𝐦𝐞𝐠𝐚𝐧

Megumi doesn't look up. He doesn't have to.

"I'm studying."

"Exactly."

A chair scrapes against the concrete with a sharp, grating sound, and by the time he lifts his head, you've already dropped into the seat across from him. Not beside him. Across. Close enough to stay, far enough to pretend that's not what you're doing. Your sunglasses are perched on top of your head despite the cloudy sky, and you're carrying a stack of textbooks that suggests you have somewhere else to be, though the way you settle in says otherwise. There's a faint breeze tugging at your hair, letting some strands come loose from their hold under your glasses, and yet, you look annoyingly put together for someone who always seems to arrive like an interruption.

"So," you say, digging through your bag with the air of someone who's about to cause trouble. "Hypothetically."

"No."

"I didn't even ask anything."

"You were about to."

You point at him with the offended precision of someone who's been wrongfully accused.

"See? This is why people think you're mean."

Megumi returns his attention to the notebook in front of him, though he's only pretending to read now. A moment later, something lands on top of his notes with a soft thud. He blinks, looks down, then looks up again. It's a sandwich, wrapped in paper, the kind that's been assembled carelessly but with enough effort to count as thoughtful. You shrug like this is the most natural thing in the world.

"I bought the wrong one."

"You hate turkey."

"Exactly."

"Yet you bought a turkey sandwich?"

"Crazy, right?"

Neither of you says anything after that. The silence settles comfortably between you, not awk and not heavy, but just there. The kind that forms when two people stop feeling obligated to fill every empty space, when the pauses stop feeling like failures and start feeling like part of the conversation. Students pass around the courtyard in scattered groups, their voices rising and falling in fragments. Somewhere behind them, someone is playing music through a speaker that's slightly too loud, the bass faintly distorted. A skateboard rattles across uneven pavement, then disappears. The world keeps moving around the two of you, but the space at the table feels oddly still.

Megumi looks at the sandwich, then back up at you. "What are you gonna eat?"

"I'm not that hungry," you shrug, leaning back in your chair as casual as ever, like nothing bothers you.

He gives you an unimpressed look. "So you bought a sandwich even though you weren't hungry? And then coincidentally bought turkey?"

You shrug again, smiling now.

He sighs, already regretting the fact that he's reacting at all.

"You literally bought this for me."

"I did no such thing."

"Right."

The smile stays on your face for another second before it fades, not completely, just enough to make him notice the shift. Megumi notices it because he's started to notice everything. The way your fingers tap against tabletops when you're anxious, quick and restless, like you're trying to shake something loose from your skin. The way you stare at your phone for too long after receiving certain texts, your expression going unreadable in that careful, practiced way of yours. The way every joke seems to arrive half a second too early whenever a conversation threatens to become serious, as if you can sense the edge of something deeper and instinctively step sideways before anyone can reach it.

A habit. A defense mechanism. A door that closes before anyone can think about walking through it.

The realization come and goes without warning, but it leaves a mark all the same. You don't stay. That's the strange part. You never stay. You appear with your easy grin and your careless timing, you leave behind a sandwich or a comment or a message that sounds like nothing at all, and then you vanish again before anything can settle into something more solid.

After twenty minutes, you glance at the time.

"Oh."

"What?"

"I have somewhere to be." The answer is immediate. Too immediate. Like you'd prepared it beforehand, like the words were already waiting behind your teeth before you even looked at the clock. You gather your things before he can ask another question, shoving notebooks into your bag with brisk, efficient movements that make it obvious you're not actually in a hurry so much as determined to create the impression of one.

"See you around."

Megumi watches you sling your bag over one shoulder. "You just got here."

"Yeah."

You flash him a grin, the familiar one. Easy. Weightless. Impossible to hold onto. "Well. Now I'm leaving."

And then you're gone. Disappearing into the crowd before he can say anything else, swallowed by the movement of students and the blur of passing bodies and the ordinary noise of campus life. The chair across from him sits empty. A half-finished coffee remains on the table. You forgot it. Or maybe you left it there intentionally. Megumi isn't sure, and the uncertainty lingers longer than it should.

He looks down at the sandwich still sitting beside his notebook. At the napkin folded neatly underneath it. At the corner of your handwriting visible across the paper, just enough to make him pause. For a moment, he considers calling after you, though he already knows you're too far away to hear him now. Instead, he unfolds the napkin.

Written in blue ink are four words.

don't fail your exam.

Nothing else. No heart, no signature, no explanation. Just a message that somehow feels more personal because of how little it says, because it doesn't try to dress itself up as anything more than it is. Megumi stares at it for a second longer than necessary, the paper warm from being tucked beneath the sandwich, the ink slightly uneven where your pen must have pressed harder in some places than others. Then he folds it carefully and slips it between the pages of his notebook, a place he'll definitely remember later, a place he'll pretend he chose for practical reasons and not simply just because he wanted a constant reminder of the note.

The courtyard feels quieter after you leave. As if someone had adjusted the volume of the world without telling him, lowering everything by a fraction so that the absence of your voice becomes its own kind of sound. He looks back toward the crowd once, then twice, scanning faces he doesn't need to recognize. And when he realizes he's looking for you, he forces his attention back to the page in front of him.

—————————————————————————

That night, Megumi doesn't think about you.

At least, that's what he tries to tell himself.

He's sprawled across his bed, one arm tucked behind his head, phone balanced loosely in his hand as he scrolls through things he isn't really paying attention to. Across the room, Yuji is yelling at his television again, the sharp clicks of his controller and occasional complaints blending into the familiar background noise of the dorm.

Everything feels normal. The kind of night that should disappear from memory the second it's over. And yet his gaze keeps drifting toward the notebook sitting on his desk. The napkin is still tucked between the pages where he left it.

Megumi exhales through his nose and forces his attention back to his phone.

It's not that serious.

People leave notes all the time.

You were just being nice.

The message itself had barely been a sentence.

Four words.

Nothing more.

But every time he thinks about it, something warm settles low in his chest, quiet and persistent. Not overwhelming enough to demand attention, but present enough that ignoring it takes more effort than it should. The annoying part is that he can't even explain why.

It wasn't romantic.

It wasn't particularly meaningful.

It wasn't even unique.

You'd probably leave the same note for anyone you cared about. The thought should make him feel better but, for some reason, it doesn't. Megumi shifts onto his side, phone still in hand, and stares at the wall for a second. Then, despite himself, his eyes drift back toward the notebook again.

Across the room, Yuji pauses his game.

"You've looked at that notebook like six times."

Megumi doesn't move. "No, I haven't."

"You literally just did it again."

"I was looking at the desk."

"The notebook is on the desk."

Megumi closes his eyes, eliciting a laugh from Yuji who jumps onto Megumi's bed and makes himself comfortable on the edge. "Come on, man. What's wrong with the notebook?"

"Nothing," Megumi mumbles, kicking Yuji slightly. "And get off my bed."

He goes back to scrolling, hoping Yuji would just drop the conversation and go back to his game, but nothing ever really seems to go in his favor.

Yuji rolls his eyes and gets off, but instead of going back to the TV where he was so engrossed earlier, he grabs Megumi's notebook from the desk and looks at the front and back of it, feigning interest.

Megumi sits up so fast his phone slips from his hand entirely, disappearing somewhere into the blankets with a muffled thud. "Dude." The word leaves him before he can stop it. In two strides he's off the bed, crossing the small distance between them and snatching the notebook from Yuji's hands with far more force than the situation actually requires. The cover bends slightly beneath his grip, the pages shifting unevenly from the sudden movement, and immediately he knows he's moved too quickly. Something slips loose. His stomach drops before he even sees it.

The folded napkin slides from between the pages and catches briefly against the edge of the notebook, suspended there for one impossible second before gravity finally takes hold. It drifts downward in an almost lazy descent, turning once in the air as though it has all the time in the world. Megumi's eyes follow it automatically. So do Yuji's. The room seems to narrow around the motion, not because anything has actually changed but because Megumi suddenly becomes aware of how exposed he feels. The television is still running somewhere behind them, distant sound effects and menu music blending into meaningless noise, but it all feels strangely far away. The napkin lands softly against the floor. For half a second, neither of them moves. Then Yuji bends down.

"Don't."

The warning comes out sharper than intended. Too sharp. The second the word leaves his mouth, Megumi knows he's made a mistake because now Yuji pauses, and now Yuji looks at him, and worst of all, now Yuji is interested. A slow grin spreads across his face, the kind that only ever appears when he's stumbled across something he absolutely shouldn't have.

"Oh my god." Megumi tightens his grip around the notebook. "Yuji." The grin only widens.

Before Megumi can stop him, Yuji reaches down and scoops the napkin off the floor, unfolding it in one smooth motion. The paper crinkles softly in his hands. Megumi stands there, notebook still pressed against his chest, feeling an embarrassment he can't properly justify. Because it isn't a confession. It isn't even remotely romantic. Four words written on a napkin shouldn't matter enough for him to care this much. Objectively, it means nothing. A reminder. A joke. Something you probably scribbled down without thinking twice about it. And yet the sight of someone else reading it makes his chest tighten in a way he doesn't particularly appreciate. Yuji's eyes scan the handwriting once. Then again. His expression changes, confusion replacing excitement so quickly it's almost insulting.

"Don't fail your exam?"

Megumi says nothing.

Yuji looks down at the napkin again, as though a second message might reveal itself if he stares long enough. Then he looks back up at Megumi, visibly baffled. "That's it?"

Before he can say anything else, Megumi snatches the napkin from his hands. The paper bends slightly in the process and, annoyingly, that's the first thing he notices. He smooths it flat again without thinking, fingers tracing briefly over the uneven folds before refolding it and sliding it back between the pages of the notebook. The entire action takes maybe three seconds. Unfortunately, Yuji watches every second of it.

The room falls quiet. Not a meaningful silence, just the brief pause that happens when one person realizes something before the other does. Megumi can practically see the gears turning in Yuji's head as he leans back against the desk, eyes flicking between the notebook and Megumi's face. Then, slowly, a grin starts to spread. Not the teasing grin from earlier. Worse. The kind that means he's connected several dots and is about to become completely unbearable.

"You kept it."

Megumi closes his eyes. "It was already in the notebook."

"You kept it," Yuji repeats, sounding deeply fascinated by this discovery. "You could've thrown it away."

"I forgot it was there."

"You looked at that notebook six times in the last twenty minutes."

"I was studying."

"You were staring at a closed notebook."

Megumi immediately regrets living with him.

Yuji folds his arms and studies him for another second, his grin widening into something triumphant. "Wow." He sounds genuinely impressed. "You're cooked."

Megumi throws a pillow at his head.

—————————————————————————

October 11, 2025

What a drag.

Megumi keeps his hands buried in his pockets as he follows Gojo through the library, his footsteps muted by the carpet beneath them. The building is unusually quiet for a Saturday morning, the kind of silence that only exists before most people are fully awake. Rows of books stretch endlessly around them, interrupted only by the occasional student hunched over a laptop, coffee cups gathered like survival supplies beside stacks of notes.

The air smells faintly of old paper and humidity.

It makes him even more tired.

"Why do I have to be here so early on a Saturday, Gojo-sensei?" he mutters, rubbing at one eye.

"What do you mean?" Gojo asks immediately. "It's only eight."

Megumi stares at him.

"You wake up at this time every day," Gojo adds.

Megumi's steps falter slightly.

Because, Gojo was right.

Megumi does wake up early—sometimes even earlier than this—but yesterday he just couldn't fall asleep. He had slept a total of maybe four hours, and that's being generous.

The memory makes something tighten in his chest. The notebook. The napkin. Yuji's face. You.

He'd spent half the night staring at his ceiling, replaying a conversation that shouldn't have mattered as much as it did. Then he'd soent the other half trying to convince himself it didn't matter at all.

Neither attempt had been successful.

He just can't help but keep noticing things. Not the note, not Yuji, not even you, technically. But the fact that every interaction seems to linger longer than it should. The fact that he remembers things he shouldn't. The fact that he's currently standing in the library thinking about someone who isn't even here.

"Are you even listening?" Gojo asks, snapping his fingers in front of Megumi with an amused smirk on his face.

"Yes, sorry," Megumi replies.

"Liar."

Megumi sighs. "I'm just tired."

"Uh-huh."

"I didn't sleep much."

That earns him a more interested look. Gojo's grin softens into something more dangerous, because now he's curious and curiosity is never a good thing when it comes to Satoru Gojo.

"Hm." The sound is thoughtful and in that moment, Megumi instantly regrets speaking.

Gojo tilts his head slightly, brught blue eyes narrowing as he studies him the way someone examines a puzzle they've almost solved. Megumi hates it. For the first time in a while, he feels strangely visible and not just physically, but emotionally. Like there's something written across his face that someone would notice if they looked hard enough, and the worst part is that he isn't entirely sure what they'd notice. Only that the possibility makes him uncomfortable.

Normally he lets Gojo invade his personal space without complaint. It’s easier than fighting him.

Today, he takes a step back. The movement happens automatically.

Gojo lifts an eyebrow.

Megumi clears his throat, the gesture feeling awkward the second he does it. “What’s that look for?” he asks.

Gojo’s smile widens. “Oh, nothing."

Which means it’s definitely something.

Megumi already regrets getting out of bed.

For a second, neither of them says anything. Then Gojo leans forward slightly. “Did you meet someone?”

Megumi nearly walks into a bookshelf. The question hits so suddenly that his brain short-circuits for a full second before catching up. “What?”

Gojo’s grin becomes unbearable. “Interesting.”

“What’s interesting?”

“You didn’t say no.”

Megumi feels his jaw tighten. “I said ‘what.’”

“Mhm.”

“I was confused.”

“Sure.”

“I was.”

Gojo hums thoughtfully, entirely unconvinced. “I’ve known you since you were six. I know what you look like when you're confused and that," he flicks Megumi's forehead, "wasn't it."

“There isn’t anyone.”

“Really?”

“Yes.”

“So why’d you hesitate?”

“I didn’t.”

“You absolutely did.”

“I was trying to figure out why you’d ask me something that stupid.”

Gojo laughs. “There he is.”

Eventually they reach the back corner of the library where several unopened boxes sit stacked beside a folding table. A volunteer had already cut them open, revealing hundreds of brightly colored flyers bundled neatly together with rubber bands.

Gojo grabs one off the top of the pile. They're for the annual autumn festival next week. The front is crowded with smiling students who look significantly happier than anyone Megumi has ever actually met.

“This thing again,” Gojo groans, fanning himself dramatically with one of the flyers. "I hate having to attend these."

Megumi picks up another stack, absentmindedly thumbing through them. This'll be his third year attending the festival. He already knows how it’ll go. Yuji will drag him toward every food stand, Nobara will spend too much money, and Gojo will disappear for an hour and somehow come back with prizes he definitely wasn’t supposed to win. It was a routine. It was predictable. Then another thought slips quietly into his head before he can stop it.

Maybe this year he could ask—

His thumb freezes against the paper.

No. Absolutely not.

You aren’t anything. You’re friends. Nothing more. Nothing less.

He flips the flyer over harder than necessary.

Gojo notices immediately. “So.”

Megumi doesn’t look up.

“Who is she?”

“No one.”

“Uh-huh.”

“There isn’t anyone.”

“So there is a ‘she.’”

“I didn’t say that.”

“You didn’t deny it.”

Megumi closes his eyes for exactly one second. When he opens them again, Gojo is grinning so widely it borders on insufferable.

“You know,” Gojo says conversationally, “for someone insisting there isn’t anyone, you’re putting an impressive amount of effort into denying someone who supposedly doesn’t exist.”

“I’m not denying anyone.”

“Megumi.”

“What?”

“You’ve been thinking about the same person this entire morning. You zoned out four times.”

"I—"

“You almost smiled.”

Megumi looks up so quickly his neck hurts. "I did not.”

“There it is again.”

“What?”

“That face.”

“What face?”

“The one that shows up when someone mentions whoever’s been keeping you awake.”

Silence.

Gojo watches him for another second before laughing quietly to himself. “I don’t actually need you to tell me.”

Megumi frowns.

“I’ll figure it out eventually.”

He says it so casually that it somehow sounds like a promise and suddenly Megumi isn’t looking forward to the festival nearly as much anymore.

—————————————————————————

Bzz.

The sharp vibration cuts cleanly through the stillness of the room.

Megumi lets out a low groan, rolling onto his side with reluctant, sluggish movements, one arm blindly sweeping across the tangled sheets in search of his phone. Darkness blankets the dorm room, broken only by the muted buzz vibrating somewhere beneath the folds of his comforter. Beside him, Yuji sleeps soundly on the other side of the room, the steady rhythm of his breathing untouched by the interruption. That alone tells Megumi how late it must be. If even Yuji had managed to fall asleep already, whoever was calling had either made a mistake or had absolutely no regard for the concept of time.

His fingertips finally brush against cool metal.

He fumbles the phone into his hand, only to recoil slightly as the screen explodes to full brightness, forcing him to squint against the harsh white light burning into his sleep-heavy eyes.

3:24 A.M.

For a second, he just stares at the numbers, his brain too exhausted to process them. Three twenty-four in the morning. There were very few people reckless enough to call him at this hour, and somehow he had the sinking feeling he already knew exactly who it was.

Too tired to even check the caller ID, he presses the phone to his ear, rubbing at one eye with the heel of his hand.

“Hello?” he mumbles, his voice rough with sleep.

“Morning, window boy!” you chirp from the other end of the line, your voice impossibly bright, far too cheerful for three in the morning, and somehow energetic enough to make him wonder if you’d slept at all.

“Uh—hey?” His voice comes out rough, quieter than he intends. The sleepiness evaporates just enough for concern to settle in its place, his brow pulling together almost instinctively. “What’s up?” A brief pause. “Are you okay?”

A soft hum answers him before your voice does.

Beneath it, he catches the distant rush of passing cars, muffled conversations drifting somewhere nearby, the occasional gust of wind brushing against your microphone and he gathers that you’re outside.

“Yeah,” you reply easily, as if calling someone in the middle of the night is the most natural thing in the world. “Just wondering, what are you doing right now?”

Megumi lets out a slow breath through his nose, lowering his hand from his face until it rests against the rumpled sheets gathered around his waist. His fingers absentmindedly toy with the fabric, smoothing and twisting the cotton between them as his mind catches up with the conversation.

“Well,” he says flatly, “I was sleeping.”

Your laugh crackles softly through the speaker. It’s quiet—barely more than a breath—but it slips past the static all the same, light enough to tug at something in his chest before he can stop it. The corners of his mouth threaten to move.

“Yeah?” you tease. “Well, no time for that.”

A beat passes and he hears you sigh.

“Wanna go for a smoke?”

The question hangs in the air for a moment, suspended somewhere between a joke and a genuine invitation.

Megumi stares blankly at the ceiling, his mind refusing to catch up. He blinks once. Then twice. “It’s three in the morning.”

“So?”

He pinches the bridge of his nose, shutting his eyes again in a last, desperate attempt to convince himself he was still asleep—that this was the kind of bizarre dream his subconscious occasionally came up with after particularly exhausting days. Except dreams didn’t make his phone vibrate against his ear, and they certainly didn’t come with the unmistakable sound of traffic humming through the other end of the line.

“You called me,” he says slowly, each word carrying a little more disbelief than the last, “at three twenty-four in the morning…”

“Mhm.”

“…to ask if I wanted to smoke.”

“Yup."

“You could’ve texted.”

“And risk you sleeping through it?” you scoff dramatically. “Absolutely not.”

“I would’ve answered when I woke up.”

“But then we’d miss the vibe.”

“The…vibe?”

“The vibe.”

Silence settles between you again, though it feels oddly comfortable. Megumi listens without meaning to, ears tuning in to the little details bleeding through your phone. A car door slamming somewhere nearby. Someone laughing in the distance before fading away.

“Where are you?” he asks.

“I don’t know.”

His eyebrows knit together. “You don’t know?”

“I was walking.”

“Walking where?”

“I kinda stopped paying attention. I think I’m near a gas station though."

“You think?”

“I mean,” You pause, as if finally looking around. “There’s a gas station. A vending machine. A guy buying lottery tickets. I'm heading back though.”

Megumi lets out a long, tired sigh, rubbing a hand over his face. "You’re unbelievable.”

“I’ve been called worse.”

Another silence follows, shorter this time.

“So?” you ask again, quieter now. “Are you coming?”

Megumi’s gaze drifts toward the window beside his bed, where the world beyond the glass is painted in deep blue darkness. The campus sleeps beneath scattered streetlights, empty sidewalks glistening faintly under the glow. Any reasonable person would say no. Any responsible person would roll over, hang up, and go back to sleep.

Instead, he finds himself calculating how long it would take to get dressed.

His fingers tighten ever so slightly around his phone. “Give me ten minutes.”

There’s a beat of silence.

Then your grin is practically audible through the speaker. “Knew you’d say yes.”

“I didn’t say yes.”

“You literally just did.”

“I said give me ten minutes.”

“Which is basically yes.”

Megumi sighs again, already swinging his legs over the edge of the bed. “You’re exhausting.”

“And yet,” you say, sounding entirely too pleased with yourself, “you’re still coming.”

Megumi doesn’t answer.

He simply pulls the phone away from his ear long enough to glance toward the other side of the room.

Yuji is sprawled diagonally across his bed, one arm dangling over the edge of the mattress, breathing so deeply that it borders on theatrical. Moonlight spills through the narrow gap in the curtains, tracing pale streaks across the floor and illuminating the pile of clothes Yuji had promised he’d pick up days ago. Everything is still.

For a fleeting second, Megumi considers hanging up. He could tell you no. He could crawl back beneath the warmth of his blankets and wake up eight hours later wondering why you’d thought calling him before sunrise was remotely acceptable.

Instead he brings the phone back to his ear. “Don’t make me regret this,” he mutters.

Your laughter bubbles through the speaker again, brighter this time, and he has to physically stop himself from smiling.

“I’ll meet you downstairs.”

“Don't keep me waiting for too long, window boy."

The line clicks dead before he can think of a comeback.

Megumi stares at the darkened screen for a few seconds longer than necessary, his own reflection staring back at him, hair flattened awkwardly from sleep and eyes still heavy beneath half-lidded lashes.

"Unbelievable." He says it to the empty room, there’s no real irritation behind it, only something else. Something he’d been trying very hard not to think about.

With another quiet sigh, he pushes himself to his feet. The wooden floor is cold beneath his bare soles, sending a shiver crawling up his spine as he crosses the room with practiced silence. He brushes his teeth in record time and heads for his closet. He fishes a black hoodie from the back, pulling it over his rumpled T-shirt before tugging on a pair of sweats. Every movement is automatic, sluggish from sleep, yet strangely purposeful as though his body had already decided what it was doing long before his mind caught up.

He pauses at the door.

His hand rests on the doorknob.

Three weeks ago, he would’ve questioned himself.

Why am I doing this?

Why am I letting someone drag me out of bed in the middle of the night?

Why do I care?

Now, the questions don’t even come.

Not the phone call. Not the hour. Not even you. It’s how natural it all feels.

As though somewhere along the way, responding to your name had become as instinctive as breathing.

His grip tightens around the handle.

“This is getting ridiculous.” The words dissolve into the quiet hallway as he slips outside, easing the door shut behind him with barely a sound.

The dormitory is wrapped in that strange stillness that only exists in the deepest hours of the night. Fluorescent lights buzz faintly overhead, casting long, washed-out shadows across the empty corridor. Every footstep echoes just enough to remind him how alone he should be.

Somewhere beyond the entrance, under a sky that hasn’t yet decided whether it belongs to yesterday or tomorrow, you’re standing there with whatever impulsive idea managed to pull him out of bed.

He doesn’t know why that thought makes him pick up his pace.

He decides not to think about it.

He just isn’t ready to admit he’s already walking it.

The campus is almost unrecognizable at this hour. Buildings that usually buzz with students now stand quiet beneath pools of amber streetlight, sidewalks stretching empty in every direction. Even the wind seems reluctant to disturb the silence, stirring only the leaves overhead with a soft, rhythmic rustle.

You’re perched on a low concrete barrier just outside the dorm, one foot lazily kicking against the side as you scroll through your phone. The glow of the screen washes over your face before you notice him approaching. The instant you do, your entire expression brightens.

“Hey!” you beam, slipping your phone into your pocket as you hop down to meet him. “I’m actually surprised you said yes.”

Megumi slides both hands into the pocket of his hoodie, shoulders rising in an indifferent shrug that he hopes looks far more convincing than it feels. “Well,” he says, his voice still carrying that sleepy rasp, “you woke me up.”

You wince. “Fair.”

“And I sure as hell wasn’t going to fall back asleep after that.” He exhales quietly, eyes drifting toward the nearly deserted road before returning to you. “So, here I am.”

You nod with exaggerated seriousness, clasping your hands behind your back as you begin walking backward down the sidewalk, forcing him to either follow or stand there looking ridiculous.

“So,” you say, tilting your head, “this has absolutely nothing to do with the fact that you secretly enjoy my company?”

Megumi gives you a flat look. “No.”

“Not even a little?”

“No.”

“You hesitated.”

“I didn’t.”

“You definitely did.”

“I had to swallow.”

“Convenient timing.”

He exhales through his nose, something suspiciously close to a laugh threatening to escape before he catches it.

“You’ve been smiling more lately," you mutter.

His steps falter. Only for a fraction of a second.

Your own smile softens—not triumphant, not teasing this time, just quietly observant, like you’d stumbled across something fragile and decided not to poke at it.

Megumi looks away first. “You’re imagining things.”

“Hm.” You don’t argue. The silence that settles afterward isn’t uncomfortable. It stretches naturally between the two of you as your footsteps fall into rhythm, the occasional passing car filling the spaces where conversation isn’t necessary. Somewhere in the distance, a traffic light changes with a faint electronic chirp despite there being no one around to hear it.

Megumi glances sideways.

Your hands are stuffed into the pockets of your jacket now, shoulders slightly hunched against the cool breeze. You look comfortable despite it. Like the world makes more sense when everyone else is asleep.

“So,” he says after a while, breaking the silence, “were you actually going somewhere?" His eyes flick toward you.

You nod, your hands buried deep inside the pockets of your jacket as you continue down the sidewalk, not bothering to look at him. The answer comes easily, as though you’d already decided the destination hours ago. “We’re going to the dock.”

Megumi glances over, one eyebrow lifting almost imperceptibly. “The dock?” he repeats, tasting the words like he isn’t entirely convinced he’d heard you correctly.

“Mhm.”

Your response is absentminded, punctuated by a small nod. You kick a pebble onto the empty street, watching it skip across the asphalt before disappearing into the darkness.

He lets his gaze wander ahead instead.

The convenience stores and traffic lights you’d left behind were little more than distant glows now, swallowed by the quiet of sleeping neighborhoods. Each block seemed darker than the last. The constant hum of the city slowly dissolved into something softer—the chirping of insects tucked into overgrown bushes, leaves whispering overhead whenever the breeze picked up, the occasional bark of a dog somewhere far beyond the houses lining the street.

“Is that your smoke spot?” he asks after a moment, the corner of his mouth threatening the smallest hint of amusement. His eyes remain fixed on the road ahead, watching the fluorescent streetlights become fewer with every step. “Didn’t realize you had a designated location.”

“It is, actually,” you admit without hesitation, sounding almost proud of the fact. A tiny smile tugs at your lips as you glance over your shoulder at him. “Been going there for a while.”

He blinks. “Seriously?”

“Seriously.”

Your shoulders lift in an easy shrug, as if having a favorite place to sneak out at three in the morning is the most ordinary thing in the world.

“It’s quiet,” you continue after a beat, your voice softening as you look ahead again. “Nobody bothers you. The water drowns everything else out.”

Megumi watches you from the corner of his eye.

The teasing remark he’d been about to make dies somewhere in his throat.

He’d expected some ridiculous explanation. That it had the best lighting. That nobody could catch you there. That it simply “felt right,” whatever that meant.

But the answer sounded honest. Honest enough that he found himself picturing it before he’d even seen it.

“So this isn’t just an excuse to make me walk half a mile in the middle of the night?” he asks, his tone lighter than before, trying to pull the conversation back toward familiar territory.

You let out a quiet laugh, the sound drifting into the cool air between you. “Oh, it definitely is,” you say, grinning. “The scenery’s just a bonus.”

“I was wondering when you’d ruin the moment.”

You gasp dramatically, pressing a hand against your chest as though he’d genuinely offended you. “I have never ruined a moment in my life.”

“You called me at three twenty-four in the morning.”

“And?”

"You ruined my moment of sleep,” Megumi deadpans, sending you a look that lands somewhere between tired and mildly accusatory.

You don’t even have the decency to look guilty. Your shoulders bounce with a quiet laugh before you glance at him from the corner of your eye, an apologetic smile tugging at your lips.

“Fair.”

The rest of the walk passes in comfortable silence.

Neither of you seems particularly eager to fill it. There isn’t any need to. Every now and then you’ll point out something insignificant—a cat darting beneath a parked car, a porch light that flickers on and off as though it’s struggling to stay awake, a constellation you swear you recognize before immediately admitting you have no idea what you’re talking about. Megumi responds with the occasional hum or dry remark, just enough to keep the conversation alive without disturbing the quiet that had settled so naturally between the two of you.

By the time the dock comes into view, the city feels impossibly far away.

The last traces of traffic have disappeared behind you, replaced by the slow, steady rhythm of water folding against weathered wooden posts. Wind drifts through the trees that border the shoreline, stirring their branches until they whisper softly amongst themselves. Somewhere hidden in the tall grass, crickets chirp in uneven intervals, their song blending seamlessly with the distant splash of waves meeting the rocks below. Above, the sky stretches endlessly overhead, moonlight spilling across the surface of the lake until it glimmers like scattered shards of glass.

You step onto the dock without hesitation, the familiar boards groaning softly beneath your weight. Megumi follows a step behind, hands tucked into the pockets of his hoodie as his eyes drift over the water. It doesn’t escape him how confidently you move through the darkness. Like you’ve walked this path enough times to memorize every uneven plank and every loose nail.

This really is your place.

Without a word, you wander toward the end of the dock before dropping into the same spot you’d occupied the last time the two of you came here together. The wood creaks beneath you in quiet protest as you stretch your legs out in front of you, leaning back on your palms with the ease of someone returning home.

He lowers himself beside you, careful enough that the dock barely shifts beneath his weight. The wood is cool beneath his hands, still damp from the night’s humidity, and for a while neither of you says anything.

You simply sit.

The wind brushes past in slow waves, carrying the faint scent of lake water and damp earth.

Eventually, you reach for your bag.

Megumi’s attention drifts almost absentmindedly as you rummage through it, the contents producing the occasional soft clink before your fingers finally find what they were looking for.

A cigarette. Then a lighter.

His gaze lingers.

It isn’t anything extravagant, yet it catches the moonlight in a way that makes it difficult to look away. Silver, worn smooth from years of use, with delicate engravings curling across its surface. A spider lily blooms across the front in painstaking detail, each petal etched deeply into the metal, while along one edge a date has been carved with equal care.

04/06.

He watches quietly as you tuck the cigarette between your lips before flicking open the lighter with practiced ease. The tiny wheel clicks beneath your thumb.

Once.

Twice.

On the third strike, a small flame blossoms to life.

You instinctively cup one hand around it, shielding it from the breeze while guiding the cigarette toward the fire. For a brief moment, warm amber light dances across your face, softening every feature and reflecting in your eyes before disappearing again as the flame snaps shut with a metallic click.

The tip of the cigarette glows a quiet orange.

You inhale slowly. Then exhale toward the open water, where the smoke unravels into the night until the wind steals it away. Meanwhile, Megumi finds himself staring—not at the cigarette, but at the lighter resting loosely in your hand.

He hadn't realized it before, but now that it's caught his attention, he can't stop looking at it.

"It’s my sister’s birthday,” you say quietly, as though you’d been listening to the question he never asked.

Megumi’s eyes lift from the lighter to your face, caught slightly off guard. You never look at him. Instead, your attention stays fixed on the water ahead, another slow stream of smoke leaving your lips before dissolving into the night. He hadn’t expected you to notice him staring, much less explain it.

“…Oh.” The response slips out before he can think of anything better. His gaze flickers back to the lighter, then to your profile. “That’s sweet.”

Even as the words leave his mouth, they sound inadequate. It’s the first time you’ve ever mentioned your family around him, the first glimpse into a life that existed long before the two of you crossed paths, and he isn’t sure how carefully he’s supposed to tread. After a hesitant pause, he adds softly, “You must’ve been really close… huh?”

You take another drag before answering. This one is slower, the cigarette burning quietly between your fingers as you hold the smoke for a few long seconds. When you finally exhale, your voice is almost swallowed by the breeze. “She’s dead.”

Megumi freezes.

His body goes still before his mind does. The words settle heavily in the silence between you, so blunt and matter-of-fact that for a second they don’t quite register. Then they do, all at once. Heat rushes uncomfortably up the back of his neck while something cold sinks into the pit of his stomach.

“Oh.” It’s barely more than a whisper. He swallows hard, suddenly aware of every sentence he almost said, every assumption he’d made only moments ago. “I’m…I’m so sorry.”

You don’t respond immediately. Instead, you lean back on your hands, taking another slow drag from the cigarette before letting the smoke escape in a long, quiet exhale toward the lake. Megumi watches it disappear into the wind while his own hands fidget absently in his lap, his fingers twisting together as he searches for something—anything—that might make this moment lighter.

Questions crowd the back of his mind, but none of them feel like they belong to him. How old was she? What happened? They all sound painfully selfish. Curiosity masquerading as comfort. In the end, he says nothing at all.

He simply stays beside you, allowing the silence to settle between the two of you without trying to fix it, realizing for the first time just how much of your life existed beyond the version of you he’d come to know—and how little of it he’d ever truly seen.

You finally glance back at him. Your expression is calm—almost impossibly so—as if you hadn’t just dropped something heavy enough to leave the air between you altered. Whatever grief lives behind your eyes has long since learned how to sit quietly, tucked neatly beneath practiced composure. The corner of your mouth lifts into the faintest smile, subtle enough that he almost misses it.

“Do you smoke, Fushiguro?” you ask, your voice light, steering the conversation somewhere else with such effortless precision that he realizes you’re giving him an out.

Megumi blinks, the sudden change in subject catching him off guard. For a moment he simply looks at you, trying to reconcile the question with the confession that came before it. Then he lets out a quiet breath and shakes his head.

“No.” His answer comes simply, his gaze drifting toward the cigarette balanced between your fingers. The ember pulses softly each time the breeze breathes across it. “Never really saw the point.”

“Good,” you hum, looking back toward the lake. “Don’t start.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Says the person smoking.”

A quiet laugh escapes you, softer this time, lacking the teasing edge he’d grown accustomed to. You roll the cigarette between your fingers before taking another slow drag, your shoulders lifting in a small shrug.

“Exactly,” you murmur. “Somebody should learn from my bad decisions.”

Megumi watches the smoke curl into the night, where it dissolves almost instantly into the wind. For some reason, the joke doesn’t land the way it normally would. It’s weighed down by everything that came before it, by the lighter still resting in your hand, by the date engraved into its side. He has the strange feeling that smoking isn’t just a habit for you. It’s something else. A ritual, maybe. A conversation with someone who isn’t here anymore.

He doesn’t ask.

Not because he isn’t curious.

But because he has the distinct feeling that, if you wanted him to know, you would’ve already told him.

Megumi’s eyes linger on the cigarette for another moment before he looks back out over the water. The lake ripples quietly beneath the moonlight, reflecting silver where the wind disturbs its surface. He isn’t sure whether it’s the hour, the silence, or the conversation you’d just shared, but something about tonight feels different. Less guarded. Less like the two of you are carefully circling one another.

“Can I try it?” The question leaves his mouth before he’s fully decided to ask it.

You turn your head so quickly he almost thinks he’d imagined speaking. “What?”

“The cigarette,” he clarifies, rubbing the back of his neck. “Can I try it?”

For a second, you simply stare at him. Then you laugh a single, disbelieving breath of amusement as you shake your head. “I thought you just said you’d never seen the point.”

“I haven’t.”

“And now?”

He shrugs, eyes dropping to the weathered planks beneath his shoes. “I’m curious.”

Your smile fades into something more thoughtful. You glance down at the cigarette between your fingers before looking back at him, studying his face as though trying to figure out whether he’s serious. “You’ve seriously never smoked before?”

He shakes his head once. “No.”

“Huh.”

You roll the cigarette absentmindedly between your fingers, watching the ash at its tip tremble. “I don’t know if I should feel honored,” you murmur with a crooked smile, “or responsible.”

“You don’t have to let me.”

“I know.”

Another quiet stretch settles between you.

The breeze lifts a loose strand of your hair as you look back toward the water, your thumb tracing absent circles over the engraved spider lily on the lighter. When you speak again, your voice is softer.

“I actually don’t think you should.”

Megumi looks over.

“I literally just told you not to start,” you continue with a small huff of laughter. “I’d be a pretty big hypocrite if I handed you your first cigarette five seconds later.”

He can’t argue with that. “I guess.”

“I mean…” You tilt your head, eyeing him with faint suspicion. “This isn’t one of those ‘I need to experience everything once’ things, is it?”

“No.”

“‘Trying to look cool?’”

“No.”

“‘Existential crisis at three in the morning?’”

He gives you a flat look. “You ask a lot of questions.”

“And you avoid answering them.”

A corner of his mouth twitches despite himself. “I’m just curious,” he admits after a moment. “That’s all.”

Your expression softens. “I get that.”

You look down at the cigarette one last time before pinching the glowing ember out against the metal ashtray bolted to the edge of the dock. A thin ribbon of smoke rises from the extinguished tip, curling into the cool night air.

“But,” you say, slipping the lighter back into your purse, “there are less disgusting ways to satisfy your curiosity.”

Megumi watches the last traces of smoke disappear into the darkness.

“Does it really taste that bad?”

You pull a face. “It tastes like burning leaves.”

“You make it sound appealing.”

“I know. I’m great at marketing.”

For the first time since arriving at the dock, he lets out a quiet laugh. It’s brief. Barely audible. But it’s enough to make you smile, and somehow the heaviness that had settled between the two of you eases, if only for a little while.

"Well you make me want to try it even more now," he says, biting his cheek to prevent from smiling.

The words hang between you instead, suspended in the thin night air like they’ve forgotten how to fall. Megumi’s mouth is still curved at the edge—barely there, almost defensive in how subtle it is—but his eyes don’t move from you. Not this time. Not like before, when looking at you always felt like something he’d immediately correct. Now it just feels natural.

You roll your eyes first, because of course you do. It’s automatic, like breathing. Like you refuse to let anything sit too still for too long.

“Of course I do,” you say, glancing at the cigarette like it personally offended you. “That’s literally my life mission. Corrupt the emotionally repressed guy.”

“I’m not emotionally repressed.”

You look at him. “You’re definitely emotionally repressed.”

Megumi exhales, and it almost becomes a laugh again, but he swallows it down before it can fully form. The dock creaks softly beneath you as the water shifts below, slow and patient, like it’s listening in.

You glance down at the cigarette between your fingers, then back at him.

Something changes in your expression—not dramatically, not in a way that demands attention. It’s smaller than that. A pause where your usual teasing doesn’t immediately refill the space.

“Fine,” you say eventually.

Megumi blinks. “What?”

“Fine,” you repeat, slower this time, like you’re correcting him without saying he was wrong. “Just once.”

The cigarette tilts slightly as you lift it between two fingers, studying him instead of it now. The ember glows faintly, pulsing like it’s alive, like it knows it’s about to be part of something it shouldn’t be part of.

You hold it out.

Megumi is about to reach for it before your hand is on his wrist—firm, certain, immediate.

“Wait—” he starts, but you pull him in before he can finish. Not hard enough to hurt, but enough that his balance shifts and suddenly the space between you collapses like it was never meant to exist in the first place.

The dock, the lake, even the cigarette in his hand—everything drops out of focus except you. Because you’re right there now. Too close. Your grip is still on his wrist, but it feels less like restraint and more like anchoring, like you’re afraid he’ll disappear if you let go. And the worst part is he doesn’t move.

His breath catches, subtle but immediate, like his body reacted before his mind could stop it. Your voice comes quieter now. “I mean it, Fushiguro.”

His name sounds different like this—less like teasing, more like something sharp and real underneath it. Megumi’s mind tries to go anywhere else—the cigarette, the lake, literally anything—but all it registers is proximity. Too close. Far too close. He can see you too clearly now: the faint light on your face, the way your expression isn’t playful anymore.

His throat tightens. “I—” he starts, but nothing follows.

You’re still holding him. Still there. Still not backing away either. “I said just once,” you repeat softer, like you’re giving him an out. “You don’t have to—”

“I know,” he cuts in quickly, then exhales like the words came out wrong. His jaw tightens. “I know,” he repeats, quieter this time.

The cigarette in between your fingers is forgotten now, smoke curling between you like it doesn’t know it’s irrelevant. You don’t let go of his wrist but your grip shifts slightly, less holding and more guiding, like you’re letting him decide what happens next.

Megumi is painfully aware of everything at once—your hand on his pulse, the space that isn’t there anymore, the way the dock creaks under both of you like it’s holding its breath too.

“I just don’t want you to do it because you feel like you have to,” you murmur, and for the first time your voice isn’t teasing or controlled in the same way. It’s careful.

He blinks. That wasn’t what he expected. A pause stretches. Wind moves through the dock. Water shifts below.

He exhales slowly. “I don’t think I have to,” he says finally, steadier than he feels.

Your eyes search his like you don’t fully believe him. That does something unpleasant to his chest.

“I said I’m curious,” he adds, more firmly. Then, quieter, "And I trust you.”

That lands differently. The silence after that feels heavier than everything before it.

When you finally speak again, it’s softer. “I mean it,” you say again, but it isn’t a warning this time. It’s an insistence on being understood.

He nods once. “Okay.”

Your fingers loosen on his wrist but don’t fully let go. Instead, you shift his hand slightly and guide the cigarette rather than holding him still, and that tiny adjustment is enough to make his breath catch again.

Megumi stares at it for a second too long, like he’s trying to locate the version of himself that would’ve said no immediately—the version that wouldn’t be standing on a dock at an hour that barely qualifies as time, heart doing something annoyingly inconsistent in his chest for reasons he refuses to name.

His fingers lift, hesitate, then continue anyway, and when he finally takes it, his hand brushes yours. It’s brief, almost nothing, something that should disappear instantly into the noise of the night—but it doesn’t. It lingers in the space after, like the air itself remembers it better than he does, like his body filed it somewhere his thoughts haven’t caught up to yet.

“Don’t overthink it,” you say, quieter now, like you can hear the direction his thoughts are already taking.

“I’m not overthinking it.”

“You’re literally overthinking it.”

He gives you a look, but it lacks real edge. “You’re watching me think.”

“That’s because you think loudly.”

“That’s not a thing.”

“It is for you.”

The lake shifts below the dock, slow and indifferent, wind brushing through the wood like it’s listening without interest.

Megumi exhales through his nose, slower this time, like he’s forcing his body to catch up with something his mind is pretending not to feel, and then, quieter than he intends, “Just show me.”

Your expression changes. “Okay,” you say.

You step closer again, and this time there’s no pretending it’s casual. Your hand comes to his wrist—not grabbing, not pulling, just correcting, guiding with a precision that feels unfairly familiar for how new it is, like you’ve always known the exact way he holds tension in his body even before you had words for it.

The cigarette sits between his fingers now, suddenly foreign in a way that has nothing to do with the object and everything to do with proximity. “Calm down, it's not like you’re defusing a bomb,” you murmur.

“I’ve defused bombs,” he says automatically, his brain on auto-pilot now. He barely even recognizes that he spoke until you reply.

“That’s worse.”

His eyes flick to yours, and there’s a flicker of something almost irritated—but it never fully forms. It dissolves halfway through, replaced by something quieter, something that doesn’t have a clean name attached to it. “You’re worse.”

“Okay, Fushiguro,” you say, and the way you say his name makes something in him tighten in a way he refuses to examine too closely. “Just breathe in. Don’t think.”

“That sounds like terrible advice.”

“It’s my specialty.”

He huffs once, almost a laugh, almost nothing but he follows anyway.

Inhale.

The cigarette hits his throat immediately, sharp and bitter and completely unceremonious, like it doesn’t care that he’s new to it or that he’s paying attention. His brows knit slightly before he can stop it, instinctive, and your grip on his wrist shifts immediately like you noticed before he even registered it himself.

“Don’t make that face,” you murmur.

“I didn’t make a face.”

“You did.”

“I didn’t.”

“You’re doing it again.”

He exhales through his nose, and the smoke comes out uneven, less controlled than yours, breaking apart almost instantly in the wind like it doesn’t belong to him yet, like it’s already being taken away before he can decide what to do with it.

For a moment he just watches it drift, like it was supposed to mean something more than it does, like he expected it to change something internal and is quietly annoyed that it didn’t.

“It tastes like burning leaves,” he says flatly.

"Told you." A quiet laugh slips out, softer than your usual teasing. “At least you didn't have a coughing fit like most people. You're a natural!"

He looks at you like he’s reconsidering every decision that led to this exact configuration of time and place and you standing too close for it to be easily ignored. And yet he doesn’t hand it back. That realization comes late, like everything else tonight that he’s pretending not to notice. Your gaze drops to his hand again, then back up to his face like you’re trying not to acknowledge something shifting either.

The dock creaks beneath you. The lake moves without urgency. The night keeps its distance like it’s pretending not to see.

You hum, then step in again—just enough that distance stops being a useful concept. “Did it help?” you ask.

Megumi pauses, cigarette still faintly glowing between his fingers. He could deflect. He could make it lighter. He could turn it into something easier to carry. Instead, he looks at you a second too long and says, “Not really,” then, quieter, like he didn’t mean to say the second part out loud, “but I get it.”

Something in your expression shifts—a small adjustment like someone briefly letting their guard slip and deciding not to rebuild it yet. “Yeah,” you say softly.

The silence that follows isn’t empty; it’s held, like something both of you are unconsciously keeping from falling apart.

Megumi finally moves to hand it back, but you don’t take it right away. Your fingers brush his again, brief and intentional in a way neither of you acknowledges, and for a second neither of you looks away, like the moment itself is waiting to see who decides it has to end first.

Then you’re the one who moves first.

You pull away.

You scoot back across the wooden planks, the dock creaking under the shift, each movement sounding louder than it should in the stillness. Megumi’s hand stays where it is for half a beat too long, like it hasn’t received the instruction to stop existing in that space yet, before he slowly lowers it.

The cigarette feels heavier again now that it isn’t part of the shared moment, just an object again, just something normal, and he almost hates how quickly everything returns to normal when you stop looking at him like how you were before.

You clear your throat, already different somehow, already rearranged back into yourself as you fish your phone out of your purse. The screen lights up your face in pale blue, catching on the exhaustion under your eyes that he hadn’t noticed before because he was too busy noticing everything else. He watches the way you blink at the brightness, the way your expression flattens slightly as if you’re putting distance between yourself and whatever just existed.

“We should probably head back,” you say curtly, leaning over to extinguish the cigarette in the ashtray with practiced ease, like the moment had always been temporary. “It’s getting late—or, well, early.”

He blinks.

Then again, slower, like his brain is trying to find the version of the night that makes sense with this ending attached to it.

“Oh,” he says, because anything more feels like it would require admitting that something happened. “Yeah. Okay.”

But you’re already standing. Already moving. Already becoming the version of yourself that exists in daylight logic again, where things like proximity and silence and hands brushing accidentally are supposed to mean less than they did a second ago. Megumi follows a moment later, slower, his body catching up before his thoughts do.

As you start walking back, the distance between you returns in careful increments—space reasserting itself like it’s correcting an error. The wind feels colder now. The dock sounds louder. Even your footsteps seem more separate, less synchronized than before. Megumi glances at you once, then forward again, then once more like he’s trying to locate the exact point where the version of you from a minute ago disappeared.

But you don’t look back. And he doesn’t say anything.

He just follows.

a/n: yall have no idea how bad i wanted to make them kiss this chapter but i gotta hold back…

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