “I promise. I won’t.” His arms wrapped around me, warm and sure and everything I had ever wanted. One hand rested against the small of my back, the other threading through my hair, cradling my head like I was something precious.

Mine, I thought, dizzy with it. Mine, mine, mine. This boy was finally, impossibly mine.

I kissed him harder, my fingers curling into the fabric of his tank top, and felt him smile against my mouth. Distant footsteps echoed through the mall, the real world waiting to interrupt. Neither of us cared.

Maybe Disney got it right sometimes. All those movies I used to roll my eyes at, where the music swells and the lights come up and the princess finally gets kissed the way the entire theater has rooted for all along—maybe they hadn’t been lying after all.

Because this would’ve been the moment the orchestra kicked in, when the violins would start playing and the curtains drew back, and snow began to fall right on cue—the kind of happily-ever-after I stopped believing in when I was sixteen.

And it was happening on a dusty bookstore carpet in a locked mall, with a boy half out of a Santa costume, between shelves of romance novels and self-help books. 

But it didn’t matter. It was better. It was real.

It was the boy who once broke my heart and somehow, against every rule my guarded self had built, put it back together with every soft, careful kiss.

Turns out fairytales don’t always wear ball gowns and crowns. Sometimes they wear a frayed friendship bracelet and a knee that will never fully heal. Sometimes they limp a little, and cry a little, and wander eight years in the dark to find their way back.

But they still come true.

Here, with his mouth warm against mine, with the boy who had once been my entire sky and never really stopped being it, mine finally did.

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

“You sure this is allowed?” he asked as I swiped my access card at the door.

“It’s Christmas break. No one’s here.” The lock released with a sharp beep. “Besides, you’re the one who wanted to see where I work.”

“I did,” he said, and stepped in behind me.

It was quiet in that particular way a lab gets over the holidays, when everyone finally has a reason big enough to leave without feeling guilty—because apparently weekends don’t qualify. But the faint chemical smell still hung in the air, the one I’d stopped noticing sometime around my third month in the program.

I flicked on the overhead lights, washing the room in cold.  Glassware lay scattered across the black benches exactly where everyone had left it three days ago. Beakers, notebooks, and a tube rack holding three samples I’d meant to run before the break, and a pile of gloves I knew exactly which undergrad left because he’d always promise he’d throw them out “in a minute” and never did.

Satoru paused in the doorway for a beat. His gaze moved over the equipment, the annotated periodic table on the wall (someone had drawn a smiley face on fluorine, which remained a mystery to this day), and the whiteboard full with equations that made no sense or maybe they did if you tilted your head far enough. Then his attention stuck on the laser rig in the left corner, where someone had put a Christmas hat on it for holiday spirit or something.

“It’s bigger than I expected,” he said.

“We share it with two other research groups.” I set my bag on my usual bench near the fume hood. “Come on. I’ll show you.”

I walked him through the space, my voice shifting into that overly animated tone I never hear until I run out of breath and want to die of embarrassment. In the moment, though, I had no brakes. I pointed out the UV-Vis spectrometer where we took absorption spectra, the gas chromatograph that always failed us at the worst possible times, the glovebox where we handled our most sensitive samples.

I kept explaining, words tripping over each other as if they’d been waiting for an audience to hear me speak about molecules and lasers, and he did his best to keep up. He followed me, asking questions that were surprisingly thoughtful for someone who’d failed chemistry twice.

“Wait, so you work in the dark?” he asked.

“Sometimes. Light can ruin the whole thing, so we wrap everything in foil, use amber glassware, or switch to red light when we have to.”

“That’s actually kind of cool.”

“Right?” I felt a grin take over my face. “It feels very mad scientist sometimes.”

When we reached the laser setup, I couldn’t stop myself anymore. It was my project—the thing I had poured myself into for months. I launched into an explanation of the photochemical reactions we studied, how we used ultrafast lasers to excite molecules and track their behavior in billionths of a second. My hands flew everywhere as I tried to explain the invisible world I lived in.

I was halfway through another sentence when it hit me that I’d been gesturing like a maniac for five straight minutes.

“Sorry,” I said. “I’m talking too much.”

I turned toward him. He had settled against the bench beside the laser, head resting in his palm. He wasn’t looking at the laser. He was looking at me. In the way people in books look up at constellations—like something had rearranged itself overhead and he couldn’t quite believe it was real.

“What?” I asked, my voice smaller than I meant it to be.

“You’re so beautiful.”

“You’re stupid.”

He pushed off the bench and closed the space between us. His hand rose, thumb brushing along my cheekbone.

“I love this,” he said. “I always did.”

“Love what?”

“That look you get when you talk about chemistry. Like nothing else in the world matters.” His thumb traced the edge of my jaw, slow and almost thoughtful. “It used to drive me crazy in high school. You’d start explaining some reaction and sketch the molecule structure, and I’d just… sit there. Pretending to understand.”

“You weren’t pretending. You were actually terrible at it.”

“I was. Probably because I spent more time watching you than listening. Half the reason I failed it twice in university. I kept waiting for you to walk in and save me again.”

“That’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard.”

“Yeah, well.” His forehead rested against mine, his voice going quiet. “I’ve been stupid about you for a very long time.”

And then he kissed me.

And even after all the kissing we’d done—greedy and endless like we were trying to make up for eight years in a matter of days—it still felt new. Still made my knees weak. I melted into him, hands fisting in the front of his sweater.

“We have to go,” I said, though my fingers refused to let him go. “Christmas dinner. My mom’s expecting us in less than an hour.”

“One second.” His hand slipped to the back of my neck and tilted my head back to deepen the kiss. A sound escaped me, somewhere between a warning and giving up entirely, and he smiled against my lips. His other hand slid down my spine, pressed just above the waistband of my jeans, and the small of my back arched helplessly against him.

“Satoru—” I managed between kisses. “We’re going to be late.”

“Hmmm,” he murmured, which did not count as actual language.

“My mom will kill us.”

“Let her.” Another kiss, hungrier, before he trailed down my neck, guiding me back against the bench. “I’m making up for lost time.”

“Suguru will kill us.”

He stopped. Pulled back. Stared at me for one long moment. “Right. Yeah. We should go.” He grabbed his coat. “Now. Immediately.”

“That changes you?”

“He already hates my guts. I’m not testing my luck. He’s studying law—he’ll sue me or worse.” He took my hand, already pulling me toward the door. “And I’d like to stay alive long enough to keep kissing you, if that’s alright.”

Snow fell in thick, puffy flakes, blanketing the city in white. In the car, Satoru’s hand found mine across the center console, his thumb drawing slow circles over my wrist as we drove. By the time we pulled into my childhood driveway, the windows glowed warm against the winter dark. Through the frosted glass, I saw Mom moving around the kitchen, the Christmas tree lights twinkling in the living room. It looked exactly the way it always had. Like nothing had changed.

Except everything had.

We barely made it three steps inside before Suguru appeared in the hallway, arms crossed, expression neutral in that terrifying way only older brothers manage to. 

“You’re late,” he said.

“Traffic—” Satoru began.

“Twenty-three minutes late.” Suguru’s eyes narrowed. “To Christmas dinner.”

“We got held up at the lab—”

“The lab.” Suguru's voice was suspiciously calm. He looked at me. I looked at the floor. “Right. The lab.”

He stepped forward and pulled me into a hug so tight I thought I heard a rip crack. Over his shoulder, he shot Satoru a look that could’ve frozen boiling water.

“Hi, Suguru,” I muttered into his sweater.

“Hi, little sister.” He kissed the top of my head and let me go. “Satoru.”

“Hey, man—”

Suguru grabbed him before he could finish, hauling him into what looked like a hug but was definitely some kind of wrestling hold. Satoru made a strangled noise. 

“I hate this,” Suguru said in a perfectly calm voice, his arm locked around Satoru’s neck. “I hate that you’re dating my sister. I’ve hated the idea since you were both stupid teenagers.”

“Can’t—breathe—”

“But,” Suguru continued, loosening his grip by maybe a millimeter, “I can’t say I didn’t see it coming.”

“You’re getting sentimental already?” Satoru asked, mockingly.

“Don’t test your luck.” He tightened the hold again, then finally released Satoru, who stumbled back, gasping like he’d only narrowly escaped an execution.

Suguru clapped him on the shoulder, hard enough to make him wince. 

“You hurt her, I’ll end you.”

“Understood.”

“I’m a law student now. I know how to hide a body.”

“…Also understood.”

“Good.” Suguru turned toward the kitchen. “Mom! They’re finally here!”

Inside, it was all exactly as I remembered and somehow more—the table nearly collapsing under far too much food, the tree in the corner topped with the same star we’d repaired one too many times, and the table with the same old faded tablecloth with the cranberry stain shaped like a heart we’d used since I was eight.

Suguru was already claiming his usual seat, still shooting Satoru looks like he’d later accidentally, and not at all accidentally, stab him with a fork when he’d reach for the blueberry tart. And Mom bustled around with serving dishes, humming to the Christmas music that played on the radio on the counter.

It was chaotic. It was loud. It was the same kitchen where I’d eaten breakfast every morning and done my homework at the table, right up until the day it held my university acceptance letter. The same living room where I’d learned to walk, where Suguru had taught me card games, where we’d spent countless evenings sprawled on the couch watching movies.

I hadn’t understood, until now, how much of my life had orbited this space. How many moments, big and small, had unfolded here. How the most important parts of growing up had happened within these walls. And somehow, with Satoru’s hand warm in mine, it finally felt complete. 

This, I thought. This is what coming home feels like. And I couldn’t wait for more chaotic Christmases just like this—with him beside me, exactly where we were always meant to end up.

Suguru threw a bread roll at Satoru’s head. Satoru caught it with one hand, grinning like an idiot.

“Your throws got weak, man,” he said, tossing it back. “You lose your arm in law school?”

“Keep talking and the next one’s a plate.” Suguru caught the bread, expression flat. “Besides, you’ve had a rough couple years. Didn’t want to embarrass you.”

Satoru’s smile sharpened. “Oh, we’re doing this?”

“We’re doing this.”

Mom appeared in the doorway with a wooden spoon raised as if she was one second away from throwing it. “It’s Christmas. Sit down. Both of you.”

Satoru looked down at me, his eyes impossibly blue in the candlelight, and smiled.

“Merry Christmas,” he said softly.

I thought about that first moment in the mall—me frozen behind the register, watching him in that ridiculous Santa suit, certain it was the worst possible timing. The cruelest joke. Turns out the universe knew exactly what it was doing.

“Welcome home,” I whispered.

He pulled me closer, his breath warm against my lips. “Yeah,” he said. “I’m home.” And then he kissed me.

From somewhere behind us, Suguru made an exaggerated gagging noise. Under his breath, he added,

“You’re welcome, by the way.”

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author's note — hope this gave you the same feeling as warm socks and hot chocolate after coming in from the cold !! thank you so much for reading. i’ve had the busiest summer and i can’t tell you how grateful i am for all the lovely messages you sent during my absence. they genuinely kept me motivated. thank you, truly.

i’ve been experimenting a bit with different pov these past months and somehow ended up falling into first person. it makes me feel less like a distant narrator and more like someone living inside it, and i hope it finds its intended audience anyway, even if first person in fanfic isn’t always everyone’s favorite. thank you for giving it a chance.

and i really hope you liked the teenage angst in this one. there’s something almost magical about that time in life when your emotions feel too big for your own body, when you’re convinced things will always stay exactly as they are and then you grow older, look back, and feel a little nostalgic of it all :'))

if you’re waiting for your own second chance, i hope it finds you gently and at exactly the right time. thank you for spending a little of your day with me and merry christmas to those who celebrate ! if you don't, i hope your days treat you kindly <3

ps: i swear the next update is one of my main stories. i haven’t forgotten about them ahhhh

pss: if you want to read another little christmas story from last year, you can find it here. and if you want to get notifications for future updates, you can join my taglist here.

A rescue mission. Some pilot got lost in the shallow parts of the Deepspace Tunnels when Wanderers attacked. Caleb had been first on scene, first to respond, first to risk everything to bring someone home.

Your breakfast sat forgotten as you watched him drag the injured pilot toward the medical team on television. Even bloodied and exhausted, he wore that faint smile on his lips—the same one that always played on his lips when you were kids, when he patched up your scraped knees and talked you through nightmares. Always calm. Always bright.

But the wrongness of it all settled heavy in your chest.

You'd been sitting here, eating yogurt with fruits and already dreading the stack of paperwork waiting for you at the Hunter's Association later, living your normal, ordinary, boring Tuesday morning—while he was out there, staring down death in the void. And you'd only found out because you happened to turn on the news.

The footage replayed. You watched it again and again, caught in some masochistic loop you couldn't break. Caleb's hands steady on his teammate, that tired but genuine smile you knew so well on his lips, while the blood on his temple caught the harsh lights from the rescue team, and something twisted in your chest—sharp and bitter, like swallowing glass.

He didn't tell you. Hadn't called.

The news moved on to other stories, other tragedies. But you stayed frozen at your kitchen table, staring at the empty screen.

When had everything changed? When had you stopped telling each other everything? You used to be his first person he'd call when something happened. And he was yours. But now you'd learn about important things the same way as everyone else in the city. 

Like some stranger.

Your phone buzzed against the table.

Gideon: caleb's probably gonna kill me for this but there's a celebration thing for him soon. for the rescue. you heard about it right? it's all over the news

Gideon: he wants to be all humble about it but i know he'd love if you were there

Gideon: should i pick you up from the train station? make it a surprise?

You stared down at the messages.

Humble. Is that it? Was Caleb being humble, or was he just... not telling you? There was a difference, wasn't there? A big fucking difference between modesty and deliberately keeping you in the dark.

You could picture it—Caleb brushing off congratulations, downplaying what he'd done like he always did. "Just doing my job," he'd say with that slight shrug, the one that made people love him even more. But this wasn't about false modesty. This was about you finding out from the morning news that the person you cared about most had nearly died.

And wasn't that rich? Caleb, who worried about everything when it came to you. Caleb, who called if you were five minutes late from work because "what if something happened?" Caleb, who made you text him when you got home safe, even from a short walk to the corner store. Caleb, who once drove three hours in the middle of the night because you'd mentioned feeling sick in a text and he "wanted to make sure you were okay."

That same Caleb could apparently face down Wanderers in the depths of space, bleed from his fucking temple, risk his life pulling someone else to safety—and not think you deserved to know about it. Not think you'd want to worry about him the same way he always worried about you.

It stung. How many times had he made you promise to tell him everything? Every mission briefing, every late night at the office, every time you so much as stubbed your toe. But when it came to him nearly dying? Radio silence.

Like your worry didn't matter. Like you didn't matter enough to include in the aftermath of something that could have killed him.

Your fingers hovered over your phone. Part of you wanted to type back immediately—yes, pick me up, I'll be there. But another part, the part that was still stinging from being left out, wanted to ask why Caleb hadn't invited you himself. Why it took Gideon texting behind his back for you to even know there was something to celebrate.

Your fingers moved before you could overthink it.

You: when's the celebration?

Gideon: friday night. 7pm at the airbase on skyhaven

Gideon: should i pick you up?

You stared at the messages, thumb hovering over the keyboard. Friday night. Less than seventy-two hours to decide if you were going to show up and pretend everything was fine, or stay home and let the silence stretch between you and Caleb until it became something you couldn't cross.

You: yeah. can you pick me up at 6?

Gideon: sure thing! he's gonna be so happy to see you

You shoved your phone into your bag and grabbed your hunter's jacket from the back of the chair.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

The train to Skyhaven felt longer than usual, every kilometer stretching endlessly as you stared out the window at the clouds below. Your stomach twisted with nerves you couldn't quite name—part anticipation, maybe longing, mostly dread.

When the train finally pulled into the station, you spotted Gideon right away. He was leaning against a pillar, scrolling through his phone, dark hair falling messily across his forehead. The moment he saw you, his face lit up.

"Holy shit, did you grow again?" he called out, pushing off the pillar with that bright grin of his.

"I'm the same height I've been for the past five years."

"Nah, definitely taller." He pulled you in one of those crushing hugs that reminded you why you'd always thought of him as more of a big brother than Caleb's best friend. "It's good to see you again. It's been way too long."

You melted into the hug, breathing in the familiar scent of DAA pilots, who always smelled a bit like fuel and whatever surprisingly fancy soap they used at the dorms. 

For a moment, it felt like old times—like that weekend you'd visited them during pilot training, when the three of you snuck off to watch the sunset from the riverbank, feet dangling over the edge, passing around lukewarm cider in the fading light and laughing until your sides ached. Back when everything was simple, before everything got complicated, before Caleb started keeping secrets.

"You look good," Gideon said, stepping back to get a proper look at you. "Tired, but good. Work keeping you busy?"

"When isn't it?" You tugged at your simple outfit. "Is this okay for tonight? I wasn't sure what to wear to a celebration at an airbase."

"You look perfect." His expression softened. "He's going to lose his mind when he sees you."

You hesitated, the words sticking in your throat. "He didn't… he didn't tell me."

Gideon's face changed immediately. He'd always been able to read you too well. "Ah. Yeah, he didn't want to bother you. You know how he gets—worries about you so much he forgets his own mind."

"Still, it's…"

"Hey." He grabbed your shoulders gently, making you look at him. "Listen to me. You're the most important person in his life. That idiot's been sulking for weeks because he misses you. He's overprotective to a fault, but he really cares about you, okay?"

Something in his voice made the tight feeling in your chest ease up a little. Gideon had never been one to sugarcoat things, especially not when it came to Caleb.

"He really is an idiot."

"The biggest." Gideon's grin returned as he slung an arm around your shoulders, steering you toward the exit. "Come on, let's go surprise our hero."

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

Walking into the DAA airbase felt like stepping back in time. Nothing had changed—same oil stained floors, same pilot portraits lining the walls, same faint smell of fuel and metal that somehow seep into every corner of the airbase.

You'd walked these halls countless times growing up, trailing behind Caleb and Gideon when they were still cadets, sneaking into places you definitely weren't supposed to be. It felt a bit like home in a strange way.

"Is that—oh my God, it is!"

You turned to see Lieutenant Chen from the communications department, weighed down by so many insignia it was a wonder her uniform held together.

"We had no idea you were coming!"

"Surprise," you said awkradly, suddenly aware of all the eyes turning your way.

"Caleb's gonna absolutely lose it." Chen smiled. "He never shuts up about you. We've been wondering when you'd visit again."

More faces you recognized started appearing as you walked down the hall. Captain Morrison from tactical planning, who remembered you from the academy's family days. Sergeant Liu, who'd once caught you and Caleb trying to sneak into the flight simulators and had pretended not to see you.

But also not familiar faces smiled when they saw you. It was almost a little unsettling how everyone here knew who you were, even if you didn't know them.

"The famous childhood friend," someone said with a smile.

"She's prettier than in the photos," another voice added.

Gideon squeezed your shoulder. "Told you he talks about you. Pretty sure half this place knows your name."

It should have made you happy. Should have been sweet, knowing that even when he was here, surrounded by his colleagues and his other life, you were still on his mind. That he spoke about you enough that people recognized you on sight, that your name was familiar in rooms you'd never entered.

But instead, it just made the confusion worse. Because how could you be important enough to mention in casual conversation, important enough for wallet photos and desktop frames, but not important enough pick up the phone when he almost died? 

"Where is he?" you asked.

"Probably in the dorms, working off his nervous energy," Gideon replied. "You know how he gets before big events."

You followed him through the dorms, past rows of identical doors until Gideon stopped at one marked with a familiar call sign.

"Here we go," he whispered, pressing a finger to his lips. "Let me just—"

But before he could knock, you heard grunting sounds from inside. Your mind immediately went somewhere it shouldn't, and heat flooded your face. Was he—? 

You were about to grab Gideon's arm when he pushed the door open. And to your relief, it wasn't what you'd thought.

Caleb was hanging upside down from the top bunk, feet hooked over the bed frame as he did hanging sit-ups. His shirt had slipped down, revealing his abs as they contracted with each rep. Sweat gleamed on his skin, and his dark hair hung in damp strands toward the floor.

"Caleb," Gideon called out.

Caleb crunched up—or down, given his position—his hands behind his head, and the moment his eyes met yours, his face went completely scarlet.

 "What—how—" 

His concentration faltered, and suddenly he was falling, tumbling off the bunk in a tangle of limbs and hitting the floor with a loud thud.

"Caleb!" You rushed forward, dropping to your knees beside him. "Are you okay? Did you hit your head?"

He lay there on his back for a moment, staring up at you in complete shock, legs still tangled with the bed frame.

"What? Why are you here?”

He slowly pushed himself up to sitting, his eyes never leaving your face like he couldn't quite believe you were real.

"That's one way to greet me. Should I be worried you don't want me here?"

Without hesitation, he reached for you, hands finding your waist and pulling you closer until you were almost in his lap on the narrow floor between the bunks.

"Silly girl. Of course I want you here." One arm wrapped around your back while the other cradled your head, pulling you close against his neck. "How did you—when did you—"

"Gideon," you said. "He helped with the surprise."

Caleb's eyes flicked to Gideon, who stood in the doorway with a crooked smile, before returning to you. He was still warm from his workout, smelling faintly of soap and sweat and something else you could never name—but always recognized. 

Just him. Just home.

"I've missed you so much," he whispered against your ear, arms tightening around you.

"I missed you too." Your fingers found the soft fabric of his shirt, then brushed against the apple pendant he wore—always wore. "I saw what happened on the news. I was so scared, and then so proud, and I just... I needed to see you."

He pulled back just enough to meet your eyes, those violet ones you knew so well catching the light filtering between the beds. His face was so close, breath warm against your lips. It would only take a breath to close the distance.

"I'm so glad you're here."

And somehow that stung. It always did—this easy intimacy, this magnetic pull that made the rest of the world fade away. He could hold you like you were the most precious thing in his world, speak to you in that voice reserved only for you—and then turn around and shut you out completely when it actually mattered.

Gideon cleared his throat. "Alright, you two. As sweet as this is, maybe Caleb should find a real shirt before someone walks by and gets the wrong idea."

Caleb glanced down at himself, seeming to remember his state of undress, and his cheeks flushed red again as he quickly tugged his sleeveless shirt down.

"We've got a few hours before the party starts," he said, standing and pulling you up with him. His hands lingered on yours, fingers intertwined. "Want to go flying? We could catch the sunset if we leave now."

"Am I even allowed to do that? This is a military base..."

Caleb grinned, that boyish smile you always loved so much. "With me? Absolutely. Perks of being the hero of the week." His expression went soft. "Besides, I've been wanting to show you something."

You hesitated. But there was something hopeful in his eyes, almost vulnerable, that pulled at something inside you. You remembered how he'd looked on the news earlier this week—bloodied, exhausted, but alive. How your heart had stopped thinking you might lose him. 

You agreed before you could overthink it.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

Twenty minutes later, after Caleb's quick shower, you found yourself in the pilots' prep room staring at the flight suit he'd laid out for you. The suit was thick and technical, covered in zippers and patches you didn't know how or where to put on.

"It might be a little big," Caleb said, emerging from the locker area in his own suit, hair still damp, clinging in soft curls at his temples. "But it'll keep you safe up there."

You held up the suit, then hesitated. "Okay, so... how exactly does this work?"

"Here, let me help." He stepped in front of you, close enough that you could see the water droplets still clinging to his neck and count his eyelashes if you wanted to. "Arms first."

You slipped your arms through, his fingers guiding the fabric over your shoulders, adjusting the fit with light touches.

"Now the belt." His hands moved to your waist, threading the utility belt through the loops. You had to remind yourself how to breathe as he worked, standing so close that you felt his breath on you lips.

You really hadn't thought this through. Flying apparently involved a lot more... proximity than you'd expected. Maybe you should've said no.

"Almost done," he said, like he could read every thought on your face. When the belt was secure, he paused, hands still resting on your hips. His eyes traced over you—down to where the suit hugged your waist, then slowly back up to meet your gaze. Something shifted in his expression, and his grip on your hips tightened slightly.

Your knees went weak. Just from the way he was looking at you—like he was memorizing every detail, like you were something he wanted to unwrap slowly and take his time with. Heat pooled low in your stomach.

You hated how he always had this effect on you. How he could make you forget everything—your hurt, your anger, the fact that he'd kept you in the dark—with nothing but a look.

You tilted your head slightly. "Caleb?"

"Sorry." He blinked, shaking his head like he was coming back to himself. "Just need to..." He reached for the front zipper, his knuckles brushing your chest as he slowly, carefully pulled it up. Each inch seemed to take forever, and you hated how much you wanted it to last even longer.

"There," he whispered, hands smoothing over your shoulders. "Perfect fit. How does it feel?"

You looked down at yourself, aware of how close you were standing, of how his flight suit clung perfectly to his broad shoulders where yours hung loose.

"Good," you managed. "Feels good."

His hand came up to adjust your collar that was already perfectly straight, fingers brushing the heated skin of your neck.

"Is this standard procedure for all your passengers?"

"Only the special ones." His eyes dropped to your lips and stayed there, like he was considering something stupid. Something stupid you'd wanted him to consider.

"Caleb," you breathed, not even sure what you were asking for. Maybe for him to close the distance. Maybe for him to step away before you did something stupid.

His thumb traced along your jaw, so light you might have imagined it. "Yeah?"

Voices echoed from the hallway, breaking whatever spell had settled over the room. He stepped back immediately, hands dropping to his sides, but his eyes stayed locked on yours.

"Ready to fly?"

You nodded, not trusting your voice. With your lips still warm from the way he'd been staring at them, flying was definitely the last thing on your mind right now.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

You really should have said no. Because what the hell were you thinking, getting into a fighter jet? You stared at all the bewildering array of screens and buttons, not understanding a single thing.

Damn Caleb and his stupidly pretty eyes of his. You could never say no to him.

He leaned over your shoulder from behind, reaching around to point at different instruments. His helmet brushed yours as he talked, voice coming through the headset.

"Okay, so this is your primary flight display," he said, finger tracing across a screen. "Shows altitude, airspeed, heading. And this controls your oxygen flow—"

"Caleb," you cut him off with a nervous laugh, "why are you telling me all this? I'm not flying this thing."

"What if I have a heart attack up there? You'd have to take over."

"Please don't joke about that. I can barely parallel park, and you want me to land a fighter jet?"

"It's easier than it looks." He reached across to flip a switch, his arm brushing against yours. "Besides, you've got good instincts. I've seen how you think under pressure."

"Quick thinking and flying are completely different things.”

"Are they?" His laugh rumbled over the comms as he flipped a few more switches. "Both need you to stay calm, think fast..."

Suddenly, the engines roared to life, vibrations running through your entire body. Your stomach dropped as the reality hit—you were actually doing this.

"Don't worry. I have every intention of staying alive," he added, his hand coming up to steady your helmet. "Besides, I can't leave you alone up here. How else would I get to see how cute you look when you're terrified?"

"I'm not terrified."

"Sure you're not." He glanced down at where your knuckles were white from gripping the seatbelt. A smug smile spread across his face. You wanted to punch him. "That's why you're holding on like the plane's about to fall apart."

"I hate you."

He ignored your comment. His hands moved to your harness next, checking each strap. You felt his fingers brush against your shoulders and chest as he tightened the restraints.

"Snug enough?" he asked, giving the straps a tug.

"I think I'm more secure than the aircraft itself," you replied, testing how much you could move. Which was basically not at all.

"Good. Ready to fly?"

"Absolutely not."

"Too late now." He moved to settle into the pilot's seat in front of you. "Don't worry, I'll take good care of you up there."

"Just promise me," you called over the growing engine noise, "if you do have some kind of medical emergency, can you at least wait until we're back on the ground?"

His laugh crackled through the comms. "Deal." More switches flipped and the engines roared louder. "Now hold on and visor down."

You found the mechanism on your helmet, and the tinted shield clicked into place, casting everything in a greenish hue.

"Tower, this is Apple-7 requesting clearance for takeoff," his voice came through the comm system, suddenly serious and stern.

"Apple-7, you are cleared for runway 2-7. Wind at 2-1-0 degrees, 8 knots."

"Copy that, tower. Apple-7 rolling."

And then the jet lurched forward.

Oh shit.

This was really happening. You were actually doing this, and you were a complete idiot for agreeing to it. What kind of sane person just casually gets into a fighter jet? Normal people took trains. Normal people stayed on the ground where they belonged.

The engines roared even louder, and suddenly you were moving. Fast. Really, really fast. The runway blurred past in streaks of white and gray, and you gripped your harness so hard you thought you might break your knuckles. Pretty sure you were about to meet your end just because you couldn't resist some pretty violet eyes.

"Oh god, oh god, oh god," you said, probably straight into the comms that anyone could hear, but you were past caring.

"You okay back there?"

"No. Definitely not. Why did I say yes to this?"

The nose tilted up, and suddenly you were pressed back into your seat like a giant, invisible hand was shoving you down. The force was insane—your whole body felt heavy, pinned against the seat as the jet climbed. Your stomach dropped straight through the floor while the rest of you felt like it weighed a thousand pounds.

You squeezed your eyes shut as the ground disappeared beneath you, that weightless feeling making you want to throw up.

Why the hell had you said yes this time?

Caleb had asked before. Multiple times, actually. "Come flying with me," he'd say, eyes bright with the adrenaline that always courses through pilots after a flight. "I want to show you what it's like up there." And you'd always brushed him off with some excuse—too busy, too tired, maybe next time. 

Flying seemed like his thing, not yours. You were perfectly happy with your feet on solid ground, thank you very much.

You'd never really thought about why you kept saying no. It just seemed... unnecessary. Dangerous. Something that belonged to the part of his life that didn't include you—the military side, the pilot side, the side that took him away from home for weeks at a time.

But now, strapped into a fighter jet and climbing toward the clouds at a speed that defied all logic, you couldn't figure out what had changed. What had made you finally say yes when he'd asked with that hopeful look in his eyes? Was it the way he'd seemed so excited to share this with you? The fact that he'd almost died and you'd realized how much you'd been holding back? Or were you just losing your mind?

Probably the last one.

"Breathe." Caleb's voice. "I've got you."

"This was such a terrible idea," you managed, eyes still clamped shut. "I'm going to die because I can't say no to you."

"You're not going to die. I'm a pretty good pilot."

"That's exactly what someone says right before they crash."

He laughed. "Open your eyes."

"Not happening."

"Come on. Trust me."

"I trusted you enough to get in this death trap. That's all the trust you're getting today."

"Hey." His voice went gentle. "Remember when we were kids and you'd get scared during thunderstorms? I'd always stay with you until they passed."

"That's not the same."

"I'm still here. Still got you." A pause. "Open your eyes for me."

Damn him. Damn him and that stupid, soft voice of his and the way he could make you feel safe even when you were hurtling through the air in a metal coffin.

You cracked one eye open, then both, and your breath caught in your throat at what you saw.

A dreamlike landscape stretched out below you. Fields and forests and winding roads, all bathed in golden evening light. In the distance, the sun was sinking towards the horizon, painting the sky in watercolours of pink and orange, bleeding together like spilled paint.

And there was Skyhaven, floating in the distance like something from a fairy tale. Its artificial island hung suspended in the twilight, lights already twinkling as evening settled in. From up here, you could see everything, the tall buildings, the landing platforms and the anti-gravity trains that looked like silver threads connecting it to the mainland.

You flew over the DAA airbase, which looked suddenly tiny and orderly from this height. You could make out the runways in perfect geometric patterns, hangars lined up like building blocks, the control tower standing watch over it all.

"Holy shit," you breathed.

"Language, pipsqueak."

"Holy shit, Caleb. This is..."

"Pretty amazing, right?"

You stared out at the endless sky, at clouds that looked like cotton from up here, at how perfect and small everything looked below. Your death grip on the seat loosened a little.

"Yeah," you whispered. "It's beautiful."

"Want to see more? We've still got time before we need to head back."

Caleb steered the jet gently to the left, and a few seconds later, you were flying over mountains that looked like the spines of a sleeping dragon, their snow laced peaks catching the last of the sun.

"Those are the Taishan Mountains," he said. "See that lake down there?"

You followed his direction and spotted it—a perfect mirror of water nestled between the hills, reflecting the sunset like liquid fire.

"It looks incredible," you breathed, pressing your face closer to the canopy. "I had no idea it looked like this from up here."

He guided the jet in circles around the lake, giving you the full view. "This is my favorite part of flying. Seeing the world like this." His voice went softer. "I've wanted to show you this for so long."

Mountains rolled beneath you in waves of green and amber, dotted with tiny villages that clung to the slopes. A river wound through the valley below, silver in the twilight.

"There—see that waterfall?" Caleb pointed toward a white ribbon of water cascading down the mountainside, each level catching the dying light before disappearing into the mist below. "And that one over there—" He tilted the jet slightly to one side so you could see another cascade, this one wider, spreading like a bridal veil across dark stone.

"They're amazing, Caleb," you said, watching the water dance in the fading light.

"I knew you'd love them. I've been wanting to bring you up here since I first flew this route. Every time I pass over, I think about how much you'd love seeing this." A pause. "When things calm down, when we're not so busy with work... I want to take you hiking up there. Show you those falls up close."

You smiled. "I'd like that."

The jet drifted through wisps of cloud that parted softly around the canopy, and for a moment, you felt weightless, suspended between earth and sky, while the world below seemed to stretch endlessly.

A flock of birds flew far below, tiny dots moving across the green landscape. Everything looked so peaceful from up here, so perfectly arranged, like someone had painted the world and hung it beneath the clouds just for pilots to see.

"You really love this." It wasn't a question. "Flying, I mean. I finally get it."

"Took you long enough."

"I always knew you loved it. I just... never understood the why until now."

"And now?"

You gazed out at the endless sky, at how calm everything looked from up here. "Now I think I might love it too."

"Good," he said, and you could hear him grinning. "So... want to test some speed?"

"What kind of speed?"

"Nothing crazy. Just a little taste of what she can really do."

"I don't know, Caleb. This is perfect as it is—"

"Hold on tight."

"Wait, what—"

The world exploded into motion.

The jet shot forward like a bullet fired from a gun, the landscape below blurring into streaks of color. Your body slammed back into the seat with crushing force—you couldn't breathe, couldn't think, could only grip your harness as everything became pure speed and sound and the absolute certainty that you were about to die.

"Caleb!"

"Just breathe!" His voice came through the comms, way too calm for someone currently trying to kill you both. "Let it happen!"

Within seconds, the fear melted away, replaced by an electric thrill that surged through you. You were flying—really flying—slicing through the sky like something loosed from gravity itself.

"Oh my God!" you shouted, but now you were laughing. "This is insane!"

"Amazing, right?"

"Don't you dare slow down!"

His delighted laugh filled your headset. "I knew you'd love it."

Clouds blurred past in a rush of speed so unreal it stole your breath, and for the first time in months, maybe years, you felt impossibly alive. You never wanted it to stop.

"Hey," Caleb said after a while of flying, way too casual. "You do remember how to pull up, right?"

"What? Why would I need to—"

"Just in case."

A soft click echoed through the comms.

The nose dipped.

Your stomach dropped as realization hit. 

"Caleb?"

The aircraft kept descending, the horizon tilting dangerously.

"Caleb!"

Without thinking, your hands flew to the controls, yanking back on the stick. The jet responded immediately, nose lifting as you overcompensated. Your stomach lurched violently with the sudden change in altitude before finally finding level flight again. 

"Take over!" you screamed, heart pounding against your ribs. "What the hell are you doing?!"

His laughter crackled through the headset. "Relax. I've got backup controls the whole time. You were never actually in danger." He paused, clearly grinning. "God, I wish I could see your face right now. I bet your face is all scrunched up."

"I'm having a heart attack!"

"You're doing fine. Keep your hands on the controls. I'm handling everything else. Feel how responsive she is?"

Despite yourself, you were starting to enjoy it. Every tiny movement you made with the stick and the whole aircraft would shift—left, right, up, down—and you finally understood what Caleb meant about dancing with the sky. In a way, it felt like dancing, but with gravity and wind and thousands of pounds of metal that somehow felt weightless under your command. 

"This is terrifying."

"This is flying. And you're a natural."

And the longer you held the controls, the more confident you became. It was almost intoxicating, having this much power literally at your fingertips.

"This is actually incredible," you breathed, making a gentle turn.

"See? Told you."

Then you spotted the throttle. Your hand moved before you could think, pushing it forward. The jet surged ahead, speed shooting pure electricity through your veins.

"Oh, this feels amazing!" You pushed it further.

The world blurred below as you picked up speed. You felt powerful. Alive. Like you could conquer the entire sky.

"Okay, that's... probably fast enough," Caleb said.

But you were drunk on it now. You pushed the throttle more.

"Seriously, maybe we should slow down—"

"Just a little more!"

"No, no, no. Fun's over." You felt him take back control, gradually bringing the aircraft down to a safer speed. "You're absolutely insane. Remind me to never let you near a motorcycle."

"That was the best thing I've ever done," you laughed, breathless and light headed. "Can we do it again?"

"Absolutely not. I love you, but—"

He stopped, and your heart skipped a beat.

Did he just…?

He did.

And he said it so natural, so easy, so seamlessly woven into the fabric of who he was that he'd forgotten it was supposed to be a secret.

But you knew what would come next. You'd been there before, knew every version of his backtracking, his deflection, of his careful rewording that would drain all the meaning from what he'd just said until it became something safe and meaningless.

It had been this way since you were teenagers, the pattern so familiar you could predict his next words before he said them. In a way, you'd gotten used to it. But knowing it was coming didn't make it hurt any less. If anything, the predictability made it worse.

Silence stretched.

"I mean—" he started, voice tight. "What I meant was—"

Suddenly, Gideon's voice crackled through the comm system. 

"Apple-7, this is base. You two lovebirds need to head back. Party started early—apparently someone couldn't wait to celebrate our hero."

"Copy that, base," Caleb responded after a pause, his voice controlled again. "Apple-7 returning to base."

As he banked towards home, all the playful energy drained away. Something heavier settled between you, the weight of words said and unsaid, of feelings that existed in the space between friendship and whatever this was.

"ETA fifteen minutes," he added quietly. But you weren't listening anymore.

When Caleb brought the jet down onto the runway at the airbase, you felt sick. Whether from the flight or his confession, you couldn't tell.

"You hungry?" His voice came through the headset as you taxied toward the hangar. "Martinez has been going on about the catering all week. I bet they've prepared lots of food."

You stared at the back of his head, feeling your frustration rise like a tide. You hated how he always backed off so quickly whenever things got too real, like he'd burned himself on the truth. Always leaving you to wonder if you'd imagined the weight in his voice, if those three words had meant anything at all or if he'd said them to anyone who'd listen.

"Yeah. I'm starving."

You could feel him wince at your tone.

"Wait until you try the barbecue," he continued anyway, forcing cheerfulness into his voice. "Base cook actually knows what he's doing for once."

The canopy opened with a soft hiss. Back to reality, where Caleb would pretend his heart hadn't been in his throat when he'd said those words, and you'd pretend you weren't exhausted from constantly dancing around whatever this was between you.

He'd said he loved you. Actually said it. And now he was talking about barbecue like it never happened, like you were just friends and always be just friends, like you were supposed to smile and nod and pretend your chest wasn't caving in from the weight of loving someone who could say everything and nothing in the same breath.

Before you could argue with him or he could apologize or you could both just sit in the wreckage of another almost moment, Gideon appeared beside the aircraft.

"There you are!" He grabbed both your arms before you'd even fully climbed out. "Come on, they're waiting for the guest of honor."

"Wait, we should change—" you started, but Gideon was already dragging you toward the main hangar where music and laughter spilled into the evening air.

Caleb unzipped his flight suit as you walked, letting it hang around his waist and tying the sleeves around his hips. Sweat darkened the fabric of his shirt, outlining the muscles in his chest and shoulders in a way that really didn't help your current frustration with him.

You did the same, unzipping your own suit and tying it around your waist. Not exactly the prettiest outfit for a celebration—but thankfully, no one else seemed to care about fancy clothes either. At least now you could breathe in the warm evening air.

You'd never seen the hangar look anything like this. String lights crisscrossed the ceiling, tables lined the walls loaded with food, and what looked like half the airbase was crowded inside with drinks, laughing and talking.

A cheer went up the second people spotted Caleb. Suddenly you were swept into congratulations and backslapping. Someone pressed a beer into your hand while others recounted the heroic rescue you'd only heard about on the news.

"Speech! Speech!" someone shouted, and the entire crowd picked up the chant.

Caleb got pushed towards the center of the crowed, looking genuinely uncomfortable. He held up his hands for quiet.

"I, uh..." He stopped, running a hand through his hair. "I'm really not good at this." 

Everyone laughed affectionately.

So humble. Of course everyone loved him.

You watched him fumble through his discomfort. Even now, with everyone celebrating him, he looked like he'd rather be anywhere else. The same way he'd rather deflect than deal with what had just happened between you up there.

"Look," he continued, finding his voice, "what happened out there wasn't heroic. I was just doing my job. Any of you would've done the same thing."

More affectionate protests from the crowd. Someone yelled, "That's our Caleb!"

"It was a team effort. We all did what we were trained for." He paused, scanning the crowd until his eyes found yours. "But what really drives us, what makes us willing to risk everything, is knowing we have something worth coming home to."

Beside you, Gideon nudged your ribs, grinning like he'd won a bet. But instead of something warm, all you felt was irritation.

Of course. Of course he'd say something like that—something that could mean everything or nothing, something that let him dance around the truth while giving himself an out if anyone pressed him on it. Something worth coming home to. It could mean you, it could mean his whole found family here, or it could mean his favorite mechanic for all the specificity he was giving.

You took a long pull of your beer, jaw tight, as the crowd cheered his carefully noncommittal words.

When he finished his speech, you turned away before his gaze could find yours and headed for the bar. Maybe it was frustration, maybe adrenaline crash, or maybe you just needed something to numb whatever game you and Caleb kept playing with each other's hearts.

You stopped counting drinks after the third one. You'd come here to celebrate him, to be proud of him, but all you could think about was how stupid you'd been to hope for something real. 

Luckily, Gideon was just as drunk as you and completely oblivious to your mood.

"Another round!" 

He appeared beside you with two fresh beers and a grin that said he was already several drinks ahead of you. His cheeks were flushed, eyes bright.

You took the beer and clinked it against his, laughing at something funny he'd said that you were already forgetting.

"Maybe you should slow down a little."

A hand suddenly reached for your beer.

Caleb.

You pulled it away from his grasp, giving him a look that could've cut glass. "We're here to celebrate, right? Isn't that what you said? Something to come home to and all that?"

His eyes narrowed at your tone, violet turning darker, but before he could respond, Gideon threw an arm around both your shoulders.

"Exactly! Tonight we celebrate our hero!" he slurred, pulling you both closer. "And his beautiful—"

"Friend," you cut in flatly, taking another drink. You stared straight at Caleb as you said it, watching the word land heavy.

The music shifted to something upbeat, and Gideon dragged you towards the dance floor before either of you could say anything else.

He spun you around, both of you laughing as you nearly collided into other people. The alcohol had loosened you up, and for the first time all night, you actually felt carefree.

"You're awful at this," you laughed as Gideon stepped on your foot again.

"Hey, I'm a pilot, not a dancer," he protested, catching you when you stumbled slightly and keeping a steady hand on your waist.

Out of the corner of your eye, you spotted Caleb still at the bar, those violet eyes locked on Gideon's hand at your waist. His knuckles were white around his beer bottle.

You knew this wasn't fair. It wasn't like you—getting drunk, making a scene, using poor Gideon in whatever messed up thing you and Caleb had going on. But you were so tired of it all. Tired of the mixed signals, the distance, the way he could say he loved you at ten thousand feet then stand in front of everyone and talk about you like you were just another face in the crowd.

You were done being careful. Done protecting his feelings while he stepped all over yours. When Gideon's hand moved to guide you through another spin, you didn't pull away. Instead, you leaned closer, letting your arms wrap around his neck as he swayed with you. You rested your head on his shoulder, eyes closing, knowing exactly who was watching.

If Caleb wanted to keep you at arm's length, he could watch someone else hold you close.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

Hours slipped by in a haze of music, laughter, and terrible dance moves. Considerably, the crowd had thinned out, leaving only a few dedicated party people and those too drunk to find way back to their quarters. You fell squarely into the second category.

"Alright," Caleb's voice cut through your alcohol fueled fun as he appeared beside you and Gideon at the bar sometime deep into the night—or possibly early morning. "I think it's time to call it a night."

"What? No!" You swayed as you turned to face him. "Party's just getting started. Right, Gideon?"

But when you looked around, Gideon had somehow vanished. When you turned back to Caleb, you understood why.

He was angry.

"Come on. You've had enough."

"I'm fine," you insisted, though the way the room tilted when you moved suggested otherwise. "We're celebrating! You said it yourself—something to come home to, right? Well, your precious something is celebrating."

A muscle jumped in his jaw and then he was moving. He scooped you up and threw you over his shoulder like you weighed nothing.

"Caleb! Put me down! What are you doing?"

"You think I'll let you do whatever you want?"

You kept protesting as he carried you across the hanger, but his grip was iron. Other drunk stragglers whistled and made comments as you passed, which only made your face burn hotter.

He finally stopped at his room in the dormitory and fumbled with his keycard while still holding you. Once inside, he set you down and locked the door behind you both.

You stumbled as your feet hit the floor, the room spinning enough to make you grab his desk for support. 

"What the hell, Caleb?"

He was standing between you and the door, arms crossed, looking more serious than you'd ever seen him.

"What was your mission tonight? Were you trying to irritate me?"

You leaned back against his desk, crossing your arms to match his stance. The alcohol was still making your head swim, but his tone was sobering you up fast.

"Don't be so dramatic. It's a party. You're the hero, saved lives and all that, remember?"

"Is that why you were all over Gideon?"

A bitter laugh slipped out. "Like you care."

"I don't care?"

"No, you don't!" You pushed off from the desk, anger making you bold. "You don't get to care! Not when you do this—say things like that, tell me you love me, act all possessive, then pull away like it never happened!" Your voice got louder, years of frustration finally breaking free. "It's fucking exhausting, Caleb! I never know what you actually feel because you won't just—"

"Isn't it obvious?"

"No! It's not obvious! Nothing about you is obvious!" You gestured wildly, the alcohol making you unsteady. "You're like a puzzle with half the pieces missing, and I'm tired of trying to figure you out."

He stepped closer. "You want to know what I feel?"

"Yes," you breathed, suddenly aware of how small his room was, how close he was getting.

Another step. "You want me to be obvious? Aggressive? Want me to press you against this desk and make it impossible to misunderstand how I feel?"

Your back hit the desk as he kept coming. "Caleb," you whispered, but it sounded more like a plea than a warning.

He braced his hands on either side of you, palms flat against the desk, caging you in. His body was close enough that you could feel his heat, could count the golden flecks in his eyes.

"Tell me what you want from me." His voice barely a whisper, his face inches from yours. "You want me to kiss you? Touch you?" He tilted his head. "...Fuck you?"

"I'm not playing this game again—"

His hand left the desk to find your waist, fingers spreading across the strip of skin where your shirt had ridden up above your tied flight suit. Your words died as his touch sent heat shooting through you.

"What game?" He leaned closer and placed his other hand on your waist too, his hands warm against your skin. "The one where you pretend you don't want me?"

"I'm not—" you started, but your breath hitched when his hand came up to cup your face, thumb tracing your cheekbone.

"Or this one where you act like I'm always the one holding back when you do the exact same thing?" His words ghosted across your lips as his hands slowly moved upward, thumbs brushing under the hem of your shirt. "Because that's what this feels like. Like you want me to make the first move so you can blame me if it all goes wrong, have an easy way out—"

"Don't."

Your heart pounded so hard you were sure he could feel it through your chest. He was close enough now that the slightest movement would bring your lips together.

"Tell me to stop. Tell me this isn't what you want, and I'll walk away."

But you couldn't. Because despite all the frustration, despite all the hesitation and almost moments, this was exactly what you wanted. And he knew it.

When you stayed silent, he leaned in, lips finding your neck. His kiss was soft, almost careful, but it sent heat through your veins. His lips moved down your neck unhurried and slow, each touch a question you answered with a tilt of your head, giving him more access. Your hands found his shoulders, fingers gripping his shirt as he stepped closer and pressed you back against the wall.

"Who's holding back now?" he murmured against your throat.

Your answer got lost in a shaky breath as he continued his slow exploration, hands tightening on your waist. Everything felt electric, charged with years of want finally given permission to surface.

But even as he held you close, even as his lips traced every inch of your neck, he never quite crossed that final line. Never kissed your mouth the way you desperately wanted. Always hovering on the edge of something more, leaving you breathless and wanting. And you wouldn't close the gap either—too stubborn, too scared.

"Caleb," you whispered. 

He pulled back just enough to meet your eyes, his own dark with want. "What now? Should I kiss you? Undress you? Want me to…"

His thigh nuded your legs apart, and then he pressed closer until there was nothing between you but heat and fabric. Your breath hitched, and your fingers clenched around his shoulders, nails digging in.

"Do you have any idea how much I think about this? About touching you you the way I really want to, without holding anything back? How much I need you?"

Your head tilted back, trying to find space to breathe, but he followed, lips grazing your throat. Each touch was torture, every kiss threatening to undo you completely. He moved slowly, mouth tracing down to your collarbone where he sucked gently, drawing a soft sound from you.

"You're so frustrating," you said, the words tumbling out. "You—God, Caleb, you always stop, you—"

"You think I want to stop?" His voice was raw. "You think I don't lie awake every night thinking about throwing away every reason I have for keeping my hands off you?" He sank his teeth into the curve of your shoulder, making you gasp. "I'm trying to do this right."

Your heart ached at his words, but the alcohol and years of longing made you bold. "I don't want right," you said. "I want you."

Something shifted in him then. His hands slid to your hips and pulled you in, pressing against you until you felt him, unmistakably hard, right where you wanted him. You moved without thinking, your body drawn to the pressure, to the spark it ignited.

He cursed, voice breaking as he buried his face in your neck and guided your movements with his hands. Each shift of your hips made the desk creak beneath you, the sound loud in the quiet room.

Your hands slid into his hair, tugging at it as you arched into him, heat building between you with each and every movement. His mouth traced lower, kissing along the edge of your top before his teeth caught your strap, pulling it down your shoulder. He kissed the newly bared skin like it was something sacred.

"Caleb," you gasped, voice catching as he thrust harder, growing more desperate. 

Papers and pens slid off the desk, which was rattling loudly now, but neither of you cared. His hand left your hip to brace against the wall behind you, arm trembling with the effort of holding back, of keeping this from spiraling into something neither of you could take back.

You felt him shudder against you, his breath hot and ragged against your neck as he kissed every inch of skin. Hips pressed closer still, grinding against you in a way that made your head spin, and you couldn't help the soft moan that escaped your lips. It seemed to undo him completely—his grip tightening as he moved against you harder, the desk shaking.

"I can't think straight when you're like this," he whispered, his hand slipping under your top, palm warm against your lower back. "Do you have any idea what you do to me? How hard it is to be around you and not just—" 

Your legs tightened around him, wanting nothing more than for him to stop thinking altogether, and he groaned, the sound vibrating through you. 

You could feel exactly how much he wanted this—wanted you—but he still held back, his lips never claiming yours, only leaving marks along your throat and collarbone. It was maddening, this dance of almost, but the way he touched you like you were something precious made it impossible to pull away. 

You could feel how close you both were getting—his breath heavy and uneven, body trembling against yours.

His hand slid down from your waist to find your thigh. He hooked his grip under your knee, lifting your leg until it rested over his shoulder. You gasped, fingers clawing at his hair as his hard length slid back and forth between your thighs with such maddening friction you were sure you'd come any moment.

"I'm trying," he breathed. "I'm trying so fucking hard not to lose it right now."

Your leg trembled, and he tightened his grip, holding you in place.

"I'm so close." Your lips hovered inches from his, your soft moans spilling into his open mouth. "Caleb, please." You didn't even know what you were begging for—just more, all of him, anything to ease the ache that had been building for so long.

His hand on the wall slid higher, fingers curling like he needed to hold onto something, and for a moment you thought he might finally give in. But—

Footsteps echoed in the hallway outside, followed by muffled voices. Caleb froze, lips still close to yours, his whole body going tense. He lifted his head, eyes darting to the door. The voices got closer, then faded, but the thread between you had snapped.

His hand on the wall slid down slowly. He exhaled shakily and stepped back, leaving you cold and aching where his warmth had been. "You should sleep and get sober."

You felt dizzy from how quickly he could switch off, go from consuming you completely to treating you like a mistake that needed correcting.

"And pretend tomorrow that this never happened? You go back to being distant and I pretend I'm fine with it?"

"That's not—"

"It is." You leaned forward on the desk, straightening your top. "This is what you do, Caleb. You get close, make me think maybe this time is different, and then you pull away."

He ran a hand through his hair, looking frustrated. "I'm not pulling away. I'm right here."

"For how long? Until someone walks by in the hallway? Until you remember all the reasons why this is complicated? Until you decide I'm better off as just your friend?"

"You know that's not—"

"Don't. Just… don't. I can't keep doing this with you. I can't keep wondering if you actually want me or if you're just lonely, or caught up in the moment, or—"

"You think this is just loneliness?" His voice went sharp, almost angry. "You think what I feel for you is some momentary lapse in judgment?"

"I don't know what you feel, and that's the problem. You never tell me anything.  Not when you nearly die, not what you're thinking, nothing. You just nearly fuck me and look at me like that and expect me to figure it out, but I can't read your mind, Caleb. And I'm tired of trying."

Everything went quiet.

"I'm scared," he said finally. "I'm scared of ruining what we have."

"And what exactly do we have? Because from where I'm standing, it feels like nothing."

He starred at you like you'd slapped him, and maybe you had. You watched his face crumple for just a second before he pulled himself together, but you'd already seen the hurt.

"Nothing," he repeated quietly, almost to himself. He took a step back, then another, putting space between you. "Right."

Nothing but breath. 

Yours. 

His. 

Heavy, tangled, filling the silence.

You wanted to take it back, to explain that you didn't mean it like that, but your frustration and anger kept your mouth shut.

"Sleep it off," he said finally, voice flat as he headed for the door. "Take the bed. I'll find somewhere else."

"Caleb, wait—"

He stopped for just a moment, hand on the handle, and you thought maybe he'd turn around, maybe he'd finally fight for this, fight for you.

"Lock the door behind me." 

And then he walked out.

You sat there staring at the empty space where he'd been, the ghost of his touch still burning on your skin and the taste of regret bitter in your mouth.

You could hear his footsteps in the hallway, getting fainter until there was nothing left but silence and the weight of words you couldn't take back.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

Morning light streamed through the window, way too bright for your pounding head. You groaned and burried your face deeper into the pillow that smelled like Caleb—a painful reminder of where you were and what had happened.

A soft knock made you wince. "Come in," you mumbled, though speaking felt like sandpaper against your throat.

When you finally looked up, Caleb was standing by the bed with a glass of water and two aspirin. His expression was carefully blank, but the dark circles under his eyes told you he'd slept about as well as you had.

"Figured you'd need these," he said, setting them on the nightstand.

You slowly sat up, immediately regretting it as the room spun. "Thanks."

He sat down on the edge of the bed beside you while you swallowed the aspirin and drank half the water.

"I'm sorry," you started, finally meeting his eyes. "About last night. What I said."

"Which part?"

"All of it. I was really drunk."

"Yeah, you were."

"It wasn't fair of me."

He gave you a small, sad smile. After a moment, he pulled out his phone, scrolled through it, and set it on the nightstand. Soft music started playing, something gentle and slow.

"What are you doing?"

"What I wanted to do last night." He stood up from the bed and held out his hand. "Before you decided dancing with my best friend was more fun."

You looked at his outstretched hand, then back at his face. "Caleb, I'm still pretty drunk. Or hungover. I haven't brushed my teeth, I probably smell like tequila, and I look like I got hit by a truck—"

"You're beautiful."

Your heart did that tender flutter thing it always did when he spoke to you like that—gentle and sure, like you were something precious instead of the mess you felt like. 

Here he was, bringing you water and aspirin with dark circles under his eyes, being impossibly kind when you'd spent last night deliberately trying to hurt him. You'd used his best friend, his trust, weaponized his feelings against him when all Caleb had ever done was love you too much for his own good.

Even when you were being a complete mess, even when you said cruel things you didn't mean—he was still here, still calling you beautiful when you looked like death, still wanting to dance with you in his tiny room. You felt like such an idiot.

He offered you his hand like a peace offering, like forgiveness you didn't deserve, and you wanted to cry from how much it hurt to want someone this badly.

After a moment's hesitation, you found yourself taking his hand anyway, because even if you didn't deserve his kindness, you were too selfish to turn it away.

He helped you up slowly, steadying you when you swayed. His other hand settled gently at your waist, and he started moving in tiny circles, barely dancing at all in the small space between his bed and the wall, just holding you while music played softly from his phone.

"You got what you wanted, by the way," he said quietly against your hair.

"What?"

"Making me jealous. If that was your plan." His voice had that old teasing note, but beneath it, something honest. "Watching you with Gideon last night... it worked."

"I didn't mean to—"

"Didn't you? Even a little?"

"You were jealous," you said, more to confirm it to yourself than to ask.

"Insanely jealous." His hand tightened at your waist. "But I'd be lying if I said I wasn't always jealous of every guy who even looks at you."

"You're an idiot," you whispered, but there was no heat in it.

"Probably."

He spun you gently, turning you so your back was against his chest. His hands settled on your waist, and you could feel his steady breathing against your shoulder. It made your head spin—whether from the hangover or his proximity, hard to tell.

"Easy," he murmured when you swayed, arms tightening to steady you. "I've got you."

You leaned back against him, letting his warmth sink through the thin shirt of his you were wearing. 

"This is so stupid."

"Dancing with a hungover girl in my bedroom at eight in the morning? Yeah, probably."

"That's not what I meant."

"I know. But I don't care. I've wanted to hold you like this for so long that I'll take whatever version I can get. Even if you're mad at me and smell like Gideon's aftershave."

You stiffened. "I do not—"

"Relax," he said, and you could hear the smile in his voice. "You smell like you. Just... you and a bit of tequila."

"You're awful."

"I'm honest." He buried his face deeper into your shoulder, inhaling your scent. "And I'd rather have you here, mad at me and smelling of some other man than not have you at all."

It hurt how he said it. 

Not because his words were cruel, but because of how tired he sounded. Like he'd already accepted that this was all he'd ever get. Like he was okay with loving you quietly, safely, even if it meant never really having you. Even if it meant watching you walk away with someone else someday.

And maybe that's exactly what you'd both been doing all along. Playing it safe. Because relationships were messy when hearts got involved, when people made themselves vulnerable. Love always ended in pain—that much you knew. Better to keep things the way they were, even if it hurt, than risk losing each other completely.

But God, you were so tired of being careful, tired of pretending that your heart didn't race every time he said your name, and of lying awake at night replaying every touch, every look, every almost moment where you'd felt the pull between you and chosen to step back instead of forward.

All those times in his kitchen when he'd stand just a little too close while making coffee. All those movie nights when you'd end up curled against his side, pretending it was just friendship. All those conversations that felt like confessions, where you'd catch him looking at you like you were something he wanted but couldn't have.

Not this time. 

You turned in his arms, slowly, until you were facing him again. "Kiss me," you said, the words reckless and desperate and born from nothing but foolish hope.

"You're still drunk."

"I'm not that drunk."

"Didn't you say so yourself?"

"I lied."

"Pipsqueak."

"Don't deflect."

He let out a breath. "You're hurting. And confused. And you'll probably hate yourself for this when your head clears."

"Maybe." You reached up, fingers finding the soft cotton of his shirt. "But I'm asking anyway."

He went quiet, those violet eyes moving between yours and your lips. "I don't want to be something you regret."

"You won't be. Caleb, you could never be something I regret."

His breath caught, and for a moment, that careful control slipped. His hand came up to your face, thumb brushing your cheek.

"You have no idea what you do to me," he murmured, leaning closer. Your heart hammered against your ribs as the space between you shrunk to nothing. His forehead touched yours, lips hovering close enough to feel the warmth of each word—

His phone rang. Sharp and loud.

"Fuck," he breathed, but he didn't pull away.

The phone kept ringing.

"Caleb," you whispered.

"I know." His thumb traced your cheek one more time before he reluctantly stepped back and reached for his phone. His face darkened when he saw the screen. "It's Commander Reeves. I have to—"

"Answer it," you said, though your heart was still racing.

He picked up with a clipped "Caleb," his voice immediately shifting into something professional and distant. You watched his expression grow more serious as he listened.

"How many?" A pause. "Yeah, I'm on my way." He hung up and looked at you. "Emergency at the base during training. I have to—"

"Go," you said quickly. "People need you."

He moved toward the door, then stopped. Without a word, he came back to you, his hands cupping your face with that careful tenderness that always undid you and pressed a soft kiss to your forehead. It was chaste, safe, and full of everything he couldn't say and you wouldn't risk asking. It left an empty sort of sting in your chest, how much it meant and how little it changed anything.

Then he was gone, grabbing his jacket and rushing out to save someone else, leaving you alone with his goodbye that wasn't quite a goodbye, and a promise that wasn't quite a promise.

Only another almost to add to your collection.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

By the time Caleb finally made it back to his room, the sun was high and unforgiving.

He opened the door, expecting to find you still there—maybe asleep again, or pacing impatiently, ready to give him an earful for making you wait so long, telling him that you were hungry and bored and he'd smile and take you to eat with the other cadets right after he finally, finally kissed you.

But you weren't there.

The bed was empty and his shirt you'd borrowed was neatly folded at the foot of the bed. The only proof you'd been there was a note on his nightstand, scribbled on the back of his training plan:

thank you for everything. had to catch the 11:30 train back to linkon. talk soon — you

Caleb stared at the note for a long moment, then slowly crumpled it in his fist. Of course you'd run. Of course you'd slip out while he was dealing with the emergency, avoiding the conversation you'd both been dancing around for months and years. But he couldn't even be angry with you, because he understood.

This thing between you had crept up so slowly that neither of you had noticed when it stopped being just friendship. When his need to protect you had shifted from something innocent to something that kept him awake at night. When your easy comfort around him had developed this electric edge that made every touch feel like playing with fire.

He could trace it back if he really tried. Being fifteen and suddenly noticing how pretty you were, then feeling guilty about it because you were his childhood friend and that felt like a betrayal of something pure. He remembered you at seventeen, falling asleep on his shoulder during a late night study session, and the way his heart had started racing for reasons he couldn't name. 

How you'd started looking at him differently after he'd enlisted, like you were seeing him as a man instead of the boy who'd grown up next to you.

But somewhere along the way, the easy intimacy of childhood had gotten complicated. Every conversation now carried the weight of things unsaid. Every touch too fleeting to truly satisfy. Every glance asked questions neither of you knew how to answer.

Now there was so much distance between who you'd been as kids and who you were now that neither of you knew how to bridge it. Too much history to pretend this was simple, but too much fear to admit it had never been simple at all.

He sank onto his bed and stared at the spot where he'd almost kissed you. You'd both wanted it—he could see it in the way your breath had hitched, in how you'd leaned into him. But wanting and having were different things when everything felt this fragile.

Because this wasn't just about attraction, this was about the person who knew all his secrets, who'd sat with him through his worst moments, who he trusted more than anyone. This was about risking the most important relationship in his life for something that might burn bright and beautiful—or destroy everything.

His phone buzzed. A text.

You: made it back safely. thanks for last night. and this morning

He stared at the message, knowing that beneath those polite lines was the same confusion he felt, the same want tangled up with the same fear. 

He typed and deleted a dozen replies. 

Caleb: why did you leave? 

Delete.

Caleb: please don't run from this. don't run from me

Delete.

Caleb: i wanted to kiss you

Delete.

Caleb: i think about kissing you all the time

Delete.

Caleb: i love you. i'm in love with you. i have been for years and i'm tired of pretending i'm not

Delete.

Caleb: i don't know when i fell for you, but i can't remember not being in love with you. and when i was on that deepspace tunnel rescue mission, all i could think about was that i can't die before i ever get to tell you how i feel

Delete.

Caleb: i'm sorry i didn't tell you what happened. i wanted to protect you, but lately i think i don't know how to take care of you anymore and all i do is screw things up

Delete. 

In the end, he sent:

Caleb: glad you're safe

Three dots appeared, then disappeared. Then appeared again. 

You: hope the emergency wasn't too bad. get some rest

And that was it. You were gone, back to Linkon, back to your life of hunting Wanderers and keeping the world safe. Back to pretending that whatever had almost happened between you was just leftover adrenaline and alcohol.

But Caleb knew better. The way you'd looked at him, the way you'd asked him to kiss you—that wasn't the tequila talking, that was twenty years of friendship finally admitting it wanted to be something more, that was all the careful space you'd both maintained finally crumbling under the weight of wanting someone you were too afraid to lose.

His fingers found the silver apple pendant resting against his chest, the one you'd given him with "When U Come Home" engraved on its surface. Such simple words that had carried him through countless flights, countless nights when the distance between you felt impossible to cross. 

But as he held it now, all he could think about was the way you'd felt pressed against him. The warmth of your skin beneath his hands. The soft sound you'd made when he'd kissed your neck. The way you'd trembled against him like you wanted him just as desperately as he wanted you.

God, he wanted you. Had wanted you for so long that desire had become a constant ache in his chest, something he'd learned to carry like a pilot carries the weight of sky—always there, always pulling, always threatening to drag him down if he let himself think about it too much.

And he was so fucking tired of being afraid. Tired of measuring every touch, every word, every look for signs that he might be crossing some invisible line. Tired of pretending that loving you was something to be ashamed of instead of the most natural thing in the world. 

You'd asked him to kiss you. 

You'd said he could never be something you'd regret. And instead of believing you, instead of trusting what he'd seen in your eyes, he'd let fear make the choice for him again.

Afternoon light streamed through his window, warm and golden, the same light that was probably falling across your face right now as you sat in your apartment, maybe thinking about him the way he couldn't stop thinking about you. Maybe touching your lips and remembering how close he'd come to kissing them. Maybe wondering if he'd ever be brave enough to choose love over safety.

And as he sat there, all he could think about was the empty space where you should be—in his arms, in his bed, in his life without any barriers between you.

He was done being afraid of losing you. Never truly having you would destroy him far more quietly, far more completely.

Caleb stood, touched the apple pendant once more, and reached for his keys.

masterlist + support my writing + ao3

author's note — so you might be wondering why this story sounds so similar to my other caleb fic and to give you an answer it is because i'm quite uncreative and had exactly two things on my brain: flying with him and dry humping. excuse my complete lack of originality with this one lol.

anyway, thank you for taking the time to dive into this emotional mess with me. i'll maybe write a part two for this. if you enjoyed the story, comments and reblogs always make my day and mean the world to me. thank you again for being here <3

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“By two minutes. Come on, that’s hardly anything.”

“More than enough time to get on my nerves.”

“I love it when you talk to me like that.”

Behind you, someone coughed—probably trying to hide a laugh.

“And I love it when you stop talking,” you shot back.

His laugh came through the radio, warm and amused. “Someone’s feisty today. Is the coffee in the tower that bad again?”

“Coffee’s fine. It’s the pilot that’s giving me a headache.”

“Mmm. I like it when your voice gets all defensive, beautiful.”

There it was again. Beautiful.

Always beautiful. Never ‘ma’am’ or ‘tower’ or even your call sign like every other normal fucking pilot with a shred of professionalism would do. With Gojo, it was always pretty, or beautiful, or—God help you—honey. Like he was talking to a date he wanted to charm, not calling for airspace clearance on public frequency.

You’d corrected him once early on. “Use proper radio protocol,” you’d said, but all he replied was, “Sorry, Control. Slipped. Won’t happen again, pretty.” 

It had happened again. And again. And again.

You leaned back in your chair, staring up at the ceiling and entertaining the fantasy of reaching through the frequency and strangle him with your headset cord. Instead, your fingers found the stress ball on your desk and squeezed until your knuckles went white.

“You don’t even know what I look like,” you said, frustrated.

“Your voice tells me everything I need to know. And I’m betting you’re even more beautiful than you sound.”

“Is that why you like hearing yourself talk so much? Because your voice tells you how pretty you are?”

He laughed. “Ouch. You’re brutal today, Control. Permission to land before you completely break my poor heart?”

“Flight 447, you’re cleared to land, runway 24L. Wind 240 at 8 knots. Try not to crash while you’re busy thinking about how charming you are.”

“Copy that, beautiful. And for the record? I wasn’t thinking about myself.” His voice dropped lower, not caring at all that he was on public frequency. “I was thinking about you.”

Heat crept up your neck. Around the tower, a few heads turned your way once more—grinning, and you wanted to punch them in the face. 

You were silent for a few seconds and you could basically hear his grin forming on the other end of the line.

“Looks like I’ve got you blushing. Well then, see you on the ground, Control.”

More heat crept up your neck. You yanked off your headset and slammed it down on the desk, resisting the urge to scream into a stack of paperwork. Goddamn it, he made you want to quit your job. Or strangle him. Or both.

You looked out the tower’s window just in time to watch his plane break through the clouds and touch down. A fucking textbook perfect landing. Of course it was. Captain Satoru Gojo was, without question, the most infuriating pilot you’d ever had the displeasure of guiding in. And unfortunately, he was also the best.

It had started a few months ago when he began regularly flying the international routes from Japan to Central Europe—the very same routes you’d specifically requested when you transferred to Haneda. 

The 2 AM flights? The twelve hour shifts from hell? The ones that made most controllers question all their life choices and develop an unhealthy, codependent relationship with the espresso machine? 

You loved them.

These were the long flights where pilots were usually dead tired and just wanted to get home. Communication was professional and efficient. No small talk, no unnecessary chatter, just vectors, altitudes, and a few polite acknowledgments. You could guide a Boeing 777 from Tokyo to Frankfurt with maybe twenty lines of dialogue, max. That was the dream.

These pilots had been airborne for twelve hours or longer—the last thing they wanted was a chatty air traffic controller stretching out their shift with unnecessary conversation. And the last thing you wanted was to listen to their rambling. You loved those quiet and professional pilots—the ones you barely had to talk to, just guide them in and call it a day. Great. Easy work. You loved your job when it was uncomplicated.

While your colleagues dealt with the chaos of domestic flights—tight turnarounds, grumbling pilots, weather complaints, gate drama and all that shit—you got the stern and serious long-distance flyers.

Until Captain Satoru Gojo.

The first time you handled Flight 447’s approach out of Prague, you braced for the usual. Someone who’d been flying for thirteen hours straight and just wanted to land, deplane, and find the nearest bed. What you got instead was a happy voice that sounded like the man had just woken from the greatest nap of his lifetime and could easily fly for another thirteen hours.

“Tokyo Control, Flight 447 requesting descent. And might I say... what a beautiful night it is up here.”

You blinked at your radar screen. It was 2:03 AM. Cloudy skies. Visibility barely above minimum levels. Nothing about it was beautiful.

Most pilots at this hour could barely remember their own call signs. But not Gojo. Gojo sounded wide awake and relaxed—and, unfortunately, talkative. 

God, he talked so much. Always cracking jokes, always so cocky, always dragging out what should’ve been a thirty second exchange into a five minute monologue over the radio.

“Flight 447, descend and maintain flight level 240.”

“Descending to 240. Had to adjust our approach three times tonight because of wind shear. Amazing how much the atmosphere changes in just a few thousand feet. Did you know that—”

“Flight 447, contact Tokyo Aproach on 119.7.”

He sighed. “Copy that, beautiful. Always a pleasure chatting with you.”

It started professional enough—well, as professional as someone could be while constantly calling air traffic control ‘beautiful’—but overtime, he got more and more flirty. Somewhere around the fifth or seventh flight, you guided him in, he stopped sounding like a pilot and started sounding like a man leaving voicemail notes to his girlfriend. 

“Good morning, gorgeous.”

“Did you miss my voice, honey?”

“Until next time, beautiful.”

Maybe it was his personality, as if he simply couldn’t help himself—like he’d physically explode if he didn’t borderline sexual harass his ground crew and was naturally incapable of having a normal conversation. But goddamn, did it annoy you.

He’d never even seen you. Didn’t know your name, wouldn’t recognize your face if you passed him in the terminal. He probably couldn’t even point to the tower from his cockpit window. And yet, every transmission felt like he thought he was on private frequency with you, and not broadcasting on public monitored by half the airspace.

And oh my God, the rambling—the fucking rambling. And, of course, you were his favorite audience.

“You know, Control, I was reading this article about albatrosses during my layover in Warsaw and it got me thinking. Did you know they can fly for years without ever touching ground, like literally sleeping while they fly? Can you imagine? They use these tiny wind gradients over the waves to do that. Makes our fuel consumption look pretty inefficient, doesn’t it?”

You already felt your soul leaving your body.

“Although I bet you could optimize their route better than they can to save even more energy. You’ve got such a lovely voice for giving directions. Very authoritative. I like that—”

Sometimes he’d yap for minutes until you got so annoyed that you’d rip off your headset before he could finish whatever outrageous story he was about to finish and waved at Ijichi to take over. Poor Ijichi—an actual saint and unfortunately still a rookie, so he was your victim—would sigh, slid on his headset and took over the frequency to reply to Gojo’s rambling about birds in a very distinctly male, distinctly unimpressed voice.

“Flight 447, this is Tokyo Control. Please state your current altitude.”

A pause. “Oh. Um. Flight level 380. Sorry—Is the other controller… did she…?”

“Flight 447, maintain current altitude and heading. Contact Approach on 119.7.”

Out of the corner of your eye, you saw Ijichi shoot you a pained look and mouthed, “Your boyfriend’s looking for you” while you pretended to be very busy with paperwork, highlighting the same line of a weather report you’d already read four times.

You’d complained to your supervisor, of course. Marched into Yaga’s office with a list of incidents and timestamps of what you considered to be highly unprofessional behaviour that was interfering with air traffic operations.

Yaga had listened, occasionally nodding, while you explained in detail why Captain Gojo’s voice should be banned from all airspace. When you finished, he’d leaned back in his chair and given you that look—the one supervisors gave when they were about to tell you something you didn’t want to hear.

“Has he ever caused a delay?” Yaga asked.

“Well, no, but—”

“Missed a radio call?”

“No, however—”

“Failed to follow vectors or altitude assignments?”

“That’s not the point—”

“Has he ever said anything explicitly inappropriate? Sexual harassment, offensive language, anything that would violate communications protocols?”

You’d opened your mouth, then closed it. You were fighting a losing battle.

Yaga had shrugged and pointed out that Gojo never said anything explicitly inappropriate, never caused delays, and had the cleanest safety record of any pilot flying commercial routes in Japan. Zero incidents, zero violations, zero passenger complaints. He was the perfect pilot.

“The guy’s annoying but harmless,” Yaga had said at last, and slid your complaint folder back across his desk.

Harmless. Right.

Harmless if you didn’t count the fact that he was actively driving you insane and making you seriously consider changing careers. Or at least requesting a transfer to cargo flights, where the pilots were too busy dealing with departures every thirty minutes to spend time talking about stupid bird flyting techniques.

But damn it—you worked so hard for this position. You were a certified, professional air traffic controller with five years on the radar and an impeccable safety record. You’d studied for two years to pass the brutal exams, survived months in training simulations and clawed your way up from ground control to tower to approach and finally to the international routes. 

You directed aircraft worth billions of dollars, carrying hundreds of lives, through some of the most complex and congested airspace in Asia. You coordinated with air traffic controllers in twelve different countries, handled language barriers, time zones, techchnical delays, and medical emergencies—all while being always fucking calm and polite. 

Okay, scratch the polite part. But you got the job done, and that’s what mattered. And you were not about to throw it all away because one stupid, obnoxious pilot with an equally stupid, attractive voice was too dense to tell the difference between air traffic control and fucking Tinder.

Okay, forget about the calm part, too.

It didn’t help that your colleagues found the whole thing all too amusing. Your colleague Maki—who handled mostly domestic routes and therefore dealt with normal, professional pilots—had already labelled Gojo your ‘work husband’.

And every time his flight number popped up on the radar, she’d make kissy faces in your direction and sing, “Oh, your boyfriend’s calling,” to which you’d reply “He’s not my boyfriend.” Or worse, she’d lean over your shoulder while he was in the middle of yet another monologue, whispering when you’d finally ask him out. Of course, she knew he’d hear every word on the other end of the radio, prompting him to tease you with, “She’s right. When will you finally ask me?”

“Flight 447, turn left heading 090, descend to flight level 200.”

“Left 090, down to 200. And might I add that you sound particularly lovely today, Control? Did you do something different with your… well, I can’t see your hair, but I bet it looks very pretty.”

Maki would choke on her laughter like a middle schooler watching her crush talk, and you’d have to clench your fists to stop yourself from punching them both.

And it didn’t help that everyone loved him, of course. 

Everyone except you, apparently.

The ground crew basically fought over who got to service his aircraft. You’d see a swarm of orange vests crowding Gate 7 whenever Flight 447 rolled in—like teenage fangirls waiting backstage for their favourite boy band. It was ridiculous.

You’ve seen how the gate agents would always check their hair and straighten their ties. Hana from passenger services bought new lipstick “just in case” she ran into Captain Gojo during a layover. 

Even the janitors—the fucking janitors—somehow developed a sudden obsession with the floor around Gate 7. Mr. Takeshi, who’d been mopping this place since the airport was built, now took his sweet time in that exact area. Like. What the fuck.

It was like the entire airport had developed a collective crush on a man most of them had never even spoken to. All based on stories and the occasional glimpse of him walking through the terminal in his pilot uniform.

You’d never actually seen him. In the months he’d been flying your routes, your shifts always ended right before he arrived—or you were stuck up in the tower when he was on the ground. Like you existed in parallel universes. You guided his plane through the airspace, but never actually crossed paths on the ground.

Everyone said he was stupidly pretty—so damn dreamy and everything. You could’ve looked him up, googled him, stalked the airport intranet. But you didn’t. For all you knew, he was sixty with a beer belly and balding. But unfortunately, he also had an infuriatingly attractive voice over radio communication.

Which only made it worse.

── ⟢ ·⸝⸝

It was one of those days where everything had gone wrong the moment you’d stepped into the tower. The coffee machine was broken, spitting out something between coffee grounds and mud. Your computer crashed twice during the morning shift, erasing twenty minutes of logged flight data. And to top it off, Ijichi had called in sick, leaving you to handle both international and domestic flights with only Maki as backup—who was currently tied up managing a medical diversion across three different frequencies.

So when Flight 447’s call sign appeared on your radar screen a full twenty minutes ahead of schedule, you felt your eye twitch.

“Tower, this is Flight 447 requesting vectors for approach.”

You glared at the radar. Of course he was early. And of fucking course he was screwing up your carefully timed arrival window. You’d scheduled him between two other flights, and now you had to rearrange everything yet again.

“Flight 447, turn left heading 180, descend and maintain 3,000 feet.”

“Left 180, down to 3,000. You sound tense, Control. Long shift?”

Deep breath. Remember, violence is not an option.

“Just doing my job, 447.”

“Ouch. That’s definitely tension. Let me guess—computer crash? Did someone steal your lunch? Ah wait, I know—the coffee machine spat out mud again, didn’t it?”

You blinked at your screen. How could he possibly—

“Flight 447, maintain current heading and altitude.”

“Come on, don’t be like that. I brought you something from Zurich. Might help improve your mood.”

You paused, finger hovering over the radio button. “You… brought me something?”

“Mhm. You know those famous Swiss chocolatiers? Heard they make the best chocolate in Europe, so I picked some up for you.”

You stared at your screen for a beat, unsure whether to feel weirdly flattered or wildly uncomfortable. Probably both.

“You don’t even know who I am.”

“I know enough,” he said, still annoyingly casual. “I know you prefer late international routes because they’re usually quiet and professional. I know you drink your coffee black, because I’ve heard you complain—more than once—that no one washes out the cream dispenser in the break room, and that it will one day cause a biohazard. Which, judging by your mood today, I’m guessing no one’s done that in a while, so now the good machine’s off to maintenance again, and you’re stuck with that old one that just spits out grounds.”

A pause.

“And I know you stay late to help train the newbies, because I’ve heard your voice in the background on calls. I have to say, you’ve got this calm, patient tone that makes it almost sound like you’re not seconds away from strangling them. It’s kind of adorable, really.”

You sat up straighter. How did he know all that? And more importantly, why had he noticed all that?

You didn’t respond right away, unsure what to respond at all. Then, finally, you clicked your radio.

“Flight 447, turn right heading 240. Contact Approach on 119.7.”

“Wait, that’s it? No ‘thank you’ or ‘wow, you’re so thoughtful for bringing me treats form overseas’? I declared that stuff at customs, you know. It was a whole ordeal.”

Despite your awful morning, your lip twitched. “You declared chocolate at customs?”

“Had to. They were weirdly suspicious about a pilot carrying so much chocolate in his carry-on. I told them it was for someone special, and they got all sentimental and waved me through.”

“You told customs agents I was special?”

“I told them the truth. …Though I may have implied you were my girlfriend to avoid further questioning.”

“You what?”

His laugh crackled through the headset, way too pleased with himself. “Relax, beautiful. Customs agents don’t exactly hang out with air traffic controllers. Your secret identity is safe.”

“Flight 447, I’m transferring you to Approach. Stop inventing fake relationships with me at international borders.”

“So we’re not dating? Huh. That’s news to me.”

“I’m doing my job.”

“Yeah. And your job involves listening to me, technically speaking.”

“My job involves keeping you from colliding with other planes, not entertaining your delusions.”

“See? You care about my safety. Such a good girlfriend, Control.”

You could almost hear the smirk through the static. Across the tower, Maki—finally free from her emergency—was trying desperately to look anywhere but your direction. She was listening too, you realized, her face reddening as she barely held in her laughter.

“Flight 447 switch to Approach now, or I will reroute you to Osaka instead.”

“You wouldn’t dare. You’d miss me too much.”

“Try me.”

“Okay, okay, I’m switching,” he said, still laughing. “I’ll make sure the chocolate gets delivered to your gate. It’s got your name on it. Well… your call sign, anyway. Couldn’t exactly ask for your real name without sounding like a creep. Oh, and there’s a little something extra in the box, too.”

Your finger froze over the transmit button. “What kind of extra?”

“Just a little something. See you on the ground, beautiful.”

The line went silent as he switched to Approach, leaving you staring at your screen with a whole lot of annoyance, curiosity, and something dangerously close to anticipation swirling in your head.

Maki rolled her chair over without missing a beat. “Did he just say he brought you chocolate? From Switzerland?”

“Apparently.”

“And declared you his girlfriend to customs?”

“I hate him.”

“And there’s something extra waiting for you at the gate?”

You gave her a warning look. “Stop that.”

“You realize most guys don’t even text back. And he flew across eleven time zones and smuggled in fancy chocolate for you. Yeah, no one does that unless they’re into you.”

“It’s creepy.”

“Sure,” she said. “So creepy that you’re smiling about it.”

“I’m not smiling.”

“You absolutely are.” She leaned closer. “And you’re totally going to check the gate during your break.”

You turned back to your screen. “I have work to do.”

“Right. Want me to cover for you while you go see what the handsome pilot brought you?”

“I’m not—” 

Your radar lit up. “Tower, this is Flight 892 requesting vectors for approach.” Saved by traffic, or whatever. You put your headset back on, thankful for the distraction, and focused on the radar. 

You were definitely not thinking about Swiss chocolate.

Or whatever extra he brought.

Not even a little.

Okay, maybe a little.

── ⟢ ·⸝⸝

You waited until Flight 447 was safely out of range and someone else’s problem before making your move. The tower had quieted into its usual evening rhythm—slower, calmer, manageable. Most of the midday traffic was gone. And you? You were definitely just walking to the gate to, you know, get your steps in. Obviously.

“Off to investigate your love offerings?” Maki called as you headed for the elevator.

“Gate operations check,” you tried, but you couldn’t fool her.

The box was sitting right there at the international gate desk—impossible to miss. It was white and elegant, wrapped with a dark green ribbon, and with your controller call sign handwritten on the tag. Hana, the gate agent on duty, lit up the moment she saw you.

“Oh! You’re Control Seven! Captain Gojo dropped that off a few hours ago. He was very specific that it had to go to ‘the controller with the most beautiful voice in aviation.’” She giggled like a schoolgirl. “He’s so romantic.”

You stared at the box. It was bigger than you’d expected with a fancy logo that suggested the box probably cost more than your monthly food budget.

“Did he… say anything else?”

“Just that you’d had a rough day and deserved something sweet.” Hana sighed. “He’s so thoughtful. And his eyes? Like a winter sky.”

Winter sky? My god. You swore everyone around here was losing their goddamn minds over this man. You were so fed up with the collective swooning, you were starting to wonder if you were the only one left immune to his bullshit.

“Right. Well. Thanks.”

Back at your console, you set it down and stared at it as if it were a ticking bomb. Maki appeared at your side, peering over your shoulder.

“Holy shit. Is that from that famous Swiss brand? Do you even know how expensive that place is?”

“It’s just chocolate.”

“Just chocolate?” Maki carefully lifted the lid. Inside, each handmade confection was perfectly nestled in its own spot. “These are, like, forty bucks each. There’s at least thirty pieces in here.”

Ijichi gave a low whistle. “Your pilot boyfriend just dropped twelve hundred dollars on chocolate for you.”

“He’s not my boyfriend.” But your eyes were still glued to the box, your brain struggling to process the fact that someone had just casually spent more than your rent on Swiss truffles. Someone who’d never even seen your face.

“Oh my God, try one,” Maki said, already plucking out a champagne truffle. “Don’t be shy.”

You picked a dark chocolate filled with salted caramel and bit into it. It was... really good. Incredible, even. Probably the best thing you’d ever tasted. Which, somehow, only made this entire situation worse.

“Girl, you are so lucky,” Maki sighed, popping another piece into her mouth. “A hot pilot who brings you fancy chocolate? Where do I sign up for that kind of harassment?”

“He’s probably not even attractive. I’ve never actually seen him.”

Both Maki and Ijichi froze, their mouths full of chocolate.

“Wait,” Maki said slowly. “You’ve never seen him?”

“Our shifts don’t overlap. I’m always in the tower when his flights come in.”

“Oh my God.” Maki turned to her computer. “I’m looking him up. The airport has photos of all the regular pilots for security, right?”

“Tower, this is Flight 234 requesting vectors for approach,” crackled your headset. 

You grabbed your radio. “Flight 234, turn right heading 090, descend and maintain 4,000 feet.”

You moved quickly back to your station, eyes fixed on the radar screen. Behind you, you could feel Maki and Ijichi staring at you, clearly waiting for you to come back to them to gossip, but you waved them off without turning around. 

As you guided the aircraft in, your hand absently toyed with the ribbon around the box, and that’s when you noticed the ‘something extra’. Tucked beneath the chocolates was a postcard that showed the Swiss alps. You turned the card around.

“For the voice that always guides me home. Thank you for keeping me safe up there.” — S

You shivered.

Out of annoyance. Obviously. Not because of the note. Or the postcard. Or the very stupid, very warm feeling creeping up your neck. Nope. Pure irritation. And maybe a tiny bit of cardiac distress. From rage. Clearly.

── ⟢ ·⸝⸝

You’d barely slept the night before. Every time you closed your eyes, you’d thought about stupidly expensive Swiss chocolate, that annoyingly sincere note, and the way his voice had softened when he’d called you special. It was infuriating. You were a professional, rational adult, not someone who lost sleep over a cocky pilot with a bedroom voice that was clearly a walking red flag.

Yet here you were at 12:28 PM, exhausted and surviving on your fourth cup of awful Tower coffee because an emergency landing had turned your normal shift into a fourteen hour marathon. A passenger going into labour during a flight from Beijing had caused half the Pacific to be rerouted, and by the time the situation had been handled, the night shift was understaffed and you’d agreed—more or less voluntarily—to stay and help out.

The tower had gone still in the way airports only do at night. Just you and your collegue Kai on shift, and him busy on a separate channel, handling a delayed cargo inbound. Somewhere below, the terminal lights flickered as the cleaning crews did laps. You rested your chin in your palm and tried not to hate everything.

“Tower, this is Flight 447 requesting approach clearance.”

It took your brain a second to catch up. Flight 447. He’d just arrived from Paris. Of course. You took a breath.

“Flight 447, unable to clear for approach at this time. We have outbound traffic. Maintain current altitude and turn left heading 270 for holding.”

“Copy that. Left 270. Long night down there?”

You rubbed your eyes. “Medical emergency earlier. You’ll be in the hold for about an hour.”

“Roger. Hey—did you get the chocolates?"

Despite your exhaustion, you felt heat creep up your neck. Damn him. “Yes. Thank you. They were... unnecessary.”

“But good?”

You exhaled. “Really good.”

“Knew it. You sound tired, Control. How long you been on?”

You checked your watch. “Fourteen hours.”

“You shouldn’t be pulling shifts that long. You always look after everyone else but you’ve got to take care of yourself too, you know.”

You paused, the words hitting you sideways. Maybe it was the fatigue making you soft, or maybe it was the fact that, for once, he didn’t sound like he was trying to get a rise out of you. He sounded genuinely concerned—and it threw you off more than any flirtation ever had. You didn’t even have the energy to fight him on it.

“Someone had to cover.”

“Not at the cost of your own health. You drinking water? Eating real food? And I don’t mean the sandwiches they sell in the vending machines in the gates.”

“I did eat something a few hours ago. I’m okay. We had a pregnant passenger go into labor. Coordinated three hospitals and rerouted six aircraft, then landed them priority.”

“Is she okay?”

“Baby girl, born healthy. I heard from the flight attendant that they’ve named her Sky. It’s kinda cheesy.”

“That’s beautiful.” His voice was soft. “You helped bring a little life into the world tonight.”

“It’s just part of the job.”

“It’s not just your job, you know that,” he said gently. “It’s you being the person people count on when it really matters.”

“I don’t know…”

“You know why I always ask for this route?”

“Because you like to annoy me?”

He laughed quietly. “Because your voice is the best part of my day. Doesn’t matter what went wrong, how difficult the passengers, or how many delays we had to deal with—the moment I hear you on frequency… I know I’m okay. I know I’m home.”

You blinked. Words tangled somewhere between your chest and your mouth, but none made it out. How could they? Not with your heart thudding like it was trying to escape. Not with your lungs suddenly feeling too small. 

It was silent in the tower. Kai was still busy on the other frequency with his cargo flight, leaving you alone with nothing but Gojo’s soft breathing in your headset and the pounding of your pulse. 

You pressed your forehead to your arms on the desk, willing your heart rate to slow. Eventually, quietly, you said, “Why? Why are you being so… like this? You don’t even know me.”

“I know enough. I know you work too hard and care too much. I know you’re calm even when the tower’s on fire. I know you have the most beautiful voice I’ve ever heard, and you use it to keep people safe.”

You could barely breathe.

“You deserve more than what this job takes from you, you know,” he added, almost like an afterthought.

“You’re so stupid,” you whispered, the insult so soft it barely had teeth.

“You’re exhausted. Lie to me tomorrow.” A pause. “You know, the cherry blossoms along the Seine were beautiful in Paris.” His voice grew wistful, and you closed your eyes, letting the sound wash over you in the quiet tower. “I’d love to show you someday.”

“Your girlfriend probably wouldn’t appreciate you taking other women on romantic trips to Paris.”

“I don’t have a girlfriend,” he said without hesitation. “I wish you were my girlfriend.”

You took another deep breath, slower this time, but it didn’t help. Your face felt hot, your pulse wouldn’t settle, and worst of all, you couldn’t even pretend it wasn’t happening. What the fuck were you supposed to do with that information? 

Normally you would have hung up by now, would have found some cutting remark to shut down whatever this was becoming. But maybe it was the exhaustion seeping into your bones, or the way his voice had gone so unsual gentle, that made you let it happen—this slow unraveling of the careful distance you’d built between yourself and the voice that had somehow become more important to you than you wanted to admit

“You’re insane.”

“You’re beautiful.”

You pressed your forehead deeper into the crook of your arm, as if you could bury the whole situation under your sleeves. As if he couldn’t still hear every shaky breath of yours over the radio.

“What? No comeback?” he teased. “You really must be tired.”

“I hate how you say stuff like that,” you mumbled into your sleeve, “when you know I’m too tired to fight back.”

“Sounds like good timing, then.”

“You’re the worst.”

“Mhm. I like when you sound all sleepy,” he said, lower now, almost like he was smiling. “It’s really cute.”

“Shouldn’t you be asking if I have a boyfriend or something?”

“Sounds like you want me to ask you.”

“I don’t.” You exhaled slowly, turning your head so your cheek pressed against your arm. “I’m not looking for anything.”

“Good,” he said. “So no boyfriend. Because it would be really awkward for me to take you to Paris if you had one. Boyfriends tend to get weird about that sort of thing.”

A soft laugh escaped before you could stop it. “You don’t even know me. Why are you so persistent?”

It was silent for a while—so long it made your skin itch. You glanced at the console. Still active. But then his voice returned.

“Because for months, your voice has been the only thing that’s felt like home,” he said. “Every flight, every approach, every time you say my call sign... it feels like coming home. And maybe that’s stupid. Maybe I’m just a pilot who’s spent too many nights alone in hotels, wondering what it’d be like to hear you say my name—my real name—just once, but I…”

The tower felt impossibly still around you, save for the sound of his soft breathing in your ear and the heavy press of something strange in your chest.

“Flight 447—”

“Can I ask you something? And you can say no.”

“…What?”

“Do you want to switch to a private frequency?”

You shouldn’t. It was a clear breach of communication policy. You knew that. But the tower was empty, Kai was distracted, and there was something in the way he said it that made you want to say yes so terribly much.

“Frequency 121.9,” you said.

“Copy that. Switching now.”

Your heart thudded. You flipped over to the private channel, palms slightly clammy against the controls, and waited.

“Tower, this is Flight 447 on private frequency.”

“I’m here.”

You could hear the smile in his voice when he answered. “Tell me something about you.”

“What do you want to know?”

“Anything. Doesn’t matter. I just want to listen to your voice.”

You went quiet for a beat, still resting your head on your arms, the headset cord wrapped loosely around your fingers. Your body was heavy with exhaustion, but something warm had started to bloom low in your chest.

“That’s… I don’t know what to say.”

“Start simple. What did you have for breakfast?”

Despite everything, you almost smiled. “Coffee.”

“Just coffee?” He groaned. “That’s terrible for you. You need read food.”

“Says the man who probably only eats airplane food and orders hotel room service.”

“I make great scrambled eggs, actually,” he said, a little smug. “Secret ingredient is a little cream cheese folded in at the end.”

“You cook?”

“Mhmm. And I make the best carbonara.”

“According to who?”

“According to me. And I’m a very reliable source.”

You smiled again. “Very humble, too.”

“Absolutely. So, what about you? What do you do when you’re not busy keeping pilots from crashing into each other?”

You surprised yourself by answering. You told him about the pottery class you barely had time for on weekends, how you were trying to teach yourself guitar but could only play three chords and a more or less decent version of ‘Wonderwall’. You admitted to watch trash reality TV while folding laundry, and how your poor balcony basil plant had died three times and counting despite your best efforts. 

It just... flowed. And it felt good. Comforting, even. 

You found yourself sharing more than you meant to, your voice softer than usual in the quiet of the tower, like the distance between you made it easier to be honest. 

You hadn’t realized until now how much you’d come to like hearing his voice. Not the cocky, smug tone he usually used on open frequency—but this version. Soff and warm in a way that felt almost intimate. Like he actually cared about your answer. Like he actually saw you, even from thirty thousand feet away.

You were quiet for a moment, then asked, “Why did you become a pilot?”

A breath passed. Maybe two.

“I had a little sister. She died when she was twelve—leukemia.” He paused, and you could hear the slight hitch in his breathing. “She was obsessed with those National Geographic documentaries, always making plans about all the places she wanted to see—the Andes in Peru, hiking the Highlands in Scotland, and seeing the Northern Lights in Iceland. She had this whole notebook full of destinations she wanted to visit, with pictures cut out from magazines.”

You didn’t move, afraid even a shift might break the moment.

“She never left Japan. Never even got on a plane. But the day before she died, she made me promise I’d see the world for her. That I’d go to all the places and tell her about them.” Another shaky breath. “So I became a pilot. And every flight, every city, every sunset high above the clouds—she’s with me. I take pictures for her. Collect postcards.” His laugh barely held. “Probably sounds crazy.”

“It doesn’t sound crazy at all.” You sat up straighter in your chair and rolled your sleeves down, suddenly feeling the night air’s chill. “So the postcards from Zurich…”

“I brought one for her, and one for you. I thought... maybe you’d like it too.”

“Flight 447,” you said softly, unsure what else to do with the weight in your chest.

“She would’ve liked you,” he added. “She always said the most important people are the ones who make you feel like home—even when you’re thirty thousand feet in the air, circling your home airport at in the middle of the night because you cannot land.”

You were silent for a while, unable to find words.

“Control? Can I ask you something else?”

“…Yeah.”

“Would you like to go out with me?”

You didn’t say anything at first. Didn’t even breathe at first, hand hovering near the console, but instead of replying, you slowly set your headset down and stood—legs unsteady. You crossed the small space behind your chair, ran a hand through your hair, tried to get your lungs to work again.

You weren’t ready. Not for this. Not for him sounding that sincere. He was still up there, circling in the dark, waiting for something you weren’t sure you could give. You braced your hands on the edge of the desk, heart pounding, and finally lowered yourself back into the chair. Slipped the headset on again.

“I…” you began, but the rest of the sentence never came. Your throat tightened too much.

“You don’t have to answer now. Just think about it, okay?”

Then Kai’s voice cut through your main frequency. “Control Seven, runway’s clear for your holding traffic.”

You switched back to the private frequency, your voice steadier than you felt. 

“Flight 447, you’re cleared for approach, runway 24L. Wind 180 at 5 knots.”

“Roger, cleared for approach runway 24L.”

You hesitated, your finger trembling slightly on the radio button, then softly, “Land safe, Satoru.”

Silence stretched between you, each moment an unbearable weight as you waited for him to speak, with only the soft static of the frequency for company. When his voice finally came back, it was barely above a whisper.

“You’re so unfair, Control. How am I supposed to sleep now that I’ve finally heard you say my name like that?”

Your chest tightened, a fragile tenderness settling in your chest, and you closed your eyes, lost in the sudden intimacy of the moment.

“See you on the ground, Control… and sleep easy tonight.”

── ⟢ ·⸝⸝

After that night, everything changed.

What had once been the most frustrating part of your job had quietly become the part you looked forward to most. You told yourself it was just the routine, the familiarity. A comforting voice between the chaos. But when Flight 447’s call sign popped up on your radar, your chest would do that stupid flutter before your brain could stop it. And the professional distance you’d worked so hard to maintain began crumbling piece by fragile piece.

“Tower, this is Flight 447 requesting vectors, and good morning to my favorite controller.”

You didn’t even try to hide your smile anymore. “Good morning, Captain. Turn left heading 180, descend and maintain 4,000.”

“How’s that terrible tower coffee treating you today?”

“Still tastes like mud. But it’s keeping me awake.”

“You really need someone to bring you proper coffee sometime.”

“Flight 447, contact Approach on 119.7.”

“Will do, beautiful. Save me a cup of that mud, will you?”

You caught yourself still smiling after he’d switched frequencies. 

Your colleagues noticed the change immediately. Maki would glance over with that knowing grin the second his call sign blinked onto your screen. Sometimes she didn’t even say anything—just raised her eyebrows and took a dramatically loud sip of her green tea.

Even Ijichi who was usually so quiet and reserved, seemed to soften. Now, he’d offer a small, genuinely happy smile when Satoru’s voice came through the speakers, like a younger brother observing something inevitable unfold.

The conversations with Satoru grew longer, more personal. He’d tell you about the cities he flew to—the morning mist over Prague’s cobblestone streets, the way the late afternoon sunlight painted the Alps during his approach to Munich, the bustling markets in Vienna that smelled like roasted chestnuts and warm strudel.

“There’s this little bakery in Prague,” he said once. “Sells cinnamon sugar spirals on a stick that taste like sugar bread. I picked some up for you and will drop them by your gate when I land, though they might be a bit smushed from the flight, but I swear they’re really good.”

You imagined him standing there, maybe still in his uniform, coffee in one hand and some pastry in the other, sunlight filtering through narrow European streets. You wished you could’ve been there with him.

One Tuesday evening, he came on frequency a few minutes early. “I saw the Northern Lights last night for the first time,” he said, skipping all pretense of small talk. “Over Helsinki. It looked incredible. I took about a hundred photos, even though they don’t do it justice, but… I tried.”

“Your sister would’ve loved that.”

“Yeah. She would have.” His voice grew soft. “I wish you could have seen them too. With me.”

You hadn’t planned on any of this. You didn’t know where it was going. But every word felt a little easier than the last. Like you were building something one flight at a time, stitched together from shared late night conversations, shared silences, and a voice that had somehow made its way under your skin. And you hadn’t even seen his face.

At some point, the flirting had stopped feeling like a game. You weren’t sure when the shift happened, only that it had. One day you were rolling your eyes at his compliments, and the next… you caught yourself smiling before he even switched on the mic.

He’d compliment your voice and your hair he’d never even seen, and you’d toss something sharp right back at his ego. He’d ask about your day like it mattered, and you’d ask how the clouds looked up there in the sky. 

Somewhere between the banter and clearance codes, you stopped resisting the warmth that bloomed in your chest every time he called you beautiful. Stopped pretending it didn’t matter. Stopped pretending you didn’t wait for his call sign, or feel the flutter in your stomach when he said your call sign like it was something he’d been waiting all day to say.

“You sound tired today,” he said one afternoon, somewhere over the East China Sea, his voice laced with concern.

You stifled a yawn. “Double shift. Someone called in sick.”

“That’s the third time this month. You need to take better care of yourself.”

“I’m fine.”

“When’s the last time you took a day off? And I mean not just sleeping in because you worked late, but actually doing something for yourself?”

You paused, thought about it, and realized you couldn’t remember.

“That settles it. When I get back from the Zagreb route next week, we’re going somewhere. Somewhere with decent coffee and food that doesn’t come from a vending machine.”

“Is that a request or a demand, Captain?”

“It’s a promise.”

Late night conversations on the private frequency became your favorite kind of bad habit. You told yourself you weren’t abusing the system—you just happened to monitor 121.9 a little more closely on nights when you knew he was in the air.

When the tower thinned out to near silence, leaving only the hum of the monitors, and his overnight flights aligned perfectly with your shifts, you always found a reason to switch channels.

“Can’t sleep up there?” you’d ask when his voice came through the static.

“Autopilot’s handling the boring parts. Thought I’d check on my favorite insomniac instead.”

“I’m not an insomniac,” you’d say, leaning into the console, exhausted but smiling. “I’m working.”

“It’s 3 AM. You should be in bed, curled up with a blanket and binge some Netflix.”

“Someone’s gotta guide the pretty pilots through the night sky.”

He never missed a beat. “Just one pretty pilot in particular, I hope. Otherwise I might get jealous.”

And you let him win these little exchanges. Because the truth was, the static of 121.9 had quietly become where you truly felt yourself. A place where your voice softened, where the walls came down, where you weren’t Control Seven—you were just you. Tired, overcaffeinated, sometimes frustrated with everything—but somehow still able to breathe easier when his voice filled your headset.

You didn’t have a name for what was growing between you—but it was there. Steady. Constant. Cruising at altitude and waiting for the moment one of you was brave enough to land.

Those conversations could last hours—him circling above the Pacific while you guided other aircraft, both of you stealing moments between official duties to talk about everything and nothing. He’d tell you about passengers he’d met, you’d share stories about the quirky new controller in the tower. He’d describe the view from his cockpit, you’d explain what the radar looked like from your perspective.

“Do you ever wonder what it would be like if we’d met differently?” he asked one night.

“How do you mean?”

“If I wasn’t a pilot, and you weren’t up in a tower. If we just... bumped into each other at a grocery store or something.”

“Would you have still talked my ear off about arctic birds?”

“Probably.” He laughed. “Though I might have started with the weather like a normal person.”

“I don’t think you know how to be normal, Captain.”

You found yourself looking forward to his flights. When Flight 447 appeared on your radar, it was like a switch flipped on inside your chest. And when his route changed and he wasn’t there you caught yourself glancing at the flight board more than necessary. If his flight was delayed by weather or mechanical issues, you’d feel it settle heavy in your chest like stones until his call sign appeared on your screen.

“Miss me?” he’d tease whenever your shifts missed each other and the silence stretched too long.

“You wish.”

“I do, actually. Horribly.”

You rolled your eyes, even though he couldn’t see it. “The frequency’s been blessedly quiet without you. You wouldn’t believe how efficiently I can work without your constant interruptions.”

“Liar. You were bored as hell.”

“Flight 447, I’m transferring you to Approach before your big ego causes your plane to crash.”

“Don’t you think it’s a little to late for that, Control? It’s this big since you said my name that one time.”

You groaned, pressing your palm to your forehead, but you were smiling. Always smiling. And he knew it. You both did. And pretending otherwise had started to feel pointless.

“…I missed you.”

You leaned forward, arms crossed on the edge of your console, and hunched your shoulders, trying to shake off the shiver that traced down your spine at the sound of his voice in your ear.

“Approach is waiting, Captain.”

A few weeks had passed since that first private frequency conversation, and you still hadn’t given him a direct answer about the date. But somewhere between his stories about sunrises over the Himalayas and your chaotic work anecdotes, the question had become less about whether and more about when. Even if you didn’t have the courage to admit it yet.

“So,” he said one Thursday evening, while preparing for approach, “about that date…”

Your heart stuttered in the smallest, stupidest way.

“I know a little café in Shibuya. It’s away from the main tourist spots and makes the best matcha lattes in Tokyo. Perfect place for two hardworking colleagues to grab a coffee.”

“We are colleagues, Flight 447.”

“Colleagues who happen to enjoy each other’s company.”

“Colleagues who work together professionally.”

“Colleagues who talk on private frequencies at 2 AM about the Northern Lights and their horrible exes.” His voice carried that familiar teasing note. “Come on, what’s the worst that could happen? I promise not to talk about aircraft separation minimums the whole time.”

“The worst that could happen is that it gets complicated.”

“It’s already complicated.”

You were quiet for a moment, knowing he was right. You shifted slightly in your chair, fingers idly twirling the cable of your headset.

“Flight 447, contact Approach on 119.7.”

“The café’s called Blue Mountain,” he said before switching. “Saturday afternoon. If you’re free.”

“I’ll think about it.”

Later that night, you lay on your back in the dark, staring at the ceiling of your apartment as the last traces of twilight faded from deep purple to black outside your open window, and replayed every conversation, every laugh, every time he’d called you beautiful.

You were a grown woman. A professional. You managed emergencies, rerouted aircraft in storm systems, made decisions in mere seconds that kept hundreds of people safe every day.

And here you were. Heart in shambles over a man you’d never even seen in person.

It didn’t make sense. Pilots are arrogant. That’s a universal truth you’d learned over the years in air traffic control. They walked through airports like they owned the sky, had egos the size of their aircraft, an attention span of a goldfish when it came to relationships, and probably a different girlfriend in every city.

Satoru was a pilot. 

Therefore, by the sacred logic of the universe, he was a bad idea.

You’d learned that lesson the hard way—given your heart to people who’d seemed so sure, so persistent, so convinced they wanted forever until they didn’t. Until the reality of loving someone flawed and human became too much work, too complicated, too real.

But now here was him—persistent, charming, relentless in his pursuit of something that existed only in radio waves and imagination. All he had was your voice and whatever fantasy he’d constructed around it. And fantasies, no matter how beautiful, eventually shattered when they met reality.

You didn’t know much about him. Not his favorite movie, or if he was the type to do laundry right away or leave it on a chair for three days. You didn’t know who broke his heart last, or what he looked like when he was nervous. You didn’t even know if he wore glasses or if his hair curled when it rained.

For all you knew, he talked like this to every controller on every route. Maybe you were just one more frequency he’d tuned into. A novelty. A nice voice to pass the time.

Yet you knew he brought you gifts from cities you’d never visited. You knew he worried when you worked too many hours. You knew he talked to his dead sister through postcards and photographs, and somehow let you be a part of that grief. You knew the sound of his breathing thirty thousand feet above you, and sometimes wished you could fall asleep to it.

But this wasn’t real. Whatever this was—chemistry, attraction, some strange radio wave Stockholm syndrome—it couldn’t be real. Real relationships required proximity, shared experiences, mundane Tuesday mornings and arguments over who left the bathroom light on. Not conversations between approach vectors and weather reports in the middle of the night.

He’d never seen you laugh until your sides hurt, never witnessed you cry out of frustration. He didn’t know that you were shy in crowds, that you overthought everything, that you had trust issues wrapped around your heart like scar tissue.

This was in between. A connection built in the air, not on the ground. And you were being smart by saying no. You were being practical. Responsible. You were doing what made sense.

But why did the idea of never knowing the warmth of his hand in yours make your chest ache like you were already grieving something that hadn’t even had the chance to exist?

You rolled onto your side, pulled the covers up higher, and pressed your face into the pillow.

── ⟢ ·⸝⸝

It was one of those graveyard shifts where the world felt like it had gone still. Most of the world was asleep, save for you, a few stray cargo flights, and the quiet static of Flight 447 holding steady somewhere over the ocean. And him. Always him.

You were back on private frequency. What began, as it always did, with talk of altitudes and airspeed, soon shifted to stories of cities and people he’d met in Dublin and that little bakery he’d found in Budapest, that he’s sure of you’d love.

And then he told you about his ex-girlfriend who’d left him because she couldn’t handle the distance, the loneliness of hotel rooms. He spoke of his parents, who’d always expected him to run the family’s company, and how they still didn’t understand why he’d chosen to spend his life in the sky.

You found yourself sharing more than you probably should, as you always did in these hushed moments—your failed engagement to a man who’d wanted you to quit air traffic control because it was ‘too stressful’, your complicated relationship with your mother, and how sometimes, even now, it still felt like your worth came with conditions.

“I’ve never told anyone that before,” you said softly after confessing how you’d chosen this career partly to prove you could handle something your ex-fiancé thought was too difficult for you.

“I'm glad you told me,” Satoru’s voice was soft through the headset. And despite the exhaustion, your chest gave that familiar, traitorous flutter. “I love listening to your voice, especially when you’re being honest about things that matter.”

“Satoru…” you said, without thinking—his name slipping out in a whisper that carried more weight than it should have.

“Say that again.”

“Your name?”

“Yes,” he breathed, the single word aching. “Please.”

You hesitated. Not because you didn't want to—but because speaking it aloud meant acknowledging the weight it carried.

“Satoru,” you said again, slower this time. His name felt warm on your tongue, like something meant to be spoken softly, like a confession wrapped in a name.

On the other end of the line, silence stretched long enough to make your heart stutter.

“Satoru?” you asked. “Are you there?”

“I’m here. I was just… thinking.”

“About what?”

A beat.

“About how much I want to kiss you right now.”

Your breath caught so fast it hurt. Heat flooded your face and you pulled your headset off for a moment, pressing your palms against your burning cheeks.

You stood for a second, pacing a few slow steps behind your chair, trying to shake it off, to convince yourself you hadn’t heard what you just heard. But your heart wouldn’t stop racing, a wild bird trapped in your ribs, like your body was reacting to something your mind hadn’t even begun to process, let alone given permission for.

Because part of you had desperately wanted to hear those words. And part of you didn’t know what the hell to do with them now that they were real. You stared at the headset in your lap, hesitating. Wanting. Dreading.

After a few seconds, you slipped the headset back on.

“Did I scare you with that?”

“No,” you said quietly. “It’s… it’s fine.”

“I mean it, you know. I really do want to kiss you.”

“This is insane. We’ve never even met.”

“It doesn’t feel that way to me. Feels like I’ve known you forever.”

His words settled deep, heavier than the silence that followed. Something about them felt like a confession hanging between earth and sky, between personal and professional, between safe and what if.

“Satoru…”

“I know how you take your coffee. I know how you sound when you’re tired, and what makes you laugh when you’re trying not to. I know you bite your lip when you’re concentrating—because I can hear it in your voice. And I know you put everyone else ahead of yourself even when you shouldn’t. I know enough to care. And enough to want more.” A pause. “What else do I need to know?”

“What I look like, for starters.”

“I don’t care.”

“You don’t care?”

“No, because it’s your voice I think about at night. That’s what drew me in. The rest… it never mattered.”

You sat there, heartbeat loud in your ears, not sure how to breathe, let alone how to respond.

“Say something,” he whispered. “Please.”

“I don’t know what to say.”

“Say you’ll have coffee with me. Say you’ll give me a chance to see the woman I’ve fallen for.”

Your breath caught again. “Fallen for?” you repeated, like maybe saying it aloud would help you believe it.

“Yes. Completely, hopelessly fallen for.”

Your hands lifted—without thinking, almost desperate—and pressed against the headset like you could pull his voice closer—pull him closer. Part of you wanted him to say it again. Needed to hear it, to make sure it was real. And another part wished he hadn’t said it at all. Because now it was alive between you. Irrevocable.

“I…” You stopped, swallowed, tried again. “I have to—” You panicked and switched back to the main frequency. “Ijichi? Can you take over Flight 447 for me? I need to step out for a second.”

“Everything okay?” Ijichi’s voice sounded concerned.

“Yeah,” you said. “Just need a bathroom break.”

You yanked the headset off and fled to the small restroom down the hall, slammed the lock shut, and leaned back against the door as if afraid his words might follow you in.

You turned on the faucet, splashing cold water onto your face. Droplets clung to your lashes and slid down your neck. Still, the heat in your skin wouldn’t go away, chest rising and falling too fast.

What is happening? 

He couldn’t be serious. He couldn’t just… fall for your voice. That wasn’t how this worked. That wasn’t how any of this worked. You hadn’t even met him. You didn’t know what his laugh looked like when it reached his eyes. He didn’t know how you looked when you weren’t exhausted. And yet—

Yet here you were, breathless in a dim airport bathroom in the middle of the night, heart racing like you were the one who’d made the confession.

This is insane. He is a pilot. Probably talks like this to every other control tower from Berlin to Bangkok. But why—God, why—did you want to kiss him back so badly?

── ⟢ ·⸝⸝

You took a week off without telling him.

It was cruel—you knew that. But you needed time. Time to breathe. Time to think. Time to stop feeling like you were going to fly apart every time you heard his voice. But distance didn’t feel like space. It felt like ache.

You spent most of that week alone in your apartment, curled into corners of yourself you hadn’t visited in years. You rearranged your bookshelves. Watered your plants twice in one day. Cleaned your windows until they gleamed like they haven’t in years. 

And still, none of it helped. You ended up lying on your back in your bed, just… thinking. Wondering if he was worried. If he noticed the silence. If he regretted saying what he did.

You replayed the conversation endlessly, like a scratched record stuck on the moment his voice had dropped, tender and fragile with something like a confession. 

Completely, hopelessly fallen for. 

You could still hear it. Still feel the way your lungs had stuttered.

You hadn’t meant to fall for him. But you had.

Maybe it started the moment he told you that your voice felt like coming home to him. Or maybe it was the first time he opened up about his sister, the way his voice caught halfway through the sentence, like he was still learning how to hold that grief in his mouth. Or maybe it was even before that, when he brought you chocolate from Zurich and called you special to customs agents he’d never meet again.

You wanted to kiss him then. You want to kiss him now. And that terrified you more than anything. Not because it wasn’t real, but because you’d wanted it to be real for so long without even realizing. But wanting and admitting were two different things. 

So instead, you wrapped yourself in quiet and waited for the ache to fade. It didn’t. You thought it would. You thought time would create space, and space would give you clarity. But it didn’t, and the ache only grew stronger.

By day three, you caught yourself checking the flight tracking apps, wondering if he was flying the skies above you, if his voice was somewhere out there asking another controller for vectors. If he’d call them ‘beautiful’ too.

By day four, you were questioning whether radio silence was mature or just cowardly, and by day five, you were actively pacing your apartment, cursing yourself for disappearing and cursing him for making you feel this way in equal measures.

You heard the familiar drone of an aircraft passing overhead through your open window and stopped your pacing instantly, tilting your head toward the sound as it grew louder, then began to fade.

Was that him? His flight cutting through the darkness with some other controller guiding him home? Someone else’s voice in his headset? The thought made you sick.

Your phone buzzed against the kitchen counter. A text from Maki. “Your pilot boyfriend keeps asking where you are.”

You stared at the message for a long time. Not because you didn’t care, but because you didn’t know what to say. Because how could you possibly say I miss him without it sounding like you were already halfway in love. And maybe you were.

****

You returned on day six. Not because you were ready, or because the questions had answers, or your chest had stopped aching when his name passed through your thoughts, but because Tokyo’s sky was falling apart and there was no more time left to hide.

The call came at 3:42 AM—all available controllers needed immediately. Level four emergency.

You barely had time to pull on your uniform, hair still damp from the shower, as you rushed past stranded passengers sleeping on benches and gate agents with phones pressed to both ears, while overhead an urgent announcement looped in four languages. 

A massive weather front had swept across the Pacific, turning Tokyo’s airspace into chaos. Delayed flights, emergency diversions, aircraft running low on fuel circling in holding patterns, waiting for safe corridors to open. But when you reached your workstation, you stopped.

Flowers. 

A small, beautiful arrangement of white roses and baby’s breath in a clear glass vase.

“He sends them every day,” Maki said, appearing beside you with a stack of weather reports. “Asks if someone can place them on your desk. In case you come back.”

You couldn’t speak, only stared at the petals, watching one tremble in the air conditioning draft. Something fragile inside your chest pulled taut. 

Six days. 

He’d been sending flowers to an empty chair for six days.

“You okay?” Maki asked.

“I’m good,” you managed, swallowing hard. “I need to—” But there was no time. 

“Tower, this is Flight 892, requesting immediate vectors around weather cell bearing 270.”

For the next three hours, there was no room left for feelings. You were too busy handling all the alternate airport requests, fuel emergencies, and missed approaches that required immediate rerouting.

“Flight 315, turn right heading 180, descend to 8,000. Moderate turbulence ahead, advise caution.”

“Flight 726, negative climb, maintain 12,000. Traffic conflict. Standby for alternate routing.”

Every call you answered felt like a life being tossed into your hands. You held on tight. You didn’t shake. At least, not on the outside. 

A sudden, blinding flash from outside momentarily bleached the room, then plunged it back into deeper shadow as rain lashed heavily against the tower’s windows.

And then, between the tangle of signals and storm interference, a call sign you knew like your own name lit up your screen. 

Flight 447.

“Tower, this is Flight 447 requesting vectors through weather, and—” He paused—like he’d caught the shaky breath you hadn’t meant to let slip through. “Control, is that you?”

It shouldn’t have undone you like that. But it did. Your knees went weak under your console. Relief flooded through you at the sound of his voice, alive and safe. Your throat tightened around a dozen things you wanted to say, but there was no time.

“Flight 447, turn left heading 090, descend to 6,000. There’s a gap in the storm cell at your two o’clock.”

“Roger, left 090, down to 6,000.” A beat. “It’s good to hear your voice again.”

You wanted to respond, to explain, to apologize for disappearing like a coward, but four other aircraft were calling for attention at the same time and the storm was intensifying still.

“Flight 447, be advised, severe turbulence ahead. Recommend immediate deviation right, heading 130.”

“Negative, we’re already committed to this approach. We’ll ride it—”

Then nothing. The radio snapped to static, then went silent.

You stood up so fast your chair rolled backward and bumped into the console behind you. One hand clutched the headset tighter to your ear, the other braced against your desk.

“Flight 447, come in.”

No response.

“Satoru, do you copy?”

Still nothing. Only white noise.

Lightning split the sky outside, followed by a deep, rattling roar of thunder that vibrated through the control room. But all you could hear was the terrifying silence where his voice should’ve been.

Your hand trembled as you keyed the mic. “Flight 447, please respond.”

Then, finally, cutting through the noise, “Control. I’m here. Lost comms for a moment there.”

You sank back into your chair like your legs had stopped working, the adrenaline suddenly too much to hold. You rested your forearms on the edge of the console, hands trembling slightly as you leaned in, pressing your forehead against them, trying to steady the frantic beat of your heart against your ribs. 

“What’s with the silence now,” he whispered softly. “Were you worried about me, love?”

Love.

He’d never said that before. Beautiful, gorgeous, honey—but never this. Not like that. Not so soft and tender, like you’d been his love for so long that saying it was simply acknowledging what already existed, what had been waiting patiently in his chest for the right moment to slip free. And never had you been so stupidly, helplessly happy to hear a single word.

He is alive. He is safe. And he’d called you love.

“Flight 447, confirm you’re okay.” 

“We’re fine. Bumpy ride, but nothing we can’t handle.”

Neither of you said anything for a moment.

“I’ve missed you.”

Your throat tightened. Six days of silence. Six days of waiting, wondering, and avoiding the thing you were most afraid to admit. Six days of white roses waiting for your return, and here he was, relieved to hear your voide again like you were something precious he’d thought he’d lost. 

As if your absence had mattered. 

As if he’d missed you the way you’d missed him.

“Thank you,” you said. “For the flowers.”

“You don’t have to thank me. Just… don’t go quiet on me again, okay? It’s hard to feel like I’m coming home when you’re not the one guiding me there.”

You closed your eyes, the ache blooming hot behind your ribs. Coming home. How could he say things like that so easily? How could he make you feel like you were drowning and flying at the same time with just a handful of words spoken through radio static?

And the worst part was how easily he said it—like you really were his home, his anchor point in all that vast sky. Like this thing between you wasn’t just something imagined, but something real enough to miss, something worth coming back to.

“I won’t,” you said, barely above a whisper.

“Promise?”

“I promise.”

And you meant it. Whatever had made you run, whatever fear had driven you to take that week off—it felt so stupidly irrelevant compared to the relief of knowing he was safe. Of knowing somewhere above the clouds, he’d been looking for your voice.

“See you on the ground, beautiful.”

And then the line went silent.

Your eyes stayed locked on his radar symbol, unwilling to look away, tracking his descent as if your gaze alone could guide him safely down. Your eyes drifted to the flowers beside your console, your chest tight with guilt because you’d been too much of a coward to face what you felt for him. 

What was holding you back when he was right there? Wanting you, missing you enough to notice your absence, calling you love so tenderly. What was so terrifying about someone who made you feel like the most important voice in his sky?

He missed you. Wanted you. And you missed him like the sky misses his stars in daylight. Now he was descending through storm clouds, almost within reach, and you still didn’t know how to say any of it.

You watched his altitude drop.

8,000 feet. 

6,000.

4,000.

Each number bringing him closer to solid ground—closer to you.

Then another violent gust tore across the runway. A sharp gasp cut through the tower, everyone suddenly stood and looked out the windows as Flight 447 broke through the storm clouds, lurching violently sideways. The plane’s wings tilted at a sickening angle, fighting against the crosswind as it dropped like a stone before catching itself.

Your heart flatlined.

“Maki, can you cover for me?” you asked, voice tight, already moving.

She looked away from the window. “What? Yeah, but—” 

You were gone. Down the tower stairs, past security who barely glanced at your badge, through the restricted access door and straight into the teeth of the storm. Didn’t matter that you were soaking wet or that this was completely against protocol. All you knew was you had to see him.

Rain hit you immediately like ice, instantly soaking through your uniform, but you didn’t slow. Across the runway, Flight 447 was coming in hard. You watched it slam onto the wet asphalt—one heavy bounce, then another, the aircraft struggling to find purchase on the waterlogged asphalt before finally coming to a halt with a loud screech of brakes.

Not a crash. But rough enough to stop your breathing.

You ran faster, shoes splashing through puddles as emergency crews rushed past you toward the plane. The aircraft had stopped crooked on the runway, passenger stairs already being rolled into position as ground crew in bright orange vests hurried around the scene.

 It was stupid, so stupid. You didn’t even know what he looked like. But then—

You saw him. For the first time in your life.

He stepped out of the cockpit door, tall and undeniably handsome even amidst the chaos. His hair was drenched form the rain, plastered back from his forehead, his pilot’s uniform soaked and wrinkled. He was looking around slowly, searching through the crowd with a furrowed brow and eyes the exact impossible blue you’d somehow always known they’d be. And then—

And then his gaze found yours. And everything stopped. No thunder. No wind. No roar of engines or shouts from the crew.

Your eyes met across the storm, and the world fell away. You had never seen this man before, but it didn’t feel that way. It felt like remembering. There was no question, no doubt, no moment of uncertainty—you knew it was him the same way you knew your own heartbeat.

The voice you’d fallen for belonged to this man, this beautiful and insufferable pilot who was staring at you like he’d just found something he’d been searching for his entire life. 

And now he’d found you.

You ran toward him through the chaos, feet splashing through more puddles, rain streaming down your face. He moved toward you too, taking the metal steps down from the plane two at a time, his hand sliding along the wet railing. 

You met in the middle of the runway, both out of breath, both drenched to the bone. Rain clung to his white lashes as he stared at you—those impossible blue eyes you’d imagined a hundred times now real, locked on your face like you were the only thing in the world. And yes, they were just as blue as a winter sky. Up close, he was somehow even more beautiful than you’d let yourself believe.

You opened your mouth, then closed it again, suddenly at a complete loss for words. “Would you like to go out with me?” you finally managed, having to raise your voice over the wind and rain.

Satoru blinked, his hair plastered against his forehead. A slow, handsome smile spread across his face.

“Yeah,” he said, voice rough with emotion. “I’d really like that.”

And then he was moving, one hand sliding around your waist while the other came up to cradle your face, thumb brushing away raindrops—or maybe tears, you couldn’t tell anymore. He pulled you closer, bridging the last inches like he’d been waiting forever to do it.

When he kissed you, it was like coming home after being lost for years. Desperate and tender, months of longing finally given form. His lips were impossibly soft against yours, warm despite the cold rain, and you could taste the storm on his mouth, feel the way his breath caught when you kissed him back.

Rain poured around you as you finally, finally kissed the voice that had become your everything.

When you broke apart, both breathless, he rested his forehead against yours. His hands trembled slightly where they held you, like he still couldn’t believe this was real.

“God, you’re so beautiful,” he whispered.

Then he was kissing you again, deeper this time, pouring months of missed chances and sleepless nights into the space between your lips. His grip tightened on your waist. Without breaking the kiss, he lifted from the ground and spun once, twice, in the pouring rain like you weighed nothing at all.

Storm clouds churned overhead and emergency crews moved around you, but it felt like you were the only two people in the world—suspended in this perfect moment between earth and sky and the the feeling of finally being found.

── ⟢ ·⸝⸝

A few weeks later.

“Careful with that,” Satoru warned as you briefly touched a panel of switches, his hand catching your wrist gently. “Unless you want to explain to the airline why we accidentally activated the emergency slides in the hangar.”

You were perched in the captain’s seat of his Boeing 777, legs tucked beneath you as you took in the array of countless instruments, screens, and controls that made up his office thirty thousand feet above the ground. The cockpit was smaller than you’d imagined, more intimate, every surface covered with buttons and displays that somehow made sense to him.

“You actually understand all of this?”

“Each and every switch, gauge, and warning light.” He leaned over you from where he stood beside the captain’s seat, his chest brushing your shoulder as he pointed to different instruments. “See this? It’s the primary flight display—shows our altitude, airspeed, heading. That’s the navigation display, weather radar here…”

You could smell his cologne, feel the warmth of his body as he leaned in closer to point out the next display. You loved watching him like this—the way he lit up when talking about his aircraft, completely absorbed in every detail with that endearing kinda nerdy side of his. But being this close to him made it hard to focus on anything he was saying when all you could think about was the way his voice rumbled low near your ear.

“And this,” he continued, reaching around you to tap a small screen, his arm caging you in against the seat, “shows exactly how beautiful my air traffic controller looks in my chair.”

You turned to find his face inches from yours. His sky blue eyes caught the gentle light like glass, impossibly clear, and for a second, you forgot how to breathe.

“That’s not what that screen shows.”

“No? Then why can’t I look away from it?”

“You’re stupid.” But you were smiling, tilting your head back against the headrest to maintain eye contact. “Show me something else.”

“Demanding little controller.” His fingers trailed along the overhead panel, flipping switches as he spoke. “These control cabin pressure, air conditioning, electrical systems…”

You sank deeper into the chair, letting his soothing voice wash over you.

“These are the autopilot controls.” His hand moved again. “This button engages the system—basically tells the plane to fly itself according to the flight plan we’ve programmed.” His finger moved to another switch. “This one controls altitude hold, and this manages our heading.”

“But here’s the most important thing.” Satoru reached toward a small compartment near the instrument panel and pulled out a photo of the two of you from that stormy night—completely drenched, kissing in the rain. It was blurry as hell and underexposed, and absolutely perfect.

“I still can’t believe Hana managed to get this shot,” you said, taking it from him. “She really thought ‘Oh, what a perfect time for a picture’ while there was literally an emergency evacuation going on.”

Satoru laughed. “But aren’t you gald she took it?”

“We look absolutely stupid.” 

Your hair was plastered to your face, his uniform wrinkled and soaked, but you both looked happy. Really happy.

“You look perfect,” he said, leaning closer. “And you were so cute when you had that total meltdown thinking something happened to me.”

“I did not have a meltdown—”

“You ran across an active runway. In a storm.” He traced the edge of the photo with his finger, smiling. “My professional, composed controller lost her cool because she was worried about her pilot.”

“You’re insufferable.”

“I’m just saying—” He leaned back against the instrument panel, clearly enjoying this. “For someone who spent months pretending to hate my guts, you certainly changed your mind when you thought I might be hurt.”

“I was worried about you.”

His smile softened. “You didn’t have to.” He paused, then reached out, gently cupping your face. “No matter how rough the storm or the landing, I’m never really lost—not when I know you’re there. You always guide me home safely.”

“You’re stupid.”

“Stupidly in love, yeah,” he murmured—and then he kissed you.

What started soft and slow quickly turned heated. You pulled him closer by his tie, and he braced his hand against the seat beside your head, his tongue sliding against yours as his mouth pressed hungrily to yours.

“Controller,” Satoru said between kisses, his voice already rough. “What exactly are you starting here?”

“I’m not starting anything,” you said, even though your fingers were already working his tie loose.

“Clearly.”

You rose from the chair and tugged gently at his loosened tie and he followed without resistance. With a gentle push to his chest, you guided him down into the captain’s seat. He let himself fall back into it, eyes locked on yours. Without a word, you climbed into his lap, straddling him. His hands found your waist immediately, pulling you close as his mouth met yours again like he couldn’t stand another second apart.

“My break’s over in fifteen,” you murmured against his lips. “And the plane’s grounded for another hour. No one should be around.”

He pulled back just enough to give you a look. “Wait… did you check the maintenance schedule before coming here?”

“Maybe.”

“God,” he groaned against your mouth, his hands gliding up your back. “Do you even know what you do to me?”

“I’m just making efficient use of our time, Captain,” you whispered, rolling your hips slightly and feeling him tense beneath you. “Isn’t that what good air traffic control is about? Proper scheduling and all that?”

His laugh came out breathless, strained. “Pretty sure this isn’t in any manual I’ve read.”

“Then I guess you’ll have to improvise.” You threaded your fingers through his white hair and pulled him closer. “You’re good at handling unexpected situations, aren’t you?”

Whatever he was about to say dissolved as he caught your lips again, urgency building in the small space between your bodies. One hand slipped beneath your shirt, warm fingers tracing the curve of your lower back, while the other gripped your thigh possessively.

You started undoing the buttons of his shirt with trembling fingers, impatience bleeding into every movement. Fabric slipped from his shoulders as you pushed it off. You pressed your hands against his bare chest, feeling the rapid thud of his heartbeat under your palms and traced slowly down over his abs, earning a rough groan of his against your lips.

“Why do I get the feeling this was your plan all along?” 

Satoru tugged at your shirt, easing it off your shoulders as his lips trailed along your collarbone, then down to the strap of your bra, pushing it aside to press kisses to the skin beneath.

“Says the man undressing me in his cockpit,” you managed, though your voice caught when his mouth found your neck and sucked lightly.

“I can’t believe you let me ramble about navigation systems for ten minutes straight when this was your plan.”

“You’re cute when you’re being all professional and nerdy.”

“You’re terrible.” 

His hands gripped your hips, pulling you closer until you could feel him hard and pressing through his uniform. A soft sound escaped your lips before you could stop it, and his mouth crashed back onto yours, like he was trying to steal every moan before it left your lips.

“Careful. Don’t want us getting caught, right?”

You barely heard him. Your hands dropped to his belt, leather unfastening fast. It didn’t take long to push aside everything that wasn’t necessary. You were both nothing if not efficient, after all. And the last threads of restraint snapped as Satoru’s hands slid up your bare thighs, fingers hooking beneath your underwear and pulling it aside.

His head tipped back against the seat, breath catching as you moved against him. “Fuck,” he whispered, hands gripping your waist and pulling you closer as you found your rhythm together. His mouth on yours again, swallowing the soft sounds neither of you could hold back.

Surrounded by the controls and countless displays, the cockpit windows slowly fogging from your heated breathing, you couldn’t help but think about how it all started. This was where it began—thirty thousand feet above the world, suspended between earth and sky in the place where his voice had first found yours. From that very first radio call, from the moment he’d called you beautiful, it had always been leading here. 

As if inevitable.

Now, with your hands mapping his skin and your name falling from his lips in soft moans, it felt like coming full circle. From air traffic control to this. From ‘Flight 447’ to ‘Satoru.’ From guiding him home to finally being home.

And that felt pretty damn good.

── ⟢ ·⸝⸝

Six months later.

“Tower, this is Flight 447 requesting permission to land and take my gorgeous girlfriend out for dinner tonight,” came the voice you loved through your headset, smooth as always despite the late hour.

You rolled your eyes, though you smiled. “Flight 447, you do realize the entire tower can hear you, right?”

“Even better. Let them all know how lucky I am.”

Around the control tower, your colleagues had long since stopped pretending to be annoyed by Satoru’s radio flirtations. Maki still teased you about how cute you both sounded over the frequency, and even Ijichi had gotten used to the intimate banter without blushing like a teenage boy who’d accidentally walked into a lingerie store.

The gifts never stopped coming. From Vilnius, he’d brought a handwritten pierogi recipe from an elderly woman he’d chatted with during his layover—and it was surprisingly good when he made it for you on the weekend. He did not lie when he told you he’s a good cook. 

From Faro came a hand painted pot for the basil plant you’d surely kill again, but it didn’t matter as he’d secretly replace it in the middle of the night so you’d think you’d finally managed to keep a plant alive and see your happy smile. Seville brought oranges he’d handpicked from the city gardens, and Barcelona brought a gorgeous Picasso art book.

And, of course, every trip came with two postcards. One for you, and one for his sister. You’d started framing the ones meant for her and hanging them throughout his apartment for him.

“You know you don’t have to bring me something from every city,” you’d told him after he’d brought more expensive chocolate from Zurich.

“Let me spoil my girl,” he’d replied simply, watching you take a bite. “Besides, all you see is that boring tower all day. You deserve a little treat.”

The radio banter had only gotten worse—or better, depending on your perspective.

“Tower, Flight 447 requesting vectors to your heart.”

“Flight 447 keep it professional or I’m diverting you to Osaka.”

“Oof. Brutal. But if you send me to Osaka, you’ll never see what I brought you from Rome.”

Your colleagues had started keeping a list of his most ridiculous radio calls. ‘Flight 447 requesting visual on the prettiest controller in the hemisphere’ was Maki’s current favorite, while Ijichi still cringed about the time Satoru had asked for ‘Requesting altitude adjustment because I just fell for you—again.’

Yeah. It was absolutely cheesy.

Moving in together happened gradually, then all at once. Your clothes moved to his closet, your coffee mugs replaced all of his ugly ones in the kitchen, and suddenly your shift schedule was magnetted to his refrigerator beside his flight rotations. One day, you realized you were planning your lives around each other without ever having had the conversation.

“Your apartment’s bigger,” you’d pointed out, when you finally made it official.

“Yours has the better balcony. But mine’s closer to the airport.”

“So, your place then. But I’m bringing my good coffee maker.”

“And won’t let me see that adorable little wince you do at my terrible coffee in the morning? You’re heartless.”

But the real adjustment wasn’t space or schedules. It was learning each other’s bodies with the same intensity you’d spent months learning each other’s voices. After all, with falling in love through radio static, there was a lot of missed physical intimacy to make up for.

Some weekends you didn’t even make it out of your shared apartment, too consumed with discovering each other all over again. Your back hit the mattress with a soft thud, sheets warm beneath you as he settled over you, pressing kisses to your jaw, your neck, your collarbone like he couldn’t decide where to focus first.

“I used to fantazise about this,” he murmured between kisses.

“About what?”

“This.” His voice dropped lower, lips bruising your throat. “What you’d sound like when you weren’t trying so hard to be professional… imagining the sounds you’re making now, how you’d moan my name with that pretty voice of yours.”

You pulled him closer, lips finding his again, his tongue hot against yours.

 “Yeah?”

He smiled against your mouth. “You have no idea how many nights I imagined the taste of your skin. How many times I lay awake wondering if your thighs would shake when I fucked you hard enough.”

Your breath stuttered, hands gripping his shoulders like they were the only steady thing left. “Good thing we’ve got time now to find out.”

“Yeah. And I plan on making up for all of it,” he whispered—just before his fingers slipped between your thighs, and you forgot how to speak altogether.

And you did make up for lost time. Learning that he was somehow even more affectionate and thorough in person than over the radio. 

In the quiet of your bedroom, with the curtains drawn and the world hushed beyond the walls, you discovered each other slowly.  

How he always shivered when you traced patterns across his abs. How you had a small scar just below your ribcage from a childhood fall that he found with his lips, kissing along your skin until you arched beneath him. How your body tensed and then melted completely when his mouth worked between your legs, drawing sounds from you that made him groan against your skin.

You learned the weight of his arm draped over you, holding you close when he was moving from behind, and how soothing it felt when his fingers traced lazy patterns on your shoulder until sleep claimed you both. Discovered that lazy morning sex, followed by his surprisingly good scrambled eggs, was the perfect way to start any day.

You spent hours like this, days even, learning the language of each other’s bodies with a thoroughness that left no inch unexplored and no fantasy unfulfilled.

“You know,” he said one evening, pulling you into his lap while you tried to review approach procedures on the couch, “I spent so many nights wondering what it would be like to touch you while you worked.”

“And now?”

“Now I get to find out what happens when I do this—” His lips found that sensitive spot on your neck, making you gasp and completely forget what you’d been reading. “While you’re trying to be all professional.”

“That’s unfair.”

“That’s what makes it fun.”

The night everything changed started like any other. Weather delays had backed up traffic for hours, leaving Satoru circling above the Pacific in a holding pattern while you worked through the endless stream of aircraft. It was past midnight, the tower hushed and dim, when you finally switched to private frequency.

“Bored up there, Captain?”

“Never bored when I’m talking to you. Though I was thinking…”

“Dangerous pastime for you.”

“We’re both stuck here for the next few hours. You, managing this beautiful chaos from your tower. Me, alone with the stars at thirty thousand feet.” His voice carried that familiar warmth that always made something flutter in your chest. “Feels like the perfect date to me.”

You ended up talking for three hours, switching between official vectors and private topics, guiding other aircraft while Satoru described the city lights below and the way clouds shimmered like winter frost in the moonlight.

“Strange how this all started, don’t you think?” you mused during a quiet moment. “Two voices falling for each other over radio frequency.”

“You’re not having second thoughts, are you?”

“No. It’s just… kind of crazy, isn’t it? All of this.”

He was silent for a beat. When he spoke again, his voice was different—nervous, almost fragile.

“Can I ask you something?”

“Of course.”

“Will you marry me?”

Your heart stopped.

“I know it’s not how this is supposed to go. I know it’s not normal. But then again, nothing about us has been. I’m thirty thousand feet in the air, you’re down there keeping the world together, and all I can think about is how much I want to spend the rest of my life with you.”

Time stretched thin in the control room as you struggled to process what he’d just asked, your heart thundering so loud you were sure he could hear it through the frequency.

“Yes,” you whispered, the word barely more than a breath as you leaned forward, elbows braced against the console. Your hands trembled as you pressed them to your face, overwhelmed by the rush of joy and disbelief.

“Yes?”

“Yes. I’ll marry you.”

He let out a heavy breath. “God, I love you. You just made me the happiest man alive. I swear, if I could pull down every star from up here and give them to you, I would.”

You blinked back tears, smiling. “Just come home safe, you idiot.”

“Always,” he said, and his voice had never sounded more sure. “Your voice guides me home, remember? It always has.”

You thought you’d mapped every corner of him after six months of living together—every habit, every sleepy morning routine, every sound he makes when he cums.

But then came the private jet revelation over scrambled eggs on a random Friday morning.

You’d known he came from money—the expensive gifts, the way he never seemed to stress about finances and had this really fancy apartment—but you hadn’t grasped the scale until he casually mentioned his father’s company owned a fleet of corporate aircraft.

“I was thinking we should take some time off and explore the world a little,” he said, like offering to fly you around the world was the same as suggesting takeout for dinner. “We could take one of the jets.”

“Wait wait wait… you have access to a private jet?”

“Technically, I have access to several.”

Your spoon slipped out of your hand and landed in your eggs.

The first time he took you somewhere—a long weekend in Kyoto for cherry blossom season—you finally understood why he’d fallen in love with flying. 

Up there, suspended between heaven and earth, everything felt different. The world spread out below like a map, cities reduced to scattered lights and rivers threading silver through green landscapes. You watched his hands move over the controls, the same hands that traced gentle patterns on your skin at night, now guiding you both through layers of cloud and sky.

“So this is what you see every day?” you asked, staring out at clouds that looked close enough to touch.

“This is what I used to see.” He glanced over at you. “Now I only see you.”

It started with short weekend trips, then longer stays overseas when both your schedules allowed it. He took you everywhere you wanted to go.

Venice, he bought you both gelato and told you stories about the Murano glass blowers. Barcelona, where you got lost in Gaudi’s wild architecture and found tiny tapas bars nestled in medieval alleyways. And Iceland, where the Northern Lights painted the sky green and purple while you kissed in a natural hot spring—finally experiencing all the places he’d described to you over radio waves. But now you experienced them together.

“Your sister would have loved this,” you said Reykjavik, wrapped in his arms under the dancing aurora.

“She would have loved you,” he replied, pulling you closer in the warm water. “She always said the best adventures were the ones you shared with someone who made you feel at home.”

“Remember when you used to tell me about this place?” you asked one evening in Prague, watching him order those cinnamon sugar spirals from the same bakery he’d told you about months ago over the radio.

He handed you the warm pastry with a smile. “I remember wishing you were here when I first tried it. I used to imagine what you’d say about the cobblestones, or if you’d laugh at my terrible pronunciation when I tried to order something local.”

You took a bite, sugar melting on your tongue. “And now?”

“Now I get to see your face when you taste it for the first time.” He pulled you close, the golden hour painting everything warm around you. “Now I get to hold your hand instead of describing how the sunset looks over the Charles Bridge. I don’t have to imagine anymore.”

Each trip revealed new layers of him—and new ways to make up for all those months of being just voices to each other. 

Somewhere over the Atlantic, you learned just how good he was at multitasking—okay, autopilot might have helped—his hands tangled in your hair, mouth on yours, while the stars streaked past the windows. Long afternoons in Parisian hotel rooms, rain drumming against the windows while you learned exactly how sensitive he gets when overstimulated. Sunset on private beaches in Thailand, where he discovered the sweet sounds you make when he uses three fingers instead of two. 

“I used to get hard just from hearing your voice,” he admitted one night in Santorini, pushing in deep while the Aegean sparkled below your terrace.

“Just from my voice?”

“Especially when you’d get that stern controller tone. ‘Flight 447, maintain current heading.’” His breath caught as you clenched around him, fingers finding yours and intertwining where he pressed them into the mattress. “You have no idea what that did to me.”

“Show me what it did to you.”

He did, thoroughly and repeatedly, until you understood exactly how much he’d wanted you during all those professional exchanges.

The wedding happened a year later, simple and perfect in a garden overlooking Tokyo Bay. Satoru insisted on writing his own vows, and when the moment came, he pulled out a piece of paper that looked suspiciously like a flight plan. 

He promised to pull down the stars for you if you ever wanted them, and you vowed to always be his voice guiding him home.

Years passed like this.

At some point, your story was known by everyone at the airport. Everyone was swooning over the perfect love story of two people who fell in love over their voices alone.

But the best parts were always the quiet moments. Morning coffee in your shared kitchen while he planned routes and you reviewed approach procedures. Afternoons when he’d surprise you at the tower with flowers and terrible jokes that made you ground and your colleagues laugh. Evenings curled up together planning the next adventure, his pilot charts spread across the coffee table next to approach manuals and takeout containers.

“Where to next?”

“Anywhere you want,” was always his answer. “As long as we’re flying together.”

And through it all, some things remained beautifully constant—the flutter in your  stomach when his call sign appeared on your screen, his voice calling from the sky, yours answering from the tower, and the way he still brought you something from every city.

“Tower, this is Flight 447 requesting permission to kiss my beautiful wife once I land. And yes, I know this is a public frequency, and yes—I want everyone to hear it.”

“Flight 447, you’re the worst.”

His laugh crackled through the radio. “I love you,” he said, still completely, hopelessly in love.

And every time he landed, every time you watched his plane touch down safely on the runway, that same warmth bloomed in your chest, just like it had from the very first day. Because no matter how many flights he took, how many cities he visited, how many years passed—he always came back to you.

After all, your voice had been the one calling him home from the very beginning.

The End

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author's note — wait ! before you go ! if you enjoyed this story, i’d be forever grateful if you’d consider gifting me a few minutes of your time to participate in a research survey for my master’s thesis in psychology (if you haven't already) <3

here's the link.

it’s completely anonymous, but just a heads-up: the survey touches on nightmares and emotional wellbeing, so it may be sensitive for some. please feel free to stop at any point if it doesn’t feel right for you.

thank you for flying with insufferable pilot gojo airlines ! please make sure your heart is in the upright position before disembarking. hope this brought you as much joy to read as it brought me to write hehe. somehow i love this idea so much of pilot gojo being completely smitten over a voice alone :')) <3

and sorry that this got unexpectedly horny at the end, my apologies lol. until next time, this is your author signing off. safe travels !

ps: if you want to get notifications for future updates, you can join my taglist here.

tags — @fayuki @starmapz @starlightanyaaa @sxnkuna @cocomanga  

@nanamis-baker @rosso-seta @sugurbo @chiyokoemilia @janbannan  

@bloopsstuff @snowsilver2000 @ihearttoru @momoewn @yokosandesu  

@90s-belladonna @fairygardenprincesss @juneslove21 @glenkiller338 @gojossugarcandy  

@wiserion @moucheslove @nanasukii28 @sugucultfollower @leuriss  

@raendarkfaerie @yeiena @rainthensun @yvesdoee @amayaaaxx  

@cristy-101 @bnbaochauuu @markliving @strawberryswtchblaxe @whytfisgojosohot  

@bloodandnix @zanayaswrld @noble-17 @soapyaya @ethereal-moonlit  

@beaniesayshi @etsuniiru @candyluvsboba @iglb12 @doobybopbop  

@kamuihz @katsukiseyebrows @ezrazra @kalulakunundrum @torusbbg  

You’d been counting since the first time you gave a drawing to a stranger, an elderly street musician whose weathered hands moved across his guitar strings so smoothly, you couldn’t help but try to capture his ease. When you’d shyly offered him the sketch afterwards, the tiredness in his face gave way to something softer. 

Surprised. Delighted.

“Is this me?” he asked, his voice carrying that gentle kind of warmth older people always seem to have.

You had simply nodded.

The musician smiled, thanked you, and carefully tucked the drawing into the front pocket of his jacket, and that small moment sparked something in you—a sense of purpose, you could say, that had been missing from your otherwise structured life as a graphic designer. Since then, every morning without fail, you picked a fellow passenger on your train commute, capturing them in a quick sketch, and offering it to them before your stop arrived.

Maybe it was cheesy, but you didn’t care. It was the smile that made it worth it—the way a simple gesture could light up someone’s face at such early hours—that’s what kept you going, for exactly 713 days and counting.

As you locked your apartment door this morning—Tuesday, 6:32 AM—you had no idea that your simple, stupid little cheesy routine was about to change.

Your phone vibrated as you reached the station entrance. A notification from the transit app lit up your screen:

Line 6 service temporarily suspended due to overnight maintenance issues. Please seek alternative routes.

Great. Just what you needed.

Line 6 was your direct route to the office, the one that got you there at precisely 8:00 AM every morning. And you’d never been late. Not once in three years at Takahashi Media Group. And today of all days? Really? The Yamada account presentation was at 9:30, and as lead designer, you needed time to prep. 

Panic started to bubble.

“Excuse me,” you said to the nearest station attendant, trying to keep your voice steady while a tiny voice inside your head was screaming. “What’s the fastest way to Central District Station?”

Clipboard guy barely looked up. “Take Line 4, transfer at Miyashita to Line 9. Adds about twenty minutes.”

Twenty minutes?

Now panic was definitely starting to bubble up. 

Okay, think. If you skipped your usual coffee stop and went straight to the office, you could still make it with just enough time to run through your slides once. Not ideal, but doable.

Line 4 was unfamiliar territory. Unlike Line 6, which you always caught early enough to get a seat, this one was already full. Businessmen in dark suits, students in uniform, and way too many elbows. And the smell—less lemony and clean, more like... cologne and sweat. You squeezed in and clutched your sketchbook to your chest as the doors closed behind you.

Usually, you picked your sketch subject within the first minute. It was like on autopilot by now. Your eyes would just land on someone, and you’d know. But in this crowded, unfamiliar car full of strangers, you felt a little bit lost. These weren’t your usual commuters, the ones you’ve come to recognize over hundreds of mornings, even if you’ve never spoken to them. 

But then you saw him.

He was standing near the doors at the far end of the car, one hand gripping the overhead rail, the other tucked casually into the pocket of his pants. He looked completely out of place, so unlike the others around him.

He was tall. Like, really tall. And his hair was white. It caught the overhead lights in a way that made it shimmer, like fresh snow under a winter sun. He looked young, though. Early thirties, maybe? The white hair didn’t read as old, more like a choice. Or maybe it was natural. Hard to tell.

His suit was navy, perfectly tailored, but somehow different from all the other navy suits in the car. Maybe it was the cut, or maybe it was just him. He wore it like—well, like he wasn’t trying. Top button undone, no tie. A pair of green-tinted glasses perched on his nose, partly hiding his eyes, but not quite.

Everyone else around him was either half asleep or nervously checking their watches, the usual morning commute zombie routine. But not him. He looked completely at ease and almost... amused. Like the full train and countless elbows between one’s ribs didn’t bother him.

You flipped to a blank page in your sketchbook, adjusting your stance as the train swayed. Your pencil hovered, studying him for a moment. Then, like always, the world blurred at the edges as your pencil touched paper, almost making you forget about the schoolboy who stepped on your foot every few seconds, squeezed between other schoolchildren on their way to class. 

After a while, the train announcement: Next stop, Miyashita Station. Transfer for Lines 2, 9, and 11.

You signed the corner, tore out the page, and held it for a second. This part was usually easy—walk over, smile, offer the sketch, say something nice, move on. But something about him made you hesitate.

What if he thought it was weird? What if he assumed you were flirting? What if he had a wife and three kids and a very awkward story to tell over dinner tonight? What if—

The train began to slow. Now or never.

You stood and started weaving through the packed car towards the stranger. He hadn’t moved, still holding the rail with that same relaxed grip, still wearing that faint smile.

“Excuse me,” you said.

He turned, and for the first time, you got a clear look at his eyes through those green-tinted glasses. Startlingly blue. Vivid and almost unnatural. Somewhere between forget-me-nots and ripe blueberries. When they locked onto yours, warmth spread through your chest like you’d just stepped into sunlight.

“This is for you,” you said and offered him the drawing.

For a second, he didn’t react, and panic started to flare. Oh no. He hated it. He definitely hated it. But it was good, or not? Not Picasso, but decent. Solid. Right? Oh god, if he doesn’t say something, literally anything in the next second, you’re going to spontaneously die.

Then, finally, his lips curled into a slow, handsome smile. 

“A drawing? Of me?”

His voice surprised you. Deep and smooth, with a certain richness to it, like dark chocolate. And... was that a Kyoto accent? Subtle, but there. He reached for the sketch, his fingers brushing yours as he took it.

You watched, breath caught in your throat, as his eyes moved over the page. It felt like your entire morning—no, your entire existence—was waiting on his next words.

“You’re very talented.”

...Huh?

You didn’t know what you expected, but it wasn’t that. Or rather, it was how he said it. Usually, people said “thank you,” or “oh, that's so sweet,” something polite and brief before they got off at their stop. But he said it like he meant every syllable. Like you’d just unveiled the Mona Lisa to him.

You. Are. Very. Talented.

The sincerity in his voice hit you oddly sideways.

Then the train doors hissed open and commuters surged forward, dragging you back to reality. Oh god—the presentation.

“This is my stop,” you said hastly, suddenly remembering everything else happening in your life. “I need to go.”

“Wait.” He took a small step forward, but you were already being swept along with the crowd.

“I hope you like it!” you called over your shoulder, catching one last glimpse of him, but then his white hair vanished among the sea of dark suits, and the doors slid shut behind you.

It wasn’t until you were halfway up the escalator to your connecting train that you realized something. Your signature—the tiny heart you always draw into the corner of your sketches. Gone. Missing. For the first time in 713 days.

It strangely bothered you. By the time you reached your office (7:58 AM—still on time, miraculously), you’d almost convinced yourself it was just the chaos of the morning and had nothing to do with the handsome stranger who made your heart beat just a little faster when your fingers touched. Absolutely nothing.

You shove the thought aside and focus on your presentation. Line 6 would be back tomorrow. Back to your normal route, your normal routine, your normal life. You’d never see that man again. 

Or so you think.

Your presentation went flawless. The Yamada executives nodded along to your designs, and your boss even cracked a rare smile by the time you wrapped up. It was almost unsettling.

And by the time you packed up to leave, the handsome stranger had faded into the background—a fleeting moment in a city full of them.

Line 6 was back on schedule that evening. You found your usual seat. Everything was exactly the way it had always been. Just how you liked it.

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

The next morning, you slipped back into your routine without thinking. Alarm. Shower. Tea and toast. Line 6 at 6:52 AM. Your favorite seat at the end of the car.

Your subject today was a young woman with brightly colored headphones, who seemed lost in her music. When you handed her the sketch (this time with your trademark tiny heart in the corner) she beamed. You’d made her day, she said. 

Life continued exactly as it should. Drawing number 714, 715, 716... each one gifted, each one with a tiny heart in the corner. Your little bit of everyday cheesy rom-com magic thingy carried on, uninterrupted.

A week passed. You were on your usual train, putting the final touches on that morning’s sketch—an older man engrossed in a paperback novel. When you handed it to him, his face lit up. But then it changed. Surprise gave way to something else… something like recognition.

“Wait,” he said, adjusting his glasses to look between you and the drawing. “Are you the subway artist everyone’s been talking about?”

“I’m sorry?”

“The subway artist,” he repeated, like that explained everything. “There’ve been posters up on Line 4 all week. Someone’s trying to find the person who draws portraits on the train.” He smiled, gesturing to the sketch. “It’s you, isn’t it?”

“Line 4? I... I don’t usually take that line.”

But then it hit you. 

You thanked the man and stepped off the train feeling slightly dazed. All day at work, your mind kept drifting back to this strange turn of events. Someone was looking for you? Putting up posters?

There was only one person it could be.

The stranger from Line 4. 

After work, instead of taking your usual Line 6 home, you found yourself heading towards Line 4. Your heart beat a little faster.

The train was full with evening commuters, but you barely noticed them. Your eyes scanned the station walls as the train pulled into each stop. Nothing at the first station. Or the second. Then, as the train slowed for the third stop, you saw it.

There, on a pillar near the platform’s edge, was a poster. Even from inside the train, you recognized your own work. It was the sketch you had given the handsome stranger—or rather, a scan of it. Below, printed in bold, clear type:

LOOKING FOR THE ARTIST

Did you draw this portrait on Tuesday morning, Line 4? I’d like to thank you properly.

Please call: XXX-XXX-XXXX

The train doors opened, and without thinking, you stepped out, weaving through the tide of boarding passengers. You pushed your way toward the poster, staring at it in disbelief. It was definitely your drawing. No question. But why was he looking for you?

You pulled out your phone and took a quick photo of the poster, and then you just stood there, frozen. What now? Should you call? Would that be weird? What did “thank you properly” even mean?

You glanced around the platform, almost expecting to spot him nearby. But there was no sign of him. Only a sea of strangers, none of them with hair the color of snow. 

On impulse, you peeled the poster off the pillar and tucked it into your bag. Back at your apartment, you unfolded it on the kitchen table. The drawing looked back at you, familiar and strange all at once. You traced a finger over the phone number, wondering about the man who had gone to such lengths to find you. 

What kind of person did that? Was he just being kind? Did he want to pay you? Commission another drawing? Something about it was flattering… and also a little unsettling.

You took out your phone, entered the number into your contacts, and hovered your thumb over the call button.

This was ridiculous. You didn’t know anything about him—other than the fact that he had white hair and apparently enough time and money to put up posters in subway stations. What if he was a stalker? Or some kind of... weirdo?

You folded the poster again and tucked it into a drawer. Maybe in a few days you’d feel differently. Or maybe it was best to forget the whole strange thing altogether.

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

Next day, you were back on Line 6, back to your routine. You chose your subject—a woman with a long braids—and focused on capturing the way the morning light played in her woven hair. By the time you handed her the sketch, all thoughts of the poster and the maybe stalker had faded.

Two weeks later, you were running a little late for work. As you rushed onto your usual Line 6 train, something familiar caught your eye on the station wall. The doors closed before you could really process it, and the train pulled away. You spent the rest of the ride wondering if you’d imagined it.

The next morning, you arrived at the station a few minutes early to investigate and what you found made your breath catch. There on the wall of your station, wasn’t just one poster, but several. Each one with your sketch. And this time, beneath the drawing, a new message:

TO THE ARTIST

Dinner? This Friday, 8 PM.

Hanami Restaurant, Central District

You stared. Eyes wide. A dinner invitation? Posted publicly in the subway? Who even does that? Oh god. 

He was a stalker. 

Or… maybe it was romantic? No. Definitely creepy. Right? Who publicly invites a stranger to dinner using posters? A total stranger he didn’t even know? 

But... Hanami Restaurant? That was a nice place. Fancy. Not cheap. You’d seen it once on your birthday when your coworkers took you somewhere nearby. This wasn’t just casual ramen and a maybe—this was… effort.

“Oh, you’ve seen them too?”

You turned to see an older woman standing beside you, also gazing at the posters.

“Isn’t it the most charming thing?” she said. “They’ve been popping up all over Line 6 for the past few days. My daughter thinks it’s a movie promotion, but I think it’s a real love story in the making.” She gave a wistful sigh. “I hope the artist shows up.”

You muttered something polite and hurried onto your train, heart thudding in your chest. 

This had gone from odd to completely, absolutely weird. Not only had he expanded his poster campaign to your line, but now he was publicly inviting you to dinner? How did he even know which train you usually took? Or worse, were these posters up on every line in Tokyo? No. That couldn’t be possible.

You sank into your seat, sketchbook clutched tightly against your chest, your thoughts spiraling. Was this romantic dedication? Or borderline stalking? 

The invitation was for tomorrow night. You didn’t have to go. It’s not like he knew who you were or where you lived—technically, you could ignore it and carry on like none of this ever happened. 

But… what would happen if you did go? What if he was charming and witty and everything you’d secretly ever dreamed about on sleepy train rides? What if he was a total creep?

You looked down at your sketchbook, heart still racing.

My God.

What had you started?

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

Friday evening arrived, and you found yourself standing in front of your closet, absently fingering the hem of a dress you hadn’t worn in months. For a dinner you weren’t going to attend. With a man you’d barely met.

“This is ridiculous,” you muttered, shutting the closet door with finality.

You’d already made your decision. Absolutely not going. This whole thing had gone from charming to…well, kind of creepy. Who put up posters across the subway just to find someone they spoke to for like two seconds? It was excessive. Borderline obsessive.

You ordered takeout from your favorite place down the street and spent the evening sketching while a movie played in the background. Every so often, your eyes drifted to the clock. 

7:30.

7:45.

8:00.

He was probably at the restaurant by now. Maybe checking his watch.

8:15. 

8:30.

Maybe he’d ordered a drink to pass the time.

9:00. 

Surely, by now, he knew you weren’t coming.

You told yourself it was for the best. This way, he’d get the message. No need for awkward conversations or outright rejection. Just silence. Clear. Polite, in a distant kind of way.

Life could go back to normal. Back to routine. Back to sketching strangers who didn’t plaster the city with posters looking for you. 

And still, somewhere underneath all that logic, a quiet little voice whispered: What if he’s just sitting there, alone, sad, and feeling as unsure as you do right now?

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

The weekend passed uneventfully. By Monday morning, you’d nearly convinced yourself you’d done the right thing. You’d protected your peace. Maintained your boundaries. All good decisions.

Your alarm rang at 5:45 AM. Shower. Hair. Makeup. Outfit. Green tea and avocado toast. Sketchbook and pencils in your bag. Everything back to normal.

On your usual train, your eyes landed on a high school girl seated near the doors. She looked tired, but focused. A textbook rested in her lap, worn at the corners and stuffed with colorful Post-it notes poking out from all sides. She tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear and leaned in to read.

By the time the train neared your stop, the sketch was finished, your signature heart placed neatly in the corner. You stood and made your way over to her, when a flash of colour outside the train window caught your eye.

Another poster. But this one looked different.

As the train slowed, you could make out your sketch—the one of the white-haired stranger—but now surrounded by a border of…were those flowers? 

You squinted, leaning closer as the train rolled to a stop. Then the doors opened, but instead of handing the student the sketch you had made of her, you stepped out onto the platform without thinking.

You moved toward the poster. It was definitely your drawing in the center, but someone—him, obviously—had added to it. Were those real flowers? Pinned around the edges? You leaned in. Yes. Small blossoms. Some still fresh, others beginning to wilt.

And below, a new message:

TO THE ARTIST WHO DIDN’T COME TO DINNER

I understand. Perhaps too forward. My apologies. But I’d still like to meet you.

Coffee instead? Your choice of time and place.

Same number below. No more posters after this, I promise.

Call: XXX-XXX-XXXX

You stared at the poster, not sure what to think of it. It was still... a lot. But the tone had changed. It didn’t feel like pressure anymore. It felt like a peace offering.

“Is that about you?”

You jumped slightly and turned to find the schoolgirl from the train standing behind you. She was looking between you and the poster, eyebrows raised. You hadn’t even noticed her step off.

“What? No, I—”

“It is, isn’t it?” she said, pointing to the edge of her portrait still peeking from your sketchbook. “You’re the subway artist! I’ve seen these posters for weeks. Everyone at school’s been talking about them.” Her eyes lit up. “But it’s real! It’s actually you!”

Your face went hot. “I just… draw people on my commute. It’s not a big deal.”

“Not a big deal?” She looked at you like you’d just told her the earth was flat. “Someone literally covered half the subway trying to find you. That’s so romantic.” She paused, glancing back at the poster. “Though I guess... it might feel a little intense if you don’t know him.”

“Exactly,” you said, a little too quickly, but relieved that someone finally understood. Not that you told anyone, anyway.

“But now he’s apologizing and backing off. That’s actually kind of sweet, don’t you think? Like he realized he overdid it.” Before you could respond, she suddenly gasped. “Oh! Were you going to give me something?” She pointed to your sketchbook.

“I—yes, actually.” You’d almost forgotten. You tore out the page with her portrait and handed it over. “I hope you don’t mind.”

She took the drawing, her face bright. “This is amazing! You made me look so... I don’t know, determined? Like I actually understand what I’m reading about.” She laughed. “Thank you so much!”

A chime echoed through the station—the warning for the next train.

“That’s my transfer,” she said and glanced at the poster one more time. “You know, if I were you, I’d call him. Not everyone gets a second chance at something interesting.” And with that, she turned and vanished into the crowd of boarding passengers.

You stood there for a moment longer, staring at the poster. At the flowers he’d carefully pinned around your sketch. It must have taken hours. 

Your phone buzzed with a calendar reminder. Morning meeting in fifteen minutes. With one last glance at the poster, you turned and headed for the station exit.

Maybe the girl was right. Maybe there was something here worth exploring. Or maybe this was exactly how people ended up in true crime documentaries. 

Either way, you had a decision to make.

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

For the next three days, the poster haunted you. Not in a scary way, but enough to slip under your skin and stay there. 

You caught yourself absentmindedly sketching floral patterns during meetings, doodling petals in the margins of your planner, even on the back of your grocery list. His phone number was still saved in your contacts. You hadn’t called it. Yet.

By Thursday afternoon, in the middle of yet another agonisingly boring meeting, you finally made your decision. 

The moment your boss wrapped up, you grabbed your phone and slipped into the empty break room. Your heart thudded so hard it felt like it might knock your ribs loose. Before you could overthink it, you dialed the number.

It rang once. Then—

“Hello?”

That voice. Deep. Warm. Curious. Instantly familiar.

“Um. Hi,” you said, suddenly questioning every life desicion that had led you to this moment. “This is… well, I don’t know if you’ll remember, but I drew your portrait on the train a few weeks ago, and—”

“You called.” He sounded genuinely relieved. “I was starting to think you weren’t ever going to.”

“Yeah, well…” You took a breath. “You do realize those posters were kind of creepy, right?”

“I thought they were romantic?”

“For someone I don’t know, it’s more creepy than romantic. And also, what if I was already taken?”

“Are you?”

You went silent. Right. You probably should’ve seen that one coming.

“I’m Satoru, by the way.” You could practically hear the smirk in his voice.

You gave him your name in return, nervously clicking your pen against the break room table.

He repeated it slowly, like he was trying how it sounded on his tongue, and that somehow sent a strange flutter through your stomach. Why did hearing him say your name suddenly make you so nervous? It was just a name. Your name. You’d heard it a million times before.

But from him, it felt different. More intimate somehow. Ridiculous, you told yourself. You were overthinking it. Probably. Still... the little flutter lingered.

“Listen,” you said, clearing your throat, trying to sound casual. “I’ve got my lunch break in about an hour. If you’re free, maybe we could meet. Nothing fancy—just coffee or something.”

“An hour? Yes. Absolutely.” A pause. “Where do you work? I can come to you.”

You hesitated, then figured it was harmless. It was a large and well known office building downtown, after all. Not exactly revealing your home address. “Takahashi Media Group. Midtown Tower, fourteenth floor.”

“Perfect. I’ll see you in an hour.”

The call ended, and you stared at your phone for a beat before heading back to your desk. You tried to focus on your emails, your task list, anything—but your eyes kept drifting to the clock.

It was just coffee, you reminded yourself. Just a casual meeting with the stranger from the train who’d launched a city-wide poster campaign to find you.

 Totally normal.

Fifty-five minutes later, you were gathering your bag when a commotion near the reception area caught your attention. Moments later, your coworker Aki appeared beside your desk.

“Hey, there’s someone asking for you at the reception. And he’s... well, you should just come see.”

“Someone’s here for me?” you asked, frowning. “But I was supposed to meet—” You stopped. “Oh no.”

You hurried toward the reception area, Aki trailing close behind. As you rounded the corner, you saw a group of coworkers gathered near the glass doors, all pretending very badly not to be gawking at something—or better said, someone.

And there, standing right in the center of the chaos, was the handsome stranger form Line 4.

He was even more handsome than you remembered. Tall, effortlessly confident, and dressed in a perfectly tailored dark suit, with a blue tie that was the exact same shade as his eyes.

When he spotted you, his entire face lit up with a smile so dazzling it looked like it belonged in a toothpaste commercial. You saw your coworker Mei place a hand over her heart, and you could’ve sworn someone behind her whispered, “Oh my god.”

“Artist!” he called, completely unaware of (or more likely, entirely unbothered by) the scene he was causing. “Wow, you’re even prettier when you’re mortified.”

And then you saw the flowers. 

Correction: you saw the flowers.

He was holding the most ridiculous bouquet you’d ever laid eyes on. A vibrant, overflowing explosion of violet, pink, and red, easily three dozen stems if not more. It was a lot. Even for him.

Every head in the lobby turned toward you.

Great. Just fucking great.

You walked over, ignoring the heat rising in your face and the whispers following behind you, wanting nothing more than to quickly escape the awkward scene. Reaching him, you grabbed his elbow and leaned in, voice low.

“You really don’t know how to be subtle, do you?”

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

Satoru had suggested a café not far from your office, and you followed him down the busy street, relieved to be away from the scene he had caused with nothing more than… his face.

People glanced at him as you walked, some doing double takes. He seemed completely unbothered by it. Perhaps he’s used to it. Being pretty comes with stares naturally, you assumed.

Maybe he was a model. Or a singer. Or both. And you were the only person in Tokyo who didn’t recognize him and later it will be so awkward when paparazzi take photos of you holding hands on your way out and splash them across trashy magazines with some ridiculous headline and—

Wait.

Holding hands?

Why were you even thinking about holding hands?

He could still be a stalker. A total weirdo. A—

You nearly tripped over someone weaving through the crowd, lost in your thoughts. Before you could catch yourself, Satoru’s hand landed gently on your elbow, steadying you as he pulled you closer to his side. Your arm brushed against his, and that brief contact sent a shiver down your spine.

Stupid, handsome and cute weirdo, for sure.

A few minutes later, you were seated in a quiet café, staring hard at a menu you’d already ordered from because pretending to study the drink list was easier than making direct eye contact with the man who was definitely watching you.

You could feel it. His gaze. Not bashful. Not subtle. Not even blinking, apparently. 

Finally, you set the menu down. “You’re staring.”

“I am,” he said, without a hint of shame. “It’s not every day I get to meet the artist who’s been haunting my dreams for weeks.”

“Haunting your dreams, huh?” You glanced up and met those absurdly blue eyes. “You know, you do sound very creepy sometimes.”

“Do I?” He tilted his head slightly. “I’ll admit, I don’t do this often.”

“What, stalk people? Or launch city-wide poster campaigns?”

He laughed. “Both, I guess. That might’ve been a bit much. My colleagues say I have a tendency to go overboard once I’ve set my mind to something.”

“Oh really?”

His smile widened. “Okay, fair. I deserved that. But in my defense—it worked. You’re here.”

“Out of curiosity more than anything,” you said, though you weren’t entirely sure that was true. “So now that you’ve found me, what exactly was the plan? Beyond coffee, I mean?”

He paused, considering. “I must admit, I didn’t think that far ahead. I just wanted to meet you. To thank you for seeing something in me worth capturing.” There was an unexpected softness to his voice. “And maybe to find out if the person behind the pencil is as interesting as her art suggests.”

“And? Verdict so far?”

“Even more interesting,” he said without hesitation. “But I still have questions.”

“Such as?”

“Such as how long you’ve been sketching strangers on trains. Why you give the drawings away instead of keeping them. Whether you draw for a living.” He leaned in slightly. “And if you’d ever let me see your sketchbook.”

Before you could answer, the barista approached with a tray.

“Here’s your cappuccino, miss. And Mr. Gojo, your usual.” She set down a borderline theatrical coffee drink in front of him, along with a small plate of pastries you definitely hadn’t heard him order.

“Chef sent these over for you both,” she added with a smile. “It’s that new recipe you suggested last week.”

“Thank him for me, Hana,” Satoru said, offering her a warm smile that made her visibly melt. “They look perfect.”

“Of course, Mr. Gojo. Anything else you need, just let me know.” She gave a polite bow before heading back.

You watched the entire exchange with growing suspicion. As soon as she was out of earshot, you leaned in.

“Okay. What was that about?”

“What do you mean?”

“The chef takes your suggestions for pastries? And the barista knows your ‘usual’, which looks—by the way—like something from the kid’s menu.”

Satoru looked mildly amused as he slid the plate towards you. “Try one. They’re amazing.”

You took one, but fixed him with a pointed look still. “Still not answering my question.”

“I come here a lot.”

“I’ve been going to the same coffee shop near my apartment for three years,” you said, “and they still spell my name wrong on the cup.”

He laughed—a real one. It drew a few subtle glances from nearby tables.

“Fair point.”

The pastry was every bit as good as he promised—light, buttery, with just the right amount of sweetness. But you weren’t letting him off the hook.

“So?” you asked, licking a crumb off your thumb. “Why does everyone here treat you like you’re... I don’t know. Someone important?”

“I suppose because I am someone important”

“What does that mean?”

“I figured I’d bring this up eventually.” Satoru took a sip of his kid’s menu drink, then set the cup down. “I own Gojo Holdings.”

You stared at him. Blankly.

“Our headquarters occupies the top ten floors of this building,” he added, casually gesturing upward.

Suddenly, the name clicked into place. Gojo Holdings—a name you’d seen before. On office towers, in business headlines, maybe even on the news channel. One of those massive investment and trading firms. It was the kind of company that quietly owned half the city without anyone really noticing.

“You’re joking.”

“I’m not.” His tone was surprisingly straightforward. “I’m the CEO. Have been for about five years, since my father stepped down.”

“So this building—?”

“I don’t own the whole tower. Just the top portion. Company offices. This café’s independent, though we partner with them for corporate events.”

“Which is why they know your usual.”

He gave a small shrug. “Perks of a eating here often.”

“So when you were on that train…”

“I was just commuting. Like anyone else.” He sipped his coffee, completely at ease. “Traffic sucks. Trains are faster.”

“A practical billionaire. How novel.”

“CEO. Not a billionare,” he corrected. “Well—technically—”

“Not helping your case,” you cut in, and to his credit, he actually looked sheepish.

“So that’s how you managed to plaster half the city with posters.” You leaned back, studying him again. “Most people would’ve just... posted something online.”

“I don’t do things halfway,” he said, not even pretending to apologize. “Besides, I don’t have social media. Too messy in my position.”

You took a long sip of your cappuccino, buying yourself a moment. Then you asked the question that had been quietly building in the back of your mind.

“So what exactly does the CEO of a major trading company want with a graphic designer who sketches strangers on the subway?”

“The same thing I wanted before you knew any of this. Get to know you.”

You tilted your head, unsure whether to believe him. He must’ve sensed your hesitation. 

“Okay, listen,” he said, leaning forward. “I’ve been renovating the executive floor of our headquarters and there’s this white wall in my office. It’s been empty for months because nothing felt right for it—”

“You want to commission me?” You blinked, more confused than ever. “For your office?”

“Yeah. Actually, for the whole floor. A series of pieces,” he said. “Not landmarks or cityscapes—everyone does that. I want your version. The people. The soul of each place. Like the sketch you gave me.”

“So all this—the posters, the dinner invitation, the whole subway artist manhunt—was for a commission?”

Something flickered in his expression. Not quite hurt, but close.

“No,” he said after a second. “Yeah. I mean—” He sighed. “Does it sound that stupid?”

“I don’t know. It’s... unexpected. That’s all.”

“Is that a yes?”

You took another sip of your cappuccino, more for the excuse to think than anything else. “It’s an ‘I’m thinking about it.’”

“Perfect,” he said, pulling out a business card of his and sliding it across the table. “No pressure. No expectations. If you're interested, call me.”

You turned the card in your fingers, still watching him. “How do you even know I draw anything—beside subway sketches, that is? I never told you.”

He raised an eyebrow, like he couldn’t quite believe you said it yourself. “You don’t?”

Stupid, handsome man. “I  hate you.”

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

Back at your desk, you twirled Satoru’s business card between your fingers, trying to make sense of it all. Was he being genuine? Or was he making fun of you? 

You glanced at the flowers he’d gifted you—still sitting in the large glass vase Mei had found in the office kitchen. They were slightly too vibrant, slightly too much, still too beautiful to ignore. No one brought those kinds of flowers as a joke. Right? And yet, the absurdity of it all made you question even that. 

You slipped the card into your desk drawer and turned your attention to the ad campaign mockups waiting on your screen. But your focus faltered. Your mind kept drifting back to blue eyes, white hair, and the warmth in his voice when he said your name.

Aki appeared at your desk not long after, not even trying to hide her curiosity. You offered her the bare minimum. Just someone whose portrait you’d sketched on the train. Nothing serious. When she pressed further, you sighed and handed over his business card.

Her reaction was immediate. “Gojo Holdings? That Gojo?”

You nodded, reluctantly.

“And he wants to commission you? For art? In his office?”

“He mentioned it,” you said, already regretting sharing anything.

She didn’t miss the nuance. “Oh. He mentioned it. But also stared at you like you hung the moon?”

Your cheeks warmed. She grinned.

That evening, you moved the card from your desk drawer to your wallet, telling yourself it’s just in case you decide to take the commission. Nothing more. 

The rational part of your brain knew this entire situation had ‘bad idea’ written all over it—in flashing neon, no less. But the less rational part of your brain kept remembering how he looked at your sketch as if it were something precious. Not just charcoal on paper.

Days passed. Then weeks.

You kept up your morning ritual—train sketches, quiet observation, the meditative act of putting pencil to paper. But now, each time you boarded, your eyes scanned the car, quietly wishing to see him again. He never appeared.

The business card moved again—from your wallet to your bedside table, then tucked into your sketchbook, then back to your wallet. You drafted emails. Professional, polite. None of them made it past your drafts folder.

And then, life—as it so often does—made the decision for you.

It started with your car being a bit bumpy, then a strange rattle under the hood. And finally, smoke. The repair bill was roughly equivalent to two months’ rent.

That night, you sat at your kitchen table, staring at your bank account and mentally rearranging numbers that didn’t cover the bill no matter what you tried. Between rent, old student loans, and the usual cost of just existing, you didn’t have a cushion big enough to absorb the hit and your parents were still helping your younger sibling through college. Credit cards would only delay the problem.

Your gaze drifted to the business card sitting on the counter where you’d left it earlier. A commission from Gojo Holdings would cover surely more than the car repairs. And then some.

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

“This entire hallway is yours to reimagine,” Satoru said, gesturing with a casual sweep of his arm. You trailed a few steps behind, sketchbook in hand, scribbling notes as he pointed at one blank wall after another. “Boardroom entrances, reception, executive offices—the whole floor could use your touch.”

The headquarters of Gojo Holdings was exactly what you’d imagined. Sleek, modern, almost intimidating. Walls of glass divided up the offices, giving the illusion of privacy without actually offering much of it. Matte blacks, brushed steel, deep grays, and just enough warm wood or marble veining to say ‘tasteful’ without inviting any real comfort. But maybe that was the point.

Offices like this weren’t meant to feel cozy. In these rooms, decisions were made that shifted markets. Billions moved with a gesture. A signature. A nod. And somewhere at the center of it all was Satoru Gojo, walking through it like he was on his way to pick up coffee at the mall.

“How many pieces are we talking about?” you asked, already measuring the length of yet another white wall in your mind.

“However many feels right.” He glanced over his shoulder just in time to catch your raised brow. “What? I mean it.”

“You know, most clients have a vision board. Timelines. Color codes. Budgets. A whole approval chain.”

“I’m not most clients.”

“Clearly.”

He continued the tour, leading you through a maze of meeting rooms and long corridors, while you took notes in your sketchbook—dimensions, how the light shifted through the glass and how certain walls caught the sun. 

You paused often to sketch rough layouts or mark potential placements, all while trying to ignore the way Satoru was watching you more than the rooms.

“And this,” Satoru said, stopping in front of a pair of sleek double doors, “is my office.”

His office was huge—at least four times the size of your apartment—with windows stretching from floor to ceiling, offering a stunning view of the Tokyo skyline. Gentle afternoon sunlight streamed in, causing everything to shimmer softly, as if in a dream.

“It’s…” you hesitated, searching for a word that wouldn’t stroke his ego, “…adequate.”

Satoru burst out laughing. “Adequate? That might be the first time anyone’s used that word to describe my office.”

“I’m sure people usually fall over themselves with compliments.” You moved towards the windows. “I thought I’d try something different.”

“And that,” he said, following with hands tucked casually in his pockets, “is exactly why I hired you.”

“Because I don’t stroke your ego?”

“Because you’re straight forward. I like that.”

Something in his tone made you glance up at him, but his expression was unreadable as he gazed out at the city below.

“That wall there,” he continued, pointing to the large empty space behind his desk, “is where I originally thought your work would go. But then I thought, why not the whole floor?”

You walked his office slowly, taking in the space, the light, the simplicity. “It’s quite the blank canvas.”

“I’ve been told my style is too minimalist.”

“By who? The interior design magazine that did a feature on your last penthouse?”

His eyes widened a little before crinkling at the corners. “You Googled me.”

“Basic research before meeting a new client,” you said, but your cheeks, of course, betrayed you.

“Mmhmm.” He didn’t look convinced. “Come here. I want to show you something.”

You approached the window where he stood.

“See that building there?” He pointed toward the horizon. “The one with the copper coloured roof?”

You squinted, seeing hundreds of buildings but not sure which one he meant. “Not really…”

“May I?”

Before you could fully register the question, he was behind you, one hand grazing your shoulder, the other gently tilting your chin to guide your gaze. His warmth at your back made your breath hitch.

“There,” he said, his voice brushing your ear. “Between those two towers. That’s where I first saw your work. A small gallery in Ginza. Community showcase. Your cityscape series.”

Your pulse stumbled. “You knew? All this time?”

“Kind of, yeah,” he admitted, still close enough that you could feel the quiet rumble of his words. “I’d actually thought about commissioning you back then—at the gallery. But things got busy, and I let it go. When I saw your sketch on the train, I recognized it immediately and it felt like… I don’t know. A sign. Like the universe was giving me a second chance.”

“How poetic.” You turned slightly, realizing his face was only inches from yours. “Why didn’t you just ask the gallery for my contact info? Would’ve saved you a lot of time. And posters.”

His lips curved into that maddening smile. “Where’s the fun in that?”

“You’re so weird.”

“Says the woman who stalks stranger on the train and draws them.”

“You’re the stalker here.”

“So, what do you think?” He stepped back and leaned casually against his desk. “Can you handle transforming the most boring executive floor in Tokyo?”

“Let’s talk numbers first.”

“I was thinking something in the range of two million yen for the full project,” he replied, watching you carefully.

You nearly choked. That was more than generous—enough to fix your car, pay off a good chunk of your student loans, maybe even take a breath for once. But something in his easy confidence made you want to test his limits.

“Four million,” you said, eyes steady. Bold.

His brows lifted. “That’s quite a jump.”

“I’m quite an artist.”

“That’s already well above—”

You tilted your head, pretending to reconsider. “Hmm. So, if you don’t want me…”

You let the words hang as you casually closed your sketchbook and took a slow step backward, turning like you were ready to walk out. “I get it. It’s a big commitment. I’m sure someone else can paint your sterile corporate walls.”

Satoru blinked. “Wait—”

You took another step.

“Three million,” he said. “Final offer.”

“Deal,” you replied, quick before he could change his mind. “But I have conditions. I want full creative freedom.”

“Naturally.” He pushed off the desk and extended his hand. “Three million yen, complete creative freedom, and dinner.”

Your hand froze halfway to his. “Dinner?”

“Just a simple business dinner,” he said innocently. “To go over project details.”

“We can go over those in an email.”

“Some things are better discussed in person. Over good food. And maybe a glass of wine.”

You crossed your arms. “That sounds suspiciously like a date.”

“Only if you want it to be,” he said, mirroring your stance.

“I don’t.”

“Then it’s not.”

You narrowed your eyes. “Fine. One business dinner.”

“At Narisawa,” he added casually. “Private dining room, excellent view.”

“Narisawa? That’s a two month waiting list.”

“Not for everyone.”

“You’re really trying to blur the lines between business and private, aren’t you?”

“I’m merely suggesting a restaurant worthy of an three million yen commission.”

“McDonald’s exists.”

“I’m not taking you to McDonald’s.”

“I thought I had creative control in this partnership.”

“Over the art,” he said. “Dining arrangements fall under my jurisdiction.”

You gave him a look. “I’m starting to think this dinner is more important to you than the actual commission.”

“What would give you that impression?”

“Maybe because you’re pushing harder for this dinner than you did for the art.”

“I didn’t need to push for the art. You were already sold.”

“Presumptuous.”

“Am I wrong?”

You sighed, knowing you were fighting a losing battle. “One dinner. No private room—that’s weird. Main restaurant only. And I’m paying for myself.”

“Main restaurant’s fine,” he conceded, far too agreeable. “But I’m paying. Consider it a signing bonus.”

“That’s not how signing bonuses work.”

“It is at my company.”

“Fine. But this changes nothing. It’s strictly professional.”

“Of course,” he said. “Just two colleagues having a quiet eight course meal at one of Tokyo’s finest restaurants. Completely professional.”

“You’re impossible.”

“And yet, here you are, agreeing to both the commission and dinner.”

You extended your hand to finally seal the deal. “Three million yen, full creative control, and one—singular, not two, only one—business dinner.”

He took your hand, his thumb brushing over your knuckles, and you hated how weak that made your knees feel.

“If you say so,” he said.

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

Over the next two weeks, Gojo Holdings basically became your second home. You spent hours wandering the halls, filling your sketchbook with rough layouts and scribbled notes, snapping photos of how the light shifted from morning to dusk. 

The project had you more energized than anything you’d worked on in years. Full creative freedom and a proper budget? That almost never happened. You didn’t want to waste it.

What you hadn’t expected was how often you’d see Satoru, though. Despite being constantly pulled into meetings and conference calls, you know, running a whole financial empire and all that, he somehow always knew when you were in the building.

Sometimes you’d catch glimpses of him through the glass walls of the conference rooms, commanding attention with a casual confidence that was almost mesmerizing to watch. He’d be deep in conversation with some serious looking executives, completely in his element, and then, as if he could sense your gaze, his eyes would find yours. A subtle wink or the ghost of a smile just for you, and suddenly your stomach would do that stupid fluttering thing again.

Other times, he’d just… appear. Out of nowhere. Usually while you were measuring a wall or standing on your tiptoes trying to track the afternoon shadows.

“Need a hand?” he’d ask, already handing you a coffee like he knew you forgot to eat again and make some terrible joke about “hanging” your work. (“Get it? Because they’ll be hanging on the wall?” “Yes, Satoru, I get it. It’s still not funny.” “You smiled though.”)

He’d carve out little bits of time—ten minutes here, twenty there—despite his full schedule. Sometimes he’d walk with you through the space, telling stories about silly board meetings. Seriously, who would’ve thought that a company handling millions in the stock market could be run like a sitcom half the time? 

Other times, he’d just sit nearby while you sketched, sipping his coffee in silence and letting you work. Strangely enough, his presence was never distracting. If anything, it felt… comfortable. Good, even.

And occasionally, he’d say something that surprised you. A thought about layout. A comment about color balance. Something you didn’t expect from a guy who usually talked in numbers and strategies.

“Shouldn’t you be doing CEO things instead of analyzing my color palette?” you’d ask.

“I could, but I’ve already yelled at three departments today. I’m ahead of schedule,” he’d reply with a grin.

And the strangest part wasn’t how much he was around. It was how quickly you got used to it. And how weirdly empty the rooms felt when he wasn’t there.

Your concept came together almost on its own. A series about Tokyo told through its people. Not neon signs or city skylines, more salarymen passed out on the train, old women gossiping in corner markets, teenagers packed into ramen shops after school. Quiet, ordinary moments that felt honest. Human.

Your apartment turned chaotic. Canvases leaned against furniture, reference photos were spread across every flat surface, and your sketches were taped to the windows just to see how they looked in different light. You worked late most nights, completely losing track of time until your stomach reminded you that you hadn’t eaten anything except an energy drink and half a protein bar.

You’d send status updates to Satoru sometimes. Professionally, mostly.

The concept boards are coming along well. I’ll have something concrete to show you by next week. — You

His replies, however, did not share your sense of professional distance:

I’m sure they’re amazing, but I’d rather see the artist than the art. When are you letting me buy you dinner? — SG

You rolled your eyes at his persistence, but you couldn’t help the small smile tugging at your lips.

The art comes before the artist. Patience, Mr. Gojo. — You

Mr. Gojo was my father. I’m Satoru to you, remember? And patience has never been my strong suit. — SG

The exchanges continued like this—you sending actual work updates, him responding with barely veiled attempts to see you again. It was absurd. Unprofessional. And yet… you looked forward to his replies more than you cared to admit.

Three weeks in, his patience seemed to officially ran out:

Dinner. This Friday. 8 PM. I’ve already made reservations at Narisawa. Unless you’re planning to work through the weekend again? — SG

You stared at the message for a long moment before typing back:

I’m in the middle of the sixth canvas. Friday won’t work. — You

His response came almost immediately:

Art can wait. Food can’t. The reservation is at 8. — SG

You scoffed.

I don’t recall agreeing to this Friday. Reschedule? — You

Ten minutes passed with no response. You had just returned to your canvas when your phone rang. His name lit up the screen.

“Hello?”

“I don’t accept a no.”

“That sounds problematic.”

He laughed. “Only when it comes to dinner invitations. Specifically ones I’ve been waiting weeks for.”

“I’m covered in paint and haven’t slept properly in days.”

“You could show up in pajamas and still be the most interesting person in the room.”

“Flattery won’t work.”

“You’re an awful liar, you know that? Your voice just did that thing it does when you’re trying not to smile.”

Your traitor lips curved anyway. “You can’t possibly know that over the phone.”

“But I’m right, aren’t I?”

You sighed and set your brush down. “Why are you so persistent about this dinner?”

“Because I want to see you,” he said simply. “Because you’ve been painting pieces for my walls and I haven’t even seen your progress. Because maybe I miss the way you look at me like you’re immune to my charm.”

“I could send photos of the work.”

“Or,” he said, “you could wear something you like, let me feed you something expensive, and tell me about your process in person.”

“You won’t let me out of this, will you?”

“No.”

You sighed. “Fine. But I’m paying for myself.”

“We’ll discuss that over appetizers.”

“There’s nothing to discuss.”

“Friday at 8,” he said, ignoring your protest. “I’ll pick you up.”

“I can take the train.”

“Humor me.”

You could practically hear the smile in his voice.

“Has anyone ever told you you’re impossible?”

“You. Repeatedly. It’s part of our thing.”

“We don’t have a thing.”

“Yet,” he added. And before you could argue, “I’ll see you Friday. Wear something that makes you happy.”

After the call ended, you stared at your phone for a few moments longer, until the screen turned black.

Somehow, despite your best efforts and at least three attempts to ghost him, you had a dinner on Friday night. Not a date, you told yourself. A business dinner. With a man who was way too attractive, way too confident, and had launched an entire campaign just to commission you. Totally normal.

You turned back to your canvas and tried to focus, but the flutter in your stomach wouldn’t go away.

It was just dinner. In a restaurant. With candlelight and probably a lot of eye contact. Nothing more.

Still, as you painted into the night, you caught yourself wondering what you might wear that would make you feel good. And maybe—just maybe—make him look at you the way he had in his office, when he stood so close you could feel the warmth of his breath on your skin.

Strictly professional, you reminded yourself.

Even you didn’t believe it anymore.

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

Friday evening arrived with the kind of weird, way too warm weather that made you rethink your outfit three times before settling on something that felt like you—comfortable but still nice enough for... whatever game Satoru might be playing.

You were fixing your lipstick when your phone buzzed.

Downstairs. Take your time. — SG

You walked over to the window for a quick glance outside—and there he was.

Satoru was leaning against the passenger side of a sleek black car, arms crossed, dressed in a dark suit that looked almost identical to the one he’d worn the day you first saw him on Line 4. As if he could feel your gaze, he looked up. And saw you. 

No wave, no wink—just a slow, knowing smile spread across his lips.

You blinked and stepped back from the window, heart fluttering in a strange way it hadn’t in a long time. Who even was this man? And how had he managed to get under your skin so completely, so quickly? You were dressing up, wearing lipstick, checking the window like some high school crush was picking you up for prom.

It was ridiculous. Stupid, even.

You grabbed your bag, took a breath, and headed downstairs before your brain had time to start asking too many questions.

He was still just a client. A persistent, maddeningly handsome client.

When you stepped out, he was still leaning against the passenger side door and just for a moment, he froze. No smirk. No teasing remark. Nothing prepared. His usual cool confidence seemed to falter as his eyes swept over you slowly and deliberately, like he wasn’t quite sure he was seeing you right.

“Wow,” he said quietly, straightening up a little and running a hand through his hair before letting out a breath. “You look…” He actually stopped to find the word—that alone felt suspicious. “…really beautiful.”

“Stop that.”

“Stop what? Being honest? Sorry, not tonight.”

Before you could say anything else, he was already opening the car door for you, one hand briefly touching the small of your back as you slid inside. Not in a sleazy way. More like it came naturally to him. Which made you almost forget to be annoyed by his presumption.

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

Narisawa was exactly what you expected and somehow even more—the kind of place where the lighting was soft without being dim, where the air smelled faintly of thyme and something far more expensive, and where every detail felt carefully chosen to whisper, ‘you absolutely cannot afford this’.

Satoru had, of course, managed to get a table by the window, offering a view of the skyline that felt almost unreal. It was the kind of view that made the whole night feel like it belonged in a movie and made you almost forget this was technically a business dinner.

Conversation came easier than you’d expected. Over the first few courses—each one more art piece than meal, which made you feel slightly guilty about ruining it by eating it (I mean, who does that? Making such pretty food just for it to end up in a stomach?)—you talked about everything from your work as a designer and your favourite bands, to his tragic inability to make anything more complicated than instant noodles, and how he once almost made it into the national basketball team.

But what surprised you most was the way he asked about your art. He had a way of asking about that didn’t feel performative or polite. He was actually listening, not just waiting for his turn to talk.

“So, the third piece,” he said, slicing into what was probably the most perfectly cooked fish you’d ever tasted. “The one with the commuters—how do you get that sense of movement in a still frame?”

You paused. “You’ve been paying attention.”

“I told you—I’m interested in your process.”

“Most clients only ask when it’ll be done and how much it’ll cost.”

He smiled, lifting his wine glass. “I’m not most clients,” he said, echoing what he’d told you that first day at his headquarters.

For the next twenty minutes, you talked shop. Layering techniques, color and motion, how to evoke emotion without showing too much. He asked questions that actually made you think—sharp, specific ones that showed he wasn’t just nodding along to be polite. He was genuinely interested.

At some point, somewhere between your third course and your second glass of wine, you caught yourself relaxing. Laughing. Enjoying it. And then you paused and set your glass down.

“Can I ask you something?” you said, unsure why the question suddenly felt heavier than it should.

“Anything.”

“You really went through all this—the car, this restaurant, the whole dramatic dinner—just to talk about brushwork and layering techniques?”

He leaned back in his chair, fingers resting lightly against his glass as he searched for the right words. “I don’t know,” he said finally. “Maybe I just like you.”

“You like me?” you echoed, unsure if it was a question or a warning.

“Is that so hard to believe?”

“Kind of, yeah.” You fidgeted with your napkin. “I mean, you could be having dinner with a dozen other people tonight. Models. Actresses. CEOs’ daughters. People who don’t get paint on their shoes and give you a hard time.”

“Maybe that’s exactly why.”

Something shifted between you at his words. Like someone had turned the volume down on the room so you could hear each other better. You took a slow sip of wine, partly to buy time, partly to keep your expression neutral as you studied him across the table.

“So, you’re single then?” you asked. “Unless your girlfriend’s very cool with you taking strangers to fancy dinners.”

Satoru raised an eyebrow. “Are you asking if I have a girlfriend?”

“I’m asking if I should expect an angry phone call later.”

He laughed. “No angry phone calls. And yeah—I’m single.”

“Shocking,” you said. “A successful and attractive CEO who can’t keep a girlfriend? What’s the catch?”

“Maybe I’m just picky.”

“Or maybe you’re married to your work,” you teased. “Let me guess—canceled dates for board meetings, forgotten anniversaries because of some deadline?”

“That’s…” He paused, glancing down on his glass for a moment. “Actually, my last girlfriend cheated on me.”

Your smile slipped. “Oh. I didn’t mean to—”

“Don’t be sorry. She wasn’t the right one. If she had been, maybe she would’ve understood that building something that lasts takes time. And attention.”

“How long ago was that?”

“About two years.” He reached for his wine, swirling it once before taking a sip. “Haven’t really dated since then.”

“So, casual things?”

“More like burying myself in work. Honestly, the closest thing I’ve had to female company lately is my secretary. And she has this strangely strict voice that sounds exactly like my mother when she’s disappointed.”

You laughed, sharp and sudden, covering your mouth with your hand. It wasn’t even that funny, not really. But the way he’d said it—so dry, and slightly frightened—and the face he made, like a kid who’d just been scolded for wearing the wrong socks to a school recital, caught you completely off guard.

For a moment, he didn’t look like the CEO of a massive company or the man who moved literal billions without blinking. He looked boyish. Almost shy. Like he was letting you peek at something most people didn’t get to see. And somehow, that made it even funnier.

You tried to compose yourself, but your shoulders were still shaking as you dabbed at the corners of your eyes. “I’m sorry.”

He smiled as he watched you try to hold in your laughter. “I like when you laugh like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like you’re not thinking about how you look doing it.”

Something in the way he said it that made the humor settle into something softer, something that hangs in the air a little too long. Like neither of you wanted to be the one to move past it first.

“Well,” you said, trying to ignore the way your pulse had picked up, “your secretary sounds scary. I can see why you’d rather have dinner with me.”

“Among other reasons.”

Heat crept up your neck before you could stop it. You picked up your glass, needing the excuse to look away for a second. “Are you always this charming?” you asked, trying to sound casual, but your voice came out a little softer than intended.

“I’m trying,” he said. “With you.”

He said it like it wasn’t heavy at all. But it was. And you could feel it settle in your chest.

“Satoru…” you started, not even sure what was going to follow. But then the waiter showed up and set down the next course with a brief description you didn’t really hear because you only had eyes for him.

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

Dinner had stretched well past ten, neither of you making any real effort to end the night. So when Satoru suggested a walk instead of heading straight to the car, you said yes.

The night had cooled off more than you expected, and you pulled your jacket a little tighter around your shoulders as the two of you wandered through the quiet streets near the restaurant. It had rained earlier, leaving the pavement slick and glistening under the streetlights. At one point, a small puddle stretched across the sidewalk, and before you could react, Satoru just scooped you up without a word and carried you over it like it was the most natural thing in the world. 

Maybe it was the warmth the wine had left in your chest, or maybe it was just the way his arms felt around you, steady and sure, but you let yourself lean a little closer against him before he set you down again on the other side. 

“That was unnecessary,” you said, trying to sound annoyed, though you didn’t make much effort to slip out of his arms.

“Maybe,” he replied with a grin, “but I’ve always wanted an excuse to do that.”

It felt good—being with him felt really good. The kind of good that made you forget to guard yourself. The kind that crept in quietly and made you wonder what it would be like to have more nights just like this.

You’d just rounded a corner into a small park when you heard soft violin music drifting through the air. You slowed, then stopped entirely. Just ahead, a street musician stood under the warm glow of a streetlamp, playing something slow and aching and beautiful.

You stood still and listened for a moment, a smal smile tugigng at your lips. 

“Dance with me,” Satoru said.

You turned to him. “What? No.”

“Why not?” He held out a hand.

You hesitated and looked around for a second. 

“You know, I won’t take ‘no’ for an answer.”

You surrendered and took his hand. “This is so stupid.”

He smiled, soft and sincere, and stepped in close. One hand found your waist, the other guiding yours up between you. His touch was warm, steady. Familiar in a way it shouldn’t be.

“You know,” you began, as he gently started to move. Not quite dancing, more like remembering how. “I usually don’t do this with clients.”

“Figures. I always suspected I was your favourite.”

“I wouldn’t say that,” you teased. “That other client of mine, a guy from an accounting firm is pretty smooth too.”

“Oh really? Did he buy you dinner at Narisawa and slow dance with you in the park?”

“Not yet.”

“I like when you try to mess with me.”

“I’m not trying. You just make it easy.”

He spun you gently, then pulled you back in, your hand pressed lightly to his chest. You could feel his heartbeat through the fabric of his dress shirt—too fast, like yours.

A few people passed, smiling without staring. It didn’t matter. You were too aware of his breath near your cheek, the weight of his palm at your back, the quiet between songs that didn’t feel like silence at all.

“You’re good at this,” you said softly.

“I only dance with people who make it easy.”

“That line would work better if your hands weren’t shaking a little.”

He leaned in closer, his breath gazing your ear. “So are yours.”

You swallowed, the closeness of him settling into your skin. You didn’t answer. Just let him hold you for a few more seconds, rain beginning to fall in light taps across your shoulders, your hair. And then he dipped you back gently, one hand firm behind you.

“Still think it’s stupid?” he asked.

Your breath caught as you stared up into those impossibly blue eyes, your back arching as he supported your weight effortlessly. The rest of the world faded away until there was nothing but him and the violin and the electric space between you.

“Yes,” you whispered. “Absolutely.”

“But?”

You hesitated, then let your fingers curl lightly around the front of his jacket. “But I don’t want it to stop.”

That’s when you felt the first raindrop hit your cheek.

His gaze flickered down to the raindrop on your skin, how it slowly run down, and for a second you could have sworn he looked at you lips. And maybe, just maybe you wished he’d kissed you but then the rain came heavier.

“That’s our cue.” But he didn’t move right away. His eyes stayed on you. 

Finally, he lifted you back up, drawing you close against his chest. You were both breathing hard, though you’d barely been moving. The rain was falling more steadily now, and you could see Satoru’s white hair beginning to darken with moisture.

“Home?” he asked, voice rougher now, like he wasn’t quite ready for the answer either.

You nodded, not trusting yourself to say anything without giving too much away. Because at some point, this had stopped feeling like dinner with a client. You weren’t sure when it changed—only that it had. And now everything felt a little too close, a little too important.

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

When the car pulled up to your building, he was out and opening your door before you could reach for the handle yourself. Of course he was. Always one step ahead, always just… thoughtful in that maddening, disarming way.

“Thank you,” you said, stepping out into the quiet night.

“My pleasure.” 

The air smelled like wet pavement and something faintly floral from someone’s balcony. He walked you to your door, hands tucked into his pockets, eyes flicking toward the sky like he wasn’t quite ready to say goodnight either. 

You fumbled with your keys for a moment, buying time before the inevitable goodbye. The silence stretched, not tense, but full. Full of everything that had happened and everything that hadn’t.

When you finally turned to him, he was closer than you’d expected, close enough that you could see the way his white hair had dried in soft waves from the rain. He smelled faintly of wine and cedar and like someone you could spend the rest of your life with.

“I had a really good time tonight,” you said. “Thank you. For the dinner, the dancing, the completely unnecessary puddle rescue…”

He smiled, a little crooked, a little tired. “Even the terrible jokes?”

“Especially the terrible jokes. Though the stories of your secretary will probably haunt me tonight.”

“Oh, she haunts everyone,” he said. “She’s very scary.”

You both laughed, but the sound died down fast, like the moment had suddenly remembered it was trying to mean something else. His gaze dropped, if only for the briefest moment, to your lips. Your heart hammered against your ribs as you waited, hoping, expecting—

“I should let you get some sleep,” he said. But instead of stepping back, he stepped closer.

Your breath caught as his hand rose—slow, deliberate—coming to rest gently at the back of your head. But instead of the dreamy kiss you’d hoped for, he kissed your forehead. Not your mouth. Not even your cheek. Your forehead.

The kiss was soft, warm—overflowing with care. But not the kind you’d been waiting for. It was tender, almost reverent, and somehow, it left you feeling strangely hollow.

“Sleep well,” he murmured against your skin before pulling back. And then he turned—just like that—and walked back to the car. No glance over his shoulder. No hesitation. No second thought.

Inside your apartment, you leaned against the closed door, jacket still damp against your shoulders. You touched your forehead, where his lips had been. It had been sweet. Really, it had. Just… not what you’d expected. Not what you’d wanted.

You let your head fall back against the door with a soft thud. Why hadn’t he kissed you? Why would he do all that just to not... kiss you?

You’d been so sure. The way he’d looked at you over dinner. The way he’d held you during that ridiculous dance. The way it had all felt like a slow build to something. And you wanted that something.

But maybe that was the problem. Maybe you were just another commission to him after all, something to be handled with care but ultimately kept at arm’s length.

It shouldn’t have stung the way it did. But it did.

More than you cared to admit.

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

Monday morning arrived under a gray drizzle that matched your mood a little too perfectly. You stepped into a puddle on the way out, got your umbrella stuck in a doorway because you’d forgotten it was open, and then someone on the subway sneezed directly in your direction. It was that kind of morning.

You’d spent the entire weekend replaying Friday night over in your head—every glance, every word, every fleeting gesture—until you’d nearly driven yourself mad with questions that had no answers.

And Aki was absolutely no help. She was already perched on your desk when you walked in, your usual coffee in one hand and dark circles under your eyes doing all the talking.

“Soooo… how was your fancy dinner?”

“It was fine,” you said, powering up your computer.

“Fine?” Mei materialized beside her like she’d been lying in wait for gossip. “That’s it? You go to Narisawa with the hottest CEO in Tokyo and all we get is fine?”

“It was a business dinner. We discussed the commission.”

“What kind of man gets you flowers that pretty just to talk about business?”

“A man who takes his commission very seriously.”

You could feel their stares burning into the side of your head.

“Come on,” Mei pressed. “Did he kiss you? He kissed you, didn’t he? I can tell by your face.”

“He didn’t kiss me.”

“Ah,” Aki said, with that stupid satisfaction of someone who’d just solved a puzzle. “So you wanted him to.”

You groaned and buried your face in your hands. “Can we please not?”

But of course, they were relentless, firing question after question at you about what you wore, what you ate, what he said, if there was a ‘vibe’—until you were actually grateful for that boring meeting before lunch with a client who always rejected your ideas, made you change them back and forth a dozen times, and inevitably circled back to the original design. As frustrating as that was, it still didn’t compare to what was coming later.

You had a meeting with Satoru after work to talk about delivery logistics—when to bring the artwork, how many pieces were ready. The commission was nearly complete, and a few canvases could be brought to his office already. But the thought of standing across from him again, making small talk about framing and placement, felt unbearable.

Not to mention figuring out how to get those giant canvases out of your apartment, which was now packed to the walls with drying paint, sketches, and so many drop cloths you’d basically lost your kitchen to the cause.

For weeks, this commission had felt like the best thing to happen to your career. But now, standing outside the gleaming tower that housed his office, you weren’t sure what to think anymore.

Was this just business to him? Had you imagined the connection, the tension, the way he looked at you like you were someone special? Maybe successful men like Satoru Gojo were just naturally charming, and you’d been naive enough to think it meant something more.

You straightened your shoulders and walked into the building. If he wanted professional, he could have professional. You had a job to do, no matter what kind of game your heart thought it was playing.

You raised your hand to knock on his office door—though really, there was no need. The walls were glass, and he’d already spotted you the second you moved. 

He was on the phone, his shoulder pinning it in place as he typed something on the laptop in front of him. With a slight nod of his head, he gestured for you to come in. And there it was again—that maddening smile. The one that made it look like his whole face lit up just from seeing you.

You stepped inside, lingering uncertainly near the door. He was still deep in conversation, something about a company merger and someone named Gerald being an absolut idiot, and how he might as well handle it himself. Always busy, it seemed. 

Satoru shifted the phone slightly and glanced at you. “Hey, you want coffee?”

You nodded and then he was back to his call. You wandered a little further into his office, taking in the space. It was always so tidy which felt strangely at odds with how chaotic his work seemed to be. You drifted toward the tall windows and looked down at the city below. In the gentle afternoon sun, people were rushing through the city—commuters heading home, students in uniform, ordinary lives unfolding far beneath you.

Satoru stood and walked over to you. He was close—Why would he come so close?—and placed a hand gently at your waist, a brief touch that lingered just long enough to make your breath catch. He pressed the phone to his chest for a moment. 

“Sorry for the wait,” he said, voice low. “I’m nearly done.” 

And then he was gone, stepping out of the office and leaving you reeling.

When he returned two minutes later, he had two mugs in one hand and a canned coffee tucked under his arm, balancing it all as he kicked open the door with his foot. Phone was still pressed between his shoulder and ear. He poured two cups and handed you a one, flashing you that easy smile of his.

You took a seat on the couch, sipping carefully and doing your best not to make eye contact. But you were sure he’d already noticed the flush creeping into your cheeks.

Finally, he hung up and let out a long sigh. 

“I’m so sorry. There’s this big merger we’re handling, and the guy in charge is like the biggest idiot I’ve ever met.”

“It’s okay.”

He ran a hand through his hair, sending it falling messily back over his forehead.

“No, it’s not. I don’t want to keep you waiting.”

“I bet that just comes naturally with being important.”

“I’m not that important,” he replied with a grin.

“The whole tower has your name on it. I’d say that qualifies.”

“What’s more important right now,” he said, standing and walking over to you, “is you.” He took the seat across from you. “So… how was your day? Treat you well?”

Why was he asking about your day now? What kind of game was he playing?

“It was fine. Monday’s not exactly my favorite.”

“Don’t get me started.” He laughed. “I hope at least your meeting went well?”

You blinked. He remembers? You’d mentioned it briefly during dinner.

“Oh, uh… yeah. It went okay,” you said. “But let’s talk about the commission. That’s why I’m here, right?”

He frowned, and there was a moment of silence. “Sure.”

You spent the next hour and a half going over the artwork—discussing placement, lighting, framing. He was enthusiastic and attentive, genuinely appreciative in a way that still surprised you, even now.

You moved through the headquarters together. Most people had gone home by then. The sun had already set, casting long shadows through the quiet halls. A few late workers lingered, but Satoru told them to go and rest and sent them home. And just like that, it was the two of you, walking side by side through the empty building, planning where each piece would live.

It was in one of the offices on the west side of the building—the ones with the perfect view of Tokyo Tower—that you found yourself on your tiptoes, trying to tape a placeholder on the wall for one of the larger pieces. You stretched, struggling to reach just high enough to get the angle right.

“Wait, let me.”

Before you could respond, Satoru was suddenly right behind you. He gently took the tape from your fingers, easily reaching over you to press it into place. His body hovered just a breath away, tall and warm.

“Thank you,” you said, suddenly flushed. But he didn’t move away. “You can step back now.” You didn’t dare turn around because if you did, you would end up facing his chest. And you really didn’t want to face his chest.

“Does this make you uncomfortable?”

“What kind of question is that?”

“I’m just checking in,” he said casually, like it was the most normal thing in the world to stand inches away from someone like this.

“You have a strange way of doing that.”

“I had a feeling.”

“About what?”

“You’re avoiding me.”

“I don’t.”

He reached out, fingers brushing your shoulder, and then slowly trailed the back of his hand down your arm. It sent a shiver down your spine that you hoped he didn’t notice.

“So this doesn’t bother you?” he asked, almost curious.

“Satoru, what’s your mission here?”

You finally turned to face him and regretted it immediately. You were much too close, nearly pressed against him. His white dress shirt did nothing to hide the muscle beneath, and you hated the fact that your first thought was how unfairly good he’d look without it.

“You’re blushing.” He reached out, gently cupping your chin and tilting your face up toward his.

“It’s hot.”

“It isn’t,” he said, and smiled.

He was right. It was around eighteen degrees. Damn these fancy offices and their perfectly functioning ACs.

“Can we go back to work? I’d rather not have a sleepover here.”

Satoru didn’t move. Instead, he leaned in closer, placing one hand against the wall beside your head, caging you in.

“You’re acting strange today,” he said softly.

“Maybe because you’re keeping me here.”

“Was I mistaken?”

“About what?”

“Our date.”

“What about it?”

His hand dropped from your chin. “I thought it was… good.”

You blinked, trying to read him. “It was—” you cleared your throat, “—it wasn’t just good. It was great.”

“Oh. Yeah… I think so too. Then why—”

“But you didn’t kiss me.”

His eyes widened just a little. “You… wanted me to kiss you?”

“I…” You hesitated, feeling your face getting even hotter then is already was. “Yes.”

“I thought I’d be a gentleman and take things slow. Are we actually kissing on first dates these days?”

“I mean… yeah. It depends—I guess, but…” You trailed off, absolutely flustered.

He paused for a beat, then that maddeningly smug grin spread across his lips.

“Don’t smile like that,” you said, pushing lightly against his chest.

“I’m sorry, I just… I didn’t want to rush things. I mean, my whole approach was already kind of—”

“Weird? Borderline stalker—” And then his lips were on yours, silencing your words. 

No hesitation this time. No uncertainty. You melted into him instantly, your fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt. 

His hands slid into your hair, fingers threading through the strands as he tilted your head back, deepening the kiss with a confidence that made your knees go weak. One hand traced the line of your jaw while the other found the small of your back, pulling you closer until not even air could fit between you.

You could taste the coffee on his lips, could feel the slight tremor in his hands that betrayed that he wasn’t as composed as he looked. When he pulled back, you were both breathless, foreheads pressed together under the dim lights.

“Still think this is just about the commission?” he asked, his thumb brushing gently across your bottom lip, now flushed and swollen from his kiss.

“Shut up.” And then you grabbed him by his tie and pulled him back to your lips.

This kiss was different. Hungrier. Needier. He pressed you back against the wall, one hand braced beside your head, the other tangled deep in your hair. You couldn’t stop the soft sound that escaped when he deepened it further, like you’d been waiting for this longer than you wanted to admit.

“What’s the hurry?” he whispered between kisses, his mouth trailing along your jaw.

“You made a whole-ass campaign to find me,” you said, breathless, your fingers twisted in his shirt. “Don’t back down now.”

His laugh was low and rough against your neck. “Fair point.”

Before you could answer, his hands slid down to your thighs, and suddenly you were being lifted, your back pressed firmly against the wall as he held you there effortlessly. Your legs wrapped around his waist, and the new position brought you eye-level with him, close enough to see just how dark his eyes had gone.

“Still too slow for you?” he asked against your throat, his breath warm on your skin.

“Getting there,” you managed, though your voice was shakier than you’d intended, your hands gripping his shoulders for balance.

“I do like a challenge.”

Without breaking the kiss, Satoru carried you across the floor into his office, your legs still wrapped around his waist, until he reached the leather couch by the windows. He lowered you both down, following you as you sank into the soft cushions, his weight settling over you as his hands framed your face.

“Much better,” he breathed against your lips.

His kisses deepened, slow and deliberate, like he had all the time in the world to explore the taste of you. One hand slid into your hair while the other traced the curve of your waist. 

“I hope you sent everyone home,” you said, fingers threading through his white hair as his mouth moved along your neck.

“Don’t worry. And besides—glass or not, the walls are soundproof. One of the perks of being CEO.”

“How convenient.”

“I thought so.” His teeth grazed the sensitive spot just beneath your jaw, making you gasp and arch beneath him. “Though I have to admit—I didn’t imagine using it like this when I had them installed.”

You tugged gently at his hair, bringing his mouth back to yours. “Then what did you imagine?”

“Boring conference calls,” he said between kisses. “Definitely not as interesting as this.”

The leather of the couch was cool against your back where your shirt had ridden up, highlighting the heat of his large hands as they explored the newly exposed skin. Outside, Tokyo shimmered in the night, but the only thing holding your attention was the man above you—the way he kissed you like he was memorizing every reaction, every breath, every soft sound you made.

“What makes you think I’m that loud?” you murmured against his mouth.

“Oh, I have a feeling.”

His hand drifted lower, fingers tracing the curve of your hip before skimming up the inside of your thigh. The touch sent a rush through your veins, making you gasp softly into his kiss.

“Satoru,” you whispered, fingers gripping the front of his shirt, pulling him closer as his touch grew bolder.

“I know.” His hand inched lower between your legs, while his lips kissed down your neck. “I hate waiting too.”

Then his hand slipped beneath the waistband of your jeans, chasing every bit of tension that had been building between you since that very first subway sketch. And as the lights of Tokyo glittered beyond the glass, the rest of the world fell away, leaving nothing but the heat between you—and the things neither of you could hold back any longer.

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

Later, you lay tangled together on the leather couch, your head resting on his chest as his fingers traced lazy patterns along your bare shoulder. Everything had gone still, except for your breathing and the distant noise of Tokyo still awake outside.

“So,” Satoru said, his voice warm with amusement, “where exactly did we leave off with the commission?”

You lifted your head to look at him, a smile tugging at your lips. “Pretty sure we got distracted somewhere around placing the canvas in the west office block.”

“Ah, yes—the once perfect placement. Facing the window, not the door. ‘Omg, what was I thinking?’” he teased in a gentle mimic of your voice, his fingers tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. “For what I’m paying you, I really have no say.”

“Don’t blame this on me. You gave me full creative freedom. Or maybe you need better negotiation tactics.”

“My negotiation tactics are pretty solid,” he protested, his chest rumbling with quiet laughter beneath your cheek. “I got exactly what I wanted.”

“The art commission?”

“Among other things.” His arms tightened around you, drawing you closer. “Though I still think the pieces should face the door, so I can see them from the hallway when I pass that office.”

“Is that your professional opinion, Mr. CEO?”

“That’s my completely biased, utterly smitten opinion,” he said, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. “The CEO in me would probably have a lot to say about the productivity level of tonight.”

“Poor productivity indeed. We only managed to discuss half the rooms.”

“Terrible oversight.” His hand slid slowly down your back, caressing your hip. “We’ll have to schedule another meeting. Several, probably. Very intensive. Very hands-on.”

“Hands-on is definitely the way to go with this project,” you said, tilting your face up to meet his gaze, and the look he gave you was so tender it made your heart skip.

In one smooth motion, he flipped you beneath him again, his weight settling over you as his lips found yours. “I think we should continue our discussion right now,” he murmured, trailing kisses down your throat.

You were just beginning to melt into his touch when the sound of the office door opening made you both freeze.

“Oh fuck! I didn’t know you were still here,” a voice blurted.

You scrambled to grab Satoru’s shirt from the floor next to the couch and pulled it over yourself as you pressed back into the couch cushions. Thankfully, the back of the couch faced the door, giving you at least some cover, but your heart was hammering so hard you were sure whoever it was could hear it.

Satoru pushed himself up, running a hand through his messy hair, looking far too at ease for someone who’d just been caught in a very compromising position

“Suguru,” he said, voice calm and unbothered. “What’s up?”

“Don’t bother—I’m just looking for my laptop charger. I’ll leave.”

“It’s okay. We were just...” Satoru began, then seemed to realize there was no good way to finish that sentence. “...Having a meeting.”

You buried your face in your hands, mortified. Why the hell is he starting a conversation right now? This was not how you’d imagined your evening ending—almost naked on Satoru’s office couch, wearing only his shirt, while his colleague stood in the doorway looking for his goddamn laptop charger. 

The time you waited for the guy to get his charger were the most agonizing twenty second of your whole life and to your bad, Satoru wasn’t even the slightest bit ashamed.

Little did you know that Suguru would become one of your closest friends once you and Satoru were actually in a relationship. But every single birthday party or casual gathering, that story would come again. “Haha, did you know Suguru caught us on the couch?” Satoru would joke, while Suguru would groan, “Can we please never talk about that again?”

Six months later, the apartment Satoru found for the two of you was perfect in the way only he could manage—spacious enough for both of you to have your own creative corners and with big windows that caught the morning light beautifully and offered a stunning view of the city skyline. It was nestled just across from a quiet park where the trees already turned gold for autumn.

But it was the room he’d turned into your art studio that brought you to tears the first time you saw it. Windows that faced the north for consistent lighting, spacious storage for your materials, and enough wall space to work on several large canvases at once.

“You didn’t have to do all this,” you’d said, running your fingers along the custom easel he’d installed.

“I wanted to,” he’d replied simply, wrapping his arms around you from behind. “I want to see what you create when you have all the space and time in the world.”

You’d cut your hours at Takahashi Media Group down to part-time—something that would’ve been financially impossible before Satoru. But the commission for his headquarters had led to three more corporate projects, and suddenly, you had enough steady work to support yourself as an artist. Real work. Meaningful work. Not just subway sketches—though you still did those too. Now, Satoru sometimes joined you on weekend train rides, amused by the way strangers reacted to receiving unexpected portraits.

Your mornings became a rhythm of coffee in bed while he read financial reports and you sketched ideas for new pieces. After the third time he found you passed out over a canvas at 2 AM, having forgotten to eat dinner, he installed a espresso machine in your studio. Now, he’d show up with perfectly crafted lattes and whatever takeout he’d ordered, settling into the window seat with his laptop while you painted—taking calls with investors in Tokyo, New York, and London, all while keeping an eye on you and making sure you don’t overwork yourself again.

“You know I can hear you smiling through the phone,” you’d tease after he hung up from his calls.

“Can’t help it,” he’d say. “I’ve got the most beautiful view in the city right here.”

The subway sketches evolved too. Instead of giving them all away, you started keeping some—the ones that captured something more, moments that felt like little revelations about people, about life. Satoru convinced you to include them in a group exhibition at a gallery in Shibuya. The opening night was small and intimate, but watching people connect with your work in a way they never had when you were just handing out drawings on trains felt like validation of everything you’d been trying to do.

“This feels like coming full circle,” Satoru whispered into your ear as you both watched guests study your pieces, his hand resting warmly at the small of your back.

“From stalking me through my art to displaying it properly?”

“From falling in love with your work… to falling in love with you,” he corrected. And even after months of dating, after hearing him say those words more times than you could count, they still made your heart skip.

Suguru became an unexpected constant in your life too. What began hella awkward slowly turned into real friendship. And the three of you fell into an easy routine of weekend dinners and spontaneous museum visits, Suguru often playing the role of best friend and occasional voice of reason when Satoru’s grand romantic gestures got out of hand.

Which happened more often than you’d expected. Like the time he rented out an entire floor of a restaurant because you’d wanted to eat there but hated crowded rooms. Or when he bought a whole flower shop’s worth of peonies because you’d mentioned loving them once. Or the morning you woke up to find the city’s best sushi chef—apparently an old friend of his, because Satoru seemed to know everyone in this goddamn town—preparing breakfast in your kitchen, just because you’d been craving good fish.

“You know you don’t have to keep trying to impress me,” you told him after each increasingly excessive gesture. “I already said yes to moving in with you.”

“I’m not trying to impress you. I’m trying to spoil you. There’s a difference.”

The truth was, it was the small things that meant the most. The way he’d automatically order your coffee when you were running late, or how he’d text you photos of interesting architecture from whatever city he was traveling through, or the fact that he’d learned to distinguish between your different paintbrushes and how to clean them properly when you forgot. 

He even kept a sketchbook of his own now, filled with terrible but enthusiastic drawings of you working, cooking, sleeping, just existing in the space you’d built together.

Your family adored him, of course. Your mother immediately started calling him her ‘second son’ after a chaotic family dinner he’d attended—which, by the way, you always thought was kind of weird. Like, why would parents call him their ‘son’ when he was spending every other night between your thighs?—Still, he charmed everyone with stories about his work, genuine interest in your father’s completely ordinary job and about your cousins’ college applications—and even remembered your aunt’s dog’s name. He always brought the perfect wine to pair with whatever your mom was cooking, and never forgot a birthday.

The subway sketches and posters that had started everything found a permanent home in the hallway of your shared apartment. A dozen framed moments that told the story of your work and your relationship. The original sketch you’d given him on that crowded train of Line 4 hung proudly in his office at work, right next to his desk where everyone could see it.

“That’s where it all started,” he’d say whenever anyone asked. “Best investment I ever made.”

Three years later, when Satoru proposed during one of your morning train rides—getting down on one knee right there in the subway car where you first met, causing a scene that had fellow passengers cheering and taking pictures—you realized that sometimes the best love stories start with the smallest gestures. 

A sketch handed to a stranger. A poster campaign that was equal parts romantic and unhinged. A decision to be brave enough to call a number written on a business card.

And every morning, as you watched the city wake through the studio’s windows while Satoru hummed in the kitchen, probably checking market reports with one hand and making your coffee with the other, you couldn’t help but smile at how beautifully imperfect it all was. How your once carefully ordered life had been turned upside down by a man with white hair and the kind of heart that didn’t know how to love in small doses.

“Still think I’m weird?” he’d ask sometimes, appearing in your studio doorway with a mug of coffee and that same grin that had made your knees weak the very first time.

“The weirdest,” you’d always reply, taking the coffee—and the kiss that came with it. “But you’re my weird. And I love you.”

“I love you more,” he’d say, leaning down to kiss your forehead.

And that, you’d learned, made all the difference.

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author's note — wait ! before you go ! if you enjoyed this story, i’d be forever grateful if you’d consider gifting me a few minutes of your time to participate in a research survey for my master’s thesis in psychology <3 (am i shamelessly using my reach to gather primary data ? yes. yes i am. and i have no regrets.)

here's the link.

it’s completely anonymous, but just a heads-up: the survey touches on nightmares and emotional wellbeing, so it may be sensitive for some. please feel free to stop at any point if it doesn’t feel right for you.

other than that, thank you so much for reading !! i hope you enjoyed the story. i need provider!satoru gojo so bad like ugh but instead i’m stuck in higher education trying to become my own provider. send help :')))

wishing you all the soft chaos you deserve. take care <3

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@beaniesayshi

You watch him for a while. It’s not often you get to see him like this. No colonel’s uniform, no missions pulling him away during dinner, no protocols or demands. Just Caleb, in a plain white shirt and jeans, looking more like the boy you grew up with than the man who commands an entire fleet.

You can’t remember the last time you saw him truly rest. Since he came back from… whatever really happened after the explosion, sleep has become something he avoids.

You’ve caught him awake at odd hours, pacing, rereading reports, making coffee at three in the morning.

You watch him breathe, slow and steady, the rise and fall of his chest calm in a way you rarely see. The silver apple pendant still rests against his shirt and somehow, through everything, he’s never taken it off. Not for the Academy. Not after the promotion. Not even when he came back with a metal arm and shadows in his eyes.

A bumblebee floats past, lazy in the warm air. Birds chatter in the tree above. You smile a little and reach for a wildflower the same shade as Caleb’s eyes, carefully tucking it behind his ear.

He doesn’t stir, so you add another. A daisy. Then a buttercup. A few forget-me-nots. A tiny blue one you can’t name.

“If your squad could see you now,” you muse, placing a yellow bloom near his temple. You think of Liam, his stoic adjutant. What would he say?

You add a red poppy to the center. Pretty against his dark hair. He looks peaceful like this. Not like the Caleb who came back from the Deepspace tunnels. Like the one from before.

You lean in to adjust the poppy, your shadow falling across his face. Your fingers brush his temple—

And before you can register what’s happening, his eyes snap open.

In one motion too quick to follow, he grabs your wrist and the world tilts. You’re suddenly on your back, wrist pinned to the grass, Caleb’s weight pressing over you. His grip is too tight—his mechanical hand not calibrating, fingers biting into your skin. His eyes are wide, unfocused, caught in some place far from here. Panic burns behind them, though he doesn’t seem to see you at all.

Flowers tumble from his hair, scattered across your chest and face. One lands against your lips, soft as breath.

“Caleb,” you say, voice steady even as your pulse races. “It’s me.”

He blinks. But he’s somewhere else. Somewhere dark.

“Caleb,” you repeat, softer now, lifting your free hand to his face. You cup his cheek gently, your thumb tracing the line of his cheekbone. “It’s just me.”

His breath catches. Another blink—and this time, recognition floods his eyes. Followed almost instantly by regret.

“What…?” His voice is rough.

“It’s okay,” you say, brushing the hair from his forehead. “You fell asleep. I was just… gardening.”

He blinks again, dazed, then looks around. His gaze catches on the flowers still clinging to him, then drops to your wrist. His expression changes.

“I hurt you.”

“You didn’t,” you say quickly. “It’s okay.”

But he doesn’t look convinced. His eyes fall back to your wrist, where the faint marks from his grip are beginning to bloom. His jaw tightens. He shifts back slightly, like he can’t bear being that close anymore.

“I could’ve hurt you,” he says. “I didn’t know where I was. I didn’t even see you.”

You sit up too, petals slipping from your chest and arms. He looks pale in the sunlight, his breathing uneven, eyes clouded with guilt. He’s trying to hold it together, but you can see the effort it takes. You hate the way he braces, like he’s waiting for you to pull away. Like he’s already resigned to it.

“You didn’t hurt me,” you say again. “You woke up scared. That’s all.”

“I shouldn’t even get to that point. What if next time I don’t stop?”

“You did,” you say, firm. “You always do.”

He doesn’t answer. His eyes are fixed on the grass now, on the flowers scattered between you. On anything but you.

You move slowly, careful not to startle him. When your knees touch his, he finally looks up, just berely, and you see it again, that tension in his jaw, the flicker of alarm in his eyes. Still half somewhere else.

You hesitate, then reach out and gently cup his cheek.

“Caleb,” you say softly. “Nothing happened.”

And that’s when something in him loosens. Not all at once, but enough. His arms move before he speaks, wrapping around your waist as he pulls you into his lap, like it’s the only way to make the world feel steady again. One arm curls around your back, pulling you close against his body while the other settles across your legs. He presses his forehead to your shoulder, and breathes you in like air after drowning.

You let yourself be held, your fingers threading into the back of his hair.

“I’m here,” you murmur against his temple. “I’m okay. You’re okay.”

He doesn’t say anything right away, just lets out a shaky breath and holds you tighter.

“I was back in the tunnel,” he says eventually, voice almost too soft to hear against your shoulder.

“What happened?”

“I can’t… I shouldn’t.”

“Okay,” you say. No pressure. No push.

You shift slightly in his lap, letting your weight settle fully into him. His arm tightens around you in response—not startled this time, instinctive, like holding you closer is the only thing that makes sense. You nestle in without thinking, like you’ve done it a hundred times before. Like you were made to fit there.

His breath catches, then softens. He rests his chin lightly on your shoulder, his body curving into yours as if the space between you was always meant to be this small. His breath warms the side of your neck, slow and steady now, caressing your skin like a spring breeze.

It feels familiar. Natural.

Like home.

He stays like that for a moment, holding you close, one hand curled into the back of your shirt like he’s afraid you might slip away if he lets go.

You reach down and pick up a flower that had fallen between you in the grass and you tuck it gently behind his ear.

He huffs, a sound that’s half a laugh, half a long breath. “You put flowers in my hair?”

“You looked too serious. Even asleep,” you say, fingers running through his hair, gently smoothing back the dark strands. “I was fixing that.”

He leans back just enough to see your face. There’s still a crease between his brows, but some of the fog has lifted from his eyes.

“You know, decorating an officer without clearance could be considered insubordination.”

“Lucky for me I don’t work for the Fleet.”

You sit there in the quiet. Birds call overhead, and far off, the hum of distant engines fades into the breeze. Caleb looks at you, his eyes softer now—like something inside him has begun to settle.

And then, with a touch so careful it almost makes you ache, he reaches up and tucks a flower behind your ear. His fingers linger as they brush your skin.

“There,” he says quietly. “Now we match.”

You meet his eyes, and for a moment the world goes still.

Neither of you moves. The breeze stirs the grass around you, carrying the scent of wildflowers and warm earth. His thumb brushes beneath your jaw, the lightest possible touch, and when you don’t pull away, he leans in—slowly, like he’s giving you time to change your mind. But you don’t.

Your breath catches as his nose grazes yours, and his hand presses more firmly along your back, drawing you closer. Your palm finds his chest, where his heart is racing under your fingers. His breath warms your lips—tentative, trembling at the edge of something neither of you has dared to name.

Your lips are almost touching—

And then, a sharp sound breaks the silence.

You both flinch as a training ship cuts across the sky, breaking the sound barrier in the distance. The echo rolls across the meadow, scattering birds from the treetops.

His hand stays on your back for a moment longer before it slips away.

“Do you want to head back?” he asks, voice quiet and then he pulls away. “I’ll cook.”

Before you can answer, he’s already rising to his feet, and he offers you his hand.

You nod, not trusting your voice. It might say something you’re not ready to say. Something like, why didn’t you kiss me? Will you ever? How much longer do we keep pretending we’re not more than this?

You’re tired of acting like your heart isn’t already half his. Tired of skimming the edge of something that feels like love but never speaking it aloud.

Still, you don’t say any of it.

He pulls you gently to your feet, and when you’re close—closer than you probably should be—he draws in a quiet breath. It’s barely audible, but you feel it. Like maybe he feels the same.

His fingers stay wrapped around yours, a little too tightly.

A little too long.

And just like that, the almost-kiss is left behind—tucked into the grass and the flowers, folded into the space between you like so many truths neither of you are ready to say aloud.