𝔖𝔥𝔦𝔫𝔡𝔬𝔲

It wouldn’t be an exaggeration to say that Sae saw you in every stage of your early teenage years. From when you were eleven and got those hideous braces to fix your teeth (that you still regret to this day because why would you have chosen that design out of all the designs there were?) that made you lisp for the first two months you got them.

Or when you were twelve and had gotten your first bad mark because your teacher didn’t want to acknowledge the fact that it was your bench neighbour that copied the answers from your sheet. After that you wailed for the entirety of the day while Sae just sat there and nodded along while listening to you as you decided about how you’d quit going to school after this. (You still went the next day.) 

Not to forget the time when you were thirteen and you finally tried to make a move on Sae. You had it all planned out: the when, the how and the where. Rin had liked horror movies from a young age on and he’d always ask Sae to watch them with him, so when you asked if you could watch a horror movie with them that’s when you seized your chance. The three of you sat in the living room and shared a blanket on the sofa. Your plan was simple: anxiously move around, wait for a jumpscare, yelp and hold Sae’s hand — it’s basically a foolproof plan.

It wasn’t hard to guess that the climax of the movie was soon, the anticipation built up and you felt your heart hammering against your chest along with it. “It’s time now” you thought to yourself and crept your hand under the blanket “Where is his hand?” the thought plagued you as your hand frantically roamed around. “What are you doing?” Sae spoke up quietly, accentuating every word and you jumped in your seat. Luckily Rin didn’t bat an eye and continued to focus on the movie. “Just searching for the remote.” you laughed sheepishly, embarrassed he caught you. “What? You’re scared?” He teased and quirked his eyebrow. “Pff, who me? No, never-“ 

Hurriedly you look back to the television and the universe just had to bite you in the ass after that. It was exactly in the moment when your eyes met the 

screen that a jumpscare had appeared. “THE FUCK?!” You screamed and amidst the moment you accidentally pushed Sae off the sofa making him tumble down onto the floor. Safe to say that your plan was a failure.

However the same goes for you — you’ve also seen Sae grow up over the years. It was around the time the two of you entered first grade that you had to teach Sae how to be more polite. Sae had always been quite blunt and straight to the point — you’ve gotten used to it, but for others, especially adults it was a shock seeing a six year old telling their teacher that they have morning breath and asking them if they’ve never heard of brushing their teeth. 

Many disliked Sae, be that classmates, teammates or other neighbouring children, with very few exceptions who did like him, still, that never seemed to faze him even in the slightest. In fact his confidence made you like him even more. Looking back Sae probably found you to be a stick in the mud and only tolerated you because his mother had forced him to, but you like to think that he eventually had started to enjoy having you around. 

Because why else would Sae have met you outside in the dead of the night when you couldn’t sleep and stayed with you until you calmed down? He hung out with you after training, talked to you about his dreams of aiming to be the best striker in the world and never made any rude comment towards you like he did with others. (You might be a bit delusional for that one, but for Sae, being polite was quite literally a miracle, so you’ll take it.)

That was until Sae became the boy you had to say goodbye to. What would you do if your childhood best friend, also crush, left for god knows how long? There were still unresolved feelings which lingered between you and Sae — at least from your side. 

‘Is it better to speak or to die?’ When you were 14 you practically lived off that quote and made it your entire personality, thinking you’re the most sophisticated person to walk this earth. When you first heard it online somewhere you just stole it and ran with it, so there wasn’t much originality to it, but it did motivate you to do some things — whether those were good or bad are debatable.

Because confessing to Sae shortly before he leaves maybe wasn’t the smartest decision you’ve made.

When his parents went to the washing rooms with Rin you decided to muster up the courage. “I hope you have lots of fun in Spain.” you told him before hugging him shortly. Sae wasn’t a big fan of physical contact, he’d always stiffen like a stone statue, however this would be the last time you see him, so can he blame you? After letting him go, Sae fixed his clothes, brushing over his wool sweater to iron it out. “Yeah I will. I’ll become the best striker in the world soon enough.” Based on the way his eyes shone, the folds of skin around them crinkled and how his usually aloof expression took on a smile, you could tell that he meant it sincerely — it’s always been his dream after all.

“Yeah, definitely.” you assured him, fully believing in him. You didn’t know it yet, but the next time you’d see Sae neither of you would be the same. But maybe a small part of you did know and that’s why you decided to confess your feelings back then. “You know Sae.” It started off awkwardly, you still remember it as if it just happened. You vividly remember the way his head turned and how a small “hm?” escaped his lips. On the inside you felt yourself hesitating, thinking it’s not too late to back out now. Still, even back then, you knew that if not now, Sae would slither through the gaps of your fingers like flowing sand. “I actually used to have this big crush on you.” Too ashamed by your own words, you turned your head away from Sae and laughed nervously. “But don’t worry! Not anymore!” You quickly added as you continued to laugh to cover up your embarrassed state. Not wanting to stay in this situation any longer you ushered Sae to go away, motioning with your hands for him to leave now. “Have a safe travel. Text me when you land!” From your peripheral vision you saw his parents returning and stepped back from Sae. “[Name.]” Sae called out your name and you tilted your head to the side, and shot him a bashful look. He opened his mouth and croaked out some incoherent sounds as if the words that lied on the tip of his tongue got mixed up. His next attempt to talk was interrupted both by his parents and an announcement.

“Flight 1211 will now depart. The last passengers please board the plane. Thank you.”

Rin ran up to Sae and looked at him with big eyes. “Big bro, your flight! You need to go now!” The younger Itoshi brother said as he was beaming with a smile so sweet that the cherry blossoms which grow in your shared hometown, Kamakura, don’t even compare to. (You haven’t seen Rin smile like that for a while.)

That was Sae’s cue to leave. After this moment you won’t see him again for a while and maybe that made it worse because you didn’t know how long that while would be. No, you weren't over Sae Itoshi, in fact his farewell made your heart ache even more for him.

As soon as that realisation hit you, it felt like there was an invisible border that separated the two of you — one which both of you knew better than to overstep.

It was an all too familiar line. It’s the same line Sae used to draw in the sand with the wooden stick he got from the icicle; he’d always buy one when you went to the beach. The line was supposed to represent a border that marked your territories to establish where one’s territory ended and where the others started. It was a silent mutual agreement between the two of you. 

In response to Rin, Sae hummed in acknowledgment and you’re still not sure to this day, but it looked like he swallowed the words he wanted to say to you in the end. “Yeah, you’re right.” He nodded at Rin and his parents before casting his gaze over to you. “See you.” Wistful cerulean eyes met yours and even though his face didn’t say it, his eyes told you enough. You think that that was the saddest you have ever seen Sae. He shot you one last smile, one that doesn't quite reach his eyes as he waved his hand towards you before going through the check in. 

——

There’s someone talking in your ear, but you can’t hear it over the loud thudding of the music and people talking. Moreover your mind is completely elsewhere. Why’d that memory suddenly pop up in your mind, and out of all times, now?

“I guess what I’m trying to say is if you wanna go out for drinks some time?” The question snaps you out of your memories, transporting you back to the present. You shake your head and blink rapidly, to the point where you can feel your eyes tearing up. The drink in your hand almost spills from how tightly you’re holding the plastic cup. “Wait, I’m so sorry. What did you say?” Apologetically you turn to the person who was talking to you for almost the entirety of the whole reunion. Not to lie, but you didn’t have any clue who this guy was. From what you’ve gathered his name is Shin, his classroom was next to yours and apparently he was also on the middle school football team with Sae. Not like you really paid attention to anyone other than Sae, so you never really noticed any of his teammates until you were approached this evening. However he does seem like a nice person. Well spoken, sweet, quite polite and doesn’t look bad either.

He — Shin as you learned — profusely coughs in his hand before swallowing as if to prepare for what he’s about to say. “I meant to ask if you have any interest in going ou—“. Before you can fully listen to what he has to say, you get interrupted. “Guys! Don’t just stand around. Come over here and play!” The host — your former class rep — comes over to the two of you and invites you to join her and the others who are sitting in the living room, circling around what seems to be some sort of bottle.

“Sure, why not.” Upon your agreement she happily grabs your hand and leads you to the living room, Shin following the two of you. You look back over your shoulder and whisper to Shin. “What is it you wanted to say?” In response to your question he just chuckles, shakes his head and mouths something you don't quite get, leaving you confused. 

Not wanting to pry any further you follow your former class rep as she leads you over to her friends who are all sitting on one side of the room. They all have matching hair tinsels—how cute—you think to yourself as you observe the shiny gold strands in your class reps hair. Shin on the other hand gets pulled away by a group of guys—his friends you presume. One of them slings an arm over Shin’s shoulder and whispers something into his ears. Whatever it is, it makes Shin laugh and he shakes his head as he says something to his friend. Amused by whatever his friend said he playfully swats said friend’s arm away before his eyes find yours and he waves his hand. You look around to see if he means you and he confirms by nodding enthusiastically. Not quite sure how to respond, you give him a small smile, unaware of a pair of cerulean eyes watching you from across the room. 

There’s a lot more people gathering in the living room now and more familiar faces start to pop up. 

Sitting on the sofa is the girl who won the running race at every sports festival, the same group of people who performed at the school festival are still hanging out together and—oh—the captain of the baseball club—wait—THAT captain of the baseball club? Not trusting your eyes you ask the girl next to you and she confirms it for you. Your eyes widen in disbelief as you see him walking into the living room. Back in middle school your friend was head over heels for him, even going as far as gifting him chocolates on Valentine’s Day and confessing to him after graduation. If she’d be here she would totally freak out.

When he stops to check his phone you don’t even let a second pass. There’s no way you're gonna let this chance slip away—you have to take a picture for your friend. Hastily you pat your jeans to find your phone. Now your only mission was to somehow find a way to sneakily take a picture without looking like a complete stalker that’s been counting down all the days until middle school reunion to take a picture of him from afar. 

Luckily for you, he’s still looking down at his phone. Carefully you zoom into his face, getting a better look at him was essential. But the more you look at him the more you realise something—wow—your friend does have a type, now that you think back of her ex-boyfriends.

All of a sudden there's something blocking your camera; someone’s standing in front of your phone. Expecting to see maybe Shin or one of your old classmates, you look up, however you weren’t prepared for the person standing in front of you. 

It’s sudden, terrifying and at the same time embarrassing, how your heart rate immediately increases. Your heart races in your chest. You feel it jumping against your ribcage urging to run away—as if it’ll explode if it doesn’t escape from the insides of your body. Like there is something on the line. 

Except there is something. “Everyone’s gawking.” The blunt words linger in the air and you’re reminded of who’s talking to you. Too stunned to say anything you stay quiet, amidst it all still managing to put your phone down your lap. “Youre like the sixth person who took a photo of me since I came here.” He eyes the tiny gap next to you and on instinct you move. You understand it immediately—it’s something that’s been ingrained in your brain—something you always did, as you inch away to make space for him.

In response to your gesture, he merely nods as a way of saying thanks, before sitting himself next to you on the floor. Your mind still can’t comprehend it, this must be some sort of illusion. “Sae?” It’s barely a whisper, but it’s the only thing you seem to be able to say at this moment, your mind still short circuiting over him being here and sitting next to you.

He doesn’t say anything, maybe because he doesn’t feel the need to, Sae’s never been a talkative person after all. Still, there are so many questions popping up in your head, so many that you don’t even know what to ask first.

Should you be worried? That might not be the most appropriate reaction, maybe you should be happy? Still, that doesn't seem right—perhaps relieved would do? The more you think about what you should feed the more you start to doubt yourself. Maybe Sae didn’t want you to react at all? All of your emotions are starting to stack together like a tower of plates, which is just waiting for the right moment to tumble down to end up shattering into a mess of shards. 

Your train of thought doesn’t have the time to drive to any other thoughts due to your class rep interrupting to explain the mechanics of the game. There’s not much to it; it’s quite simple. After spinning the bottle, the two lucky people who sit where the ends of the bottle point at, have to go into an enclosed storage room for ten minutes and have time to kiss. If they don’t, whether they decide against it out of personal reasons or something else, the outcome is the same. Both of them are forced to down some kind of alcohol mixture with something you don’t even want to know.

This reunion might as well just be a typical week for middle school with all the things that are happening. People are already talking and whispering amongst themselves as the game proceeds and the further it goes, the more it reminds you of middle school; it’s like you're on a field trip again, sharing a room with your closest friends and playing truth or dare past midnight.

There are so many unlikely pairs which you would’ve never thought of ever seeing together—hell—you’re certain that they also haven’t ever talked to each other in middle school. Then there were others with unrequited crushes or exes who ended on bad terms. As for the others who weren’t so lucky, they had to endure the punishment of drinking a mixture of alcohol, some fruit juices, soft drinks and sometimes even condiments. 

It’s all fun and games until it’s your turn. The bottle with the end where the bottle cap is located, lands on you, you look over to who sits at the opposite end of the bottle and to your surprise you see Shin who’s already grinning at you. It wouldn’t take an expert to determine that he looks delighted and quite happy, that claim of yours is practically being supported by how his friends cheer on him. Shin helps himself up, stands up straight and looks at you with this expectant glimmer that makes you feel uneasy and your gut churn together. Everything seems to still in that moment, the chatter, the music, the people. It’s futile—the way you tell yourself to stand up and walk over to Shin, simply because that’s what everyone expects you to do. However you can’t and there’s a simple reason for that, unlike the person you love—Sae. 

Sae is difficult to read—he’s always been a closed off person. Everything about him is neatly tucked away, hidden behind a curtain of thorns that sting when you try to squeeze yourself past them. Still, when you do manage to fight them off, you’ll find that beneath all of these sharp thorns there’s a delicate rose that waits for you in all its purity—its delicate petals start to bloom when you get closer to it. Take a step closer to Sae and you take a step into his heart, you’ll find out that there's much more to him than his seemingly apathetic demeanour. 

As ridiculous as it sounds, you have to refuse because of a puppy love that you haven’t been able to get over. In the past four years you have gone on dates with other people and they were great, so it wasn’t like that your whole love life revolves around Sae. Also, there’s no way you could ever discredit those people's efforts to get to know you, in fact they tried their best, but it was always you who ran away before it could develop into something more serious. You were the one who stopped responding to messages after a while, pretended not to know them when you walked past them on the streets or turned down invitations when you knew that they’d be there. 

No matter how much you try to deny it, there’s a part inside of you that's unmistakably still in love with Sae Itoshi. There are fragments of Sae’s personality that only have ever been exposed to you, and yes, maybe it’s selfish to want to keep those to yourself—in fact you don’t want to risk them being shown to someone else, because that would mean that you’re no longer special to him. 

For thinking like this Sae would surely call you stupid, because he isn’t some sort of exclusive celebrity (except he kind of is) and just because others learn more about him that doesn’t equal you being of any lesser worth. Still, he is your Sae and you know what kind of person he is.

He was always aiming to be the best there is; any medal other than gold was something Sae refused to accept. That’s why he left for Spain. To become better. Simultaneously you tried to do the same—becoming a better version of yourself that you can be proud of, pursuing dreams and different relationships. You succeeded in doing so—at least that's what you thought. Seeing that Sae is once again entering your life, you think that you haven’t changed at all—you’re the same 14 year old chasing after one of his rare smiles and affirmations. Just by being here, Sae has once again turned your whole world upside down.

A love you develop for someone at the age of 14 can’t last, it’s just a fleeting crush that exists because you don’t know the person—is something you’d probably think if it weren’t for Sae. 

You’re almost certain that even if Sae hadn’t come this evening you still would’ve decided against kissing Shin by telling him some on the spot made up reason. But now that Sae is here, everything inside you tells you that you most definitely can’t, simply because of Sae’s presence. Is it pathetic to have lingering feelings for your childhood best friend? Maybe. 

Once more you’re drowning in a pool of memories. Only when someone calls out your name, are you able to pay attention. Everyone’s staring at you, their gazes heavy as they observe your every move. The way your fingers tremble under the dim purple lights, how your eyes flicker around the crowd and they might as well hear your heartbeat from how loud it’s hammering.

This shouldn’t be so difficult—if you do it now you’re done with it, just be honest and there’ll be no hard feelings. Stand up, spend time with Shin in the room, tell him you can’t do it and face the humility of drinking one of these mystery mixtures. Just as you were about to stand up and do as you planned, a hand grabs your wrist and pulls you upwards—Sae.

His hand feels cold to the touch and his grip is harshly pressing against your forearm that you’re sure it’ll leave marks, but you don’t fight it; you indulge in it, granting him the chance of continuing. 

The people in the living room start gathering around you, watching as Sae drags you into the enclosed storage room. He pushes the door open and throws you inside, the wall cushioning you, as you press your palms against it to prevent a hard fall. 

“Ouch.” you remark drily, sarcasm dripping off your tongue. It’s only then when you notice how annoyed Sae looks that this closet is tiny; it’s no more than a small storage for brooms and some canned goods. “Still not a fan of small spaces?” You attempt to begin a conversation with him, but Sae doesn’t react. On the contrary his face is blank, his lips press into a thin line and his eyes search for something to fixate on so he doesn’t lose his composure. You recognise that expression, he makes the same face when he tries to puzzle pieces of information together or overwrites them, because they differed from the information he had previously gathered.

Sae had always said what's on his mind—each and every single thought—meaning that utmost honesty was to be nothing to be surprised about. So, seeing that he’s at a loss for words, is rare. You don’t say anything, knowing that if you disturb him he’ll lose his train of thought. 

There’s barely any space between the two of you and you start feeling warm. Everything is too much too process. Your clothes are sticking too tightly on your skin, your hair is plastered all over your face and your lips feel incredibly dry as you brush over them.

“I thought you liked me.” Sae says all of a sudden, his words startling you. If you weren’t overstimulated enough from the sensory overload, you were now as well emotionally overwhelmed. “I,” you stutter, the words are stuck in your throat. “I’m sorry?” You croak out quietly. Sae simply blinks, his bottom lashes fluttering as he repeats his words. “No, no,” you laugh, eyes roaming around the enclosed space. “I understood you the first time. I’m just,” you inhale deeply, because this isn’t what you expected; this wasn’t the outcome of what you had in mind. “I’m just surprised.” You confess to him, before quickly switching the topics. “I mean, yeah, I like you. We’re childhood friends after all.” 

Sae’s eyebrows furrow together, suggesting that you misread his intentions. “I didn’t mean it like that.” The worst part of it all is that you know what he’s referring to, and you’re sure that’s why Sae looks so frustrated right now. Embarrassed that he caught on to you makes your eyes meet the ground. You’ve always had a bad habit of denying things you were embarrassed of which oftentimes led to miscommunications between the two of you. As it seems, things haven’t really changed a lot. “If it’s about the confession you don’t have to worry.” You thought it’d be easy to say these words out loud, but you can feel how your cheeks are burning up, probably reddening by the second. “I already told you that I don’t have a crush on you anymore.” Sae lets out an exasperated sigh and you can practically feel the annoyance it carries. His reaction makes you look up, afraid you might have offended him. Somehow you say the first things that comes to mind. “Seriously, that was sooo long ago. I don’t like you like that anymore.”

You look at him, expecting him to sigh again or to maybe just stay quiet, because he’s tired of explaining, however you aren’t prepared for his next words. “But I do.” Three simple words leave you more breathless than any “I love you.” It’s an objection that makes your heart flutter and your mind spin in a way that only Sae could manage to do. Still, this doesn’t feel right nor real. “Sorry?” You express confusion, because although your heart is overjoyed and jumping from happiness, your mind still can’t fathom it. “Yeah.” Sae confirms it as if it’s the easiest thing in the world; he’s been waiting to say this. 

The longer you wait for something the more you want it. Humans are sociable beings that crave for bits of attention, because mutual understanding and love creates a bond that cannot be recreated alone. For one cannot survive a life alone that is meant to be shared by many. Meaning that even someone as reserved as Sae, like anyone else, has the need for human interaction, in his case, with you as the center.

“You like me.” Each word is heavily accentuated to make Sae hear himself and how unbelievable he sounds. But all Sae does is nod; he just shakes his head in approval. “I don’t know what I’m supposed to say.” The admission is so quiet that you don’t know if Sae even heard you. Whether he doesn’t acknowledge it on purpose or simply ignores your word is unknown to you, but it doesn't matter to him, if Sae has a goal in mind he’s keen on accomplishing it. “Do you like me?” And perhaps after all your doubt and uncertainty, you’re no better than Sae—it is you who fulfills his need. “Yeah.” You manage to say. The words lift a burden off your shoulders, because even after all this time, you can’t deny your feelings for him. 

You thought that if you kept this a secret for a little longer the feelings would’ve gone away. That they would disappear. But every time you saw Sae on the billboards, social media or walked by his house which was quite literally every day, the feelings started to resurface. Each time stronger.

Alas, Sae is a person full of surprises and you recall the time when you were around ten years old. Sae and you have been talking about something for a while and somewhere during that conversation the word “difficult” fell from his mouth. All you remember after that was that your mother had to console you as she patted you on your back for the whole afternoon. It was only after Sae left that his mother explained the incident to you.

She saw you running off, looking upset and went up to Sae to ask him what had happened. Sae told her what the two of you talked about and how your expression changed into something he couldn’t describe, when he called you difficult. His mother then explained to you that Sae didn’t mean difficult in the sense that he was annoyed at you, but because he couldn’t figure you out. He tried solving you, but failed—that’s why he said that. She had explained that usually Sae doesn’t bother finding people out if he doesn’t understand them, but he genuinely wanted to know you. And then, when you ran off, Sae didn’t run or call after you not because he wasn’t worried, but because he never saw you sad and he was exposed to a new situation with no instruction on how to act.

Sae has a hard time figuring out other people’s feelings, moreover he has a more difficult time understanding his own. He doesn’t know why he feels a certain way and somehow when he tries to express it, people often get the wrong idea. With the little pieces he has about someone or the concept of something, Sae tries to piece together a picture of what is happening, but that doesn’t always work out in his favor. 

Even if he doesn’t admit it, you know that Sae thinks of himself as a composed person who can maintain a clear head in every situation. So that’s why when he asks you: “If that’s true, would you also have kissed another person then?” You’re taken aback, because this wasn’t something Sae, out of all people, were to ask. Maybe as a way to confirm his thesis about you liking him, but there was something else in Sae’s voice—something that could only pinpoint to possessiveness. He means Shin, you’re sure of it. Granted, Sae is a rational person and you know that he’s never been much of a jealous or envious person, but there were times when he did become this kind of territorial person. His feelings don’t come from a place of insecurity or anxiety, but because he has the need to maintain what is his. You wouldn’t call it a pride thing, more like a safety measure for himself.

“I don’t know.” You whisper after a while—a lie. Back in middle school when Sae asked how you were doing (as a form of courtesy because his mother told him that small talk is a way of showing politeness) you’d always lie to him, going on about how you were doing fine and so on. Sae never really questioned it, because in his mind lying is useless, why’s there the need to lie; isn’t being truthful more useful? It’s only when one day you asked him if he really believes you’re always fine that Sae started to get an insight into your head. For what reason did you need to lie for? Sae never got it, he wasn’t mad at you because of it, he genuinely just didn’t understand what your purpose behind it was. 

That’s why Sae knew that you were lying, he didn’t know what for, but he knew that you were being untruthful. “Don’t give me that crap.” Sae spits, the words coming out more aggressive than he had planned. In fact, Sae always says things in a monotone manner. As long as his message gets across, he doesn’t see the need to put any unnecessary emotion into his words. “Why are you so mad? I should be the one who’s mad.” Your eyebrows furrow together in confusion, because you didn’t expect Sae’s former habits to act up—Sae knew you didn’t like his way of being rude and honest. Perhaps that’s why you couldn't repress your own bad habits. Whenever Sae started being like this you’d become agitated and sensible about everything.

“I’m not mad.” Sae tries to explain, slowly catching on to the fact once again, he conveyed his thoughts wrongly. “Well, too bad because I am.” You sigh and run your fingers through your hair. “You left for four years. After the first few months I didn’t hear anything from you! It’s like you disappeared. Do you know how worried I was?” Your voice quivers as you recall the memories. Sae listens attentively as you continue. “Then one day when I did get a message from you it was some shitty birthday message.” You express frustratedly. “Also how about replying to my messages instead of leaving me on read?” You’re aware that something like that, something so little, is such nonsense, but to you it felt like any ounce of attention Sae gave you was enough to provide you with a sense of fulfilment for a while.

Whilst you were complaining you wiggled around with your hands in the storage room, your fingers managing to hit the shelf behind you and causing a number of cans to fall out. You don’t react fast enough to dodge one of the cans bumping your shoulder, it’s only then, when Sae pulls you by the waist and away from the shelf that you realize what position you’re in—Sae has you pinned to the wall. His one arm folded over your head and his other touching the wall behind you. From your position you can survey his face. You could almost count the row of his bottom lashes, the way his bangs start becoming loose and how nicely they frame his face and how his teal eyes gaze downwards at your lips, almost like on instinct, you do the same.

Realizing what you’re doing and the position you’re in, you start becoming flustered and end up pushing Sae away. Sae doesn’t complain, in fact it almost seems like he lets you do as you please. You turn away from Sae, your back now facing his head. “Then, if you had been paired with someone else, would you have kissed them?” In actuality you don’t want to hear the answer, because it doesn’t matter what it is. You press your teeth into your bottom lip, the contact sharp as you feel the canines gnawing at the flesh. “No.” His response is immediate, like he doesn’t even need to think about it. The way he says it—the calmness behind it, it makes you wonder if you’re perhaps overreacting. Sae is no liar, far from it, still you don’t know if you have it in you to fully forgive Sae yet. “And now I’m supposed to trust your word after you don’t trust me?” You turn around and snap at him. “It’s up to you to decide.” He merely shrugs and you’re quiet after that. Because after all these and now when given the chance to let go of him Sae comes back like nothing happened and confesses to you as if it is the easiest thing in the entire world.

“When I left for Spain you confessed to me.” Hearing that Sae brings up that memory again you can’t help but groan. “We’ve been over that matter,” you sigh in annoyance. “Yes, yes I confessed to you. Happy now?” You ask, the words laced in exhaustion. Nevertheless, Sae sure knows how to wake you up to the point where his mere words can stir something inside you. “I wanted to tell you that I liked you too and still did, but then my parents came.” He explains, his hands now stuffed in the pocket of his jeans as he looks at you. When you think back, there’s an image of Sae swallowing his words down that flashes in your mind. “Then why didn’t you say anything all these years?” You complain, wanting to know what has made him decide that keeping it to himself would be a good idea. “I thought you were over me, but I wanted to see for myself before accepting it.” He confesses and you’re stunned. “That’s one way to do it.” You scoff sarcastically, crossing your arms over your torso. “Couldn’t you have just texted me?” You say before your mouth forms a small o-shape. “Oh right, you never responded to me.” You remark and you look at him through half lidded eyes.

Sae combs his fingers through his hair before sighing. “You know I don’t talk a lot. I just didn't see any reason to.” He sighs before tilting his head to the side. “Was reading them not enough? It means I saw them.” You don’t want to blame Sae for things he cannot control, you know he doesn’t mean it with bad intent, but that doesn’t make his words hurt any less. “It  makes me feel important. Like I’m still a part of your life.” You start off. “Everyone knows your name now and I just feel like I’ve just become a bystander of your life, like everybody else.” Sae’s following silence after your words makes you feel uneasy. Have you blamed him for something unreasonable and started projecting your own insecurity onto him?

“Is that how you felt?” He eventually speaks up and his eyes find yours. Over the years you’ve learned that Sae’s eyes express the most emotion, whether that be a little squint of his eyes when he’s confused, rolling his eyes when he’s irritated or how his eyes slightly widen when he sees something he likes. “Yeah, it’s dumb. I know, okay, but like,” you stop mid sentence not even sure what it is you want to say. Sae uses your silence to move closer to you, the remaining space between the two of you almost gone. “I’m gonna be honest I don’t understand why you feel like that.” His words make your heart drop to your stomach, you want to say something, but you’ve reached your limit. “Because you’ve always been more than just a bystander. I never saw you like that.” It’s funny to the point where it’s kind of pathetic, the way Sae makes you feel. “Just because I didn’t text you regularly, it doesn’t mean that I didn’t think about you on the regular.” You’re sure that your heart just skipped a beat, because that wasn’t what you anticipated for him to say. “What do you mean?”

Sae looks away, seemingly embarrassed. “I remember when I first came to Spain I’d often go to the beach.” He breathes in deeply before turning his gaze back to you, a small smile grazing his lips. “I thought about you there.” His confession makes you feel warm and fuzzy and you can’t help but let a smile of your own slip out. “Any time before a game I’d look at my stupid horoscope like you always did for me.” He huffs in something you’d describe as amusement. “It’s not stupid though.” You let out a cheerful laugh and Sae’s expression softens, his eyes resting as he sees your happy expression. “It is.” He scoffs, but you can sense the fondness beneath his words. “But I like it cause it reminded me of you.” He admits and at his words, you can’t help but smile. Sae wasn’t a person of many words, but all the words he did say, you know that they’re all sincere.

“I’m sorry I never told you.” He says and you can’t help but roll your eyes in amusement. “You have a lot more to do when you think I’m gonna forgive you that easily.” To your dismay, Sae might have taken this quite literally and he quirks his eyebrow in confusion. “Like what?” The more he looks at you the more you curse yourself for that stupid remark because why did you feel the need to say that? “Like uh,” you cough and start feeling your cheeks burning up as you try to think of something. “Let’s just discuss this somewhere else. You know, appropriate time and place.” You laugh awkwardly, but unfortunately Sae doesn’t seem to be fazed by your words. “We could kiss.” Sae says it so easily you think you misheard. “What?” You shriek, though Sae’s reaction makes you put your hands over your mouth in response to him twitching at your voice. You mouth a “sorry” after putting your hands down and Sae just shakes his head, the corners of his mouth crinkling.

He pulls out his phone and shows you the time—there’s one minute left. “Or are you eager to drink today?” You immediately shake your head, eyes widening at the mere thought of drinking some vodka, lemon soda mixed with tabasco sauce. It’s then when Sae eyes your mouth and looks upwards to your eyes that you realise what situation you’re in. 13 year old you would not believe you if you told them that Sae, out of all people, would be the first to initiate a kiss. You gulp and nod in response to his proposal and he reaches forward to softly cradle your face, looming over you, before closing his eyes and leaning in.

Not wanting to embarrass yourself you close your eyes and pout your lips together before leaning forward, you can feel Sae inching closer and closer, his warm breath ghosting over your lips. It’s clumsy, the way your noses bump against each other first, but the both of you try anyway. He gingerly presses his lips onto yours before, there’s barely any contact, because he’s only grazing your upper lip with his mouth but—

“AND TIME’S UP.” Your school comrades practically burst through the door with your class rep holding up her phone. On it is a timer set for 10 minutes that had already run out.

Ashamed that you had been caught you quickly push Sae away, making him fall into a tower of plastic buckets as you scramble away from him. Sae rubs his forehead and groans as you put your hand at the side of your head to shield you from the prying eyes that are looking at you. 

It happens so quickly, but the door is being closed shut again, that you don’t even process it at first. Only when you hear a “Don’t mind us!” Come from the other side of the door can you relax and sigh in relief. You move closer to Sae to check up on him. “I’m sorry for that.” You giggle as you look at Sae's disheveled state. On the other hand Sae doesn’t look as amused as you do, but he lets out a fond sigh, that tells you more than enough.

Outside the chatter doesn't die down and you start hearing some:

“I told you guys that there was something between them ever since middle school. See, I told you the rumours weren't fake!”

“Didnt he always reject valentines gifts from girls? I honestly thought he was gay.” 

“No way! I’ve actually had him as the anti-romantic type.”

Upon hearing everything that’s being said about the two of you, you can’t help but laugh. Sae snorts at your reaction, before smiling at you as he watches how you have to calm yourself down from laughing.

There are lots of things that Sae and you still have to work on. Many of them find their origin deeply rooted in your shared past, but if you can wait four years for Sae, the man you love, you’re also willing to spend the next four years and the years to come, to figure things out with Sae. All that matters is that you do it together.

BONUS:

Sae rings the doorbell once and the front door is opened almost immediately. “Sae..Itoshi?” Someone who Sae doesn’t recognise calls out his name (not like he really recognised anyone here), the guy's mouth is wide agape as he continues to stare at Sae. Not bothering to pay attention to him, Sae just walks past the guy and inside the home, before pulling off his shoes. “Itoshi, I didn’t expect to see you here.” What a loud voice, he thinks. One that rings a bell for him though and is oddly familiar. The girl walks up to him and bumps him on the arm. “Now whatcha doing here.” Sae just grunts, not in the mood to respond, instead he scans the room and his eyes almost immediately land on a figure—you—who’s standing at the kitchen counter. However you’re not alone, someone else who Sae reckons as familiar, stands close to you and is talking your ears off. The girl's gaze follows Sae’s before she turns to him and smirks. “Had a change of heart, huh?” She says teasingly, before she runs off. Her back faces Sae and all he sees is the golden plastic strands woven into her hair swaying from side to side as she runs up to you and the guy.

END NOTE: oh yeah i read blue lock like 2 years ago and larp the chapters off tiktok but my love for Sae never died okay… also justice for shin #plotdevice and shoutout to the class rep #bestwingwoman + also, if you wanna read my thoughts for the fic and things I had in mind that go deeper into the characters you can find them HERE

✩ Lockscreen S. Nagi

If Nagi had to be described in one word, it'd be a screenager.

It was at a team meeting and Nagi's phone was on the charger, that's when his screen lit up with a notification.

"Uh Nagi? Who's this?" Hiori asked, looking at the woman on his wallpaper. Turning over he simply said, "my girlfriend."

"Oh Y/N? She's really pretty..." Reo added, smiling at the picture.

"Hey," He yawned, "only I can say that." But he didn't really care. It was true, you were pretty and he was more shocked no one knew about you beforehand.

✩ Hickeys R. Itoshi

Rin barely talked to his teammates. If it wasn't about soccer or their skills he didn't give a damn.

When they were trying on their away kits for the upcoming match he was reminded as to why he ignored them so often.

"Ooh Rin~ Looks like you have a monster of your own hmm?" Bachira chuckled. And before Rin could roll his eyes and ask what the tepid loser was on about, he got a good look at himself in the mirror.

Damn your little thigh kink.

"I'd prefer it if you didn't call her a monster." Rin scoffed, before putting on the shorts with haste.

"You mean you found someone to date you..?" Isagi laughed, "poor girl."

"You saw what my thighs look like, imagine hers." He muttered, leaving the locker room and leaving the boys inside of it surprised as hell.

There was nothing his girl was lacking.

✩ Engagement ring S. itoshi

Like his brother, Sae didn't interact much with his teammates unless it was deemed necessary. It wasn't in a malicious way, he just felt like they had nothing to offer so he felt there was no need in talking to them.

Usually after practice Sae showered, changed, grabbed his bag and headed home.

And he did the same thing happened today, except there was one thing different.

This time he took a second to slip on a gold Cartier band onto his finger before grabbing his bag to leave.

"Sae Itoshi." Aiku walked over to him with an amused look on his face, "You're engaged?"

That caught the attention of everyone else changing in the room.

"Yeah." Was all he said as he turned on his heel to leave.

"Wait," He grabbed his shoulder, "we didn't even know you were seeing anyone."

"Why would you, It's not like it's any of your business." And with that he left, leaving the other U-20 players to think.

How in the world did Sae find someone to put up with his attitude?

part 2

“you know that’s not what i meant.” he sighed, exhaling sharply.

“then what exactly… did you mean, sae?” you demanded, your voice trembling despite how badly you wanted it to sound firm. “because lately it feels like i’m constantly trying to squeeze myself into whatever tiny space you have left for me.”

“don’t start, please.”

“don’t… start?” you scoffed, a humorless laugh slipping out. “i’m your girlfriend. i shouldn’t have to beg for your attention.”

“and i shouldn’t have to justify every second of my day to you.”

for a moment, all you could hear was the faint static of the call between you. it stretched on long enough for your anger to start turning into something heavier.

“maybe… it’s better if we stop pretending this is working,” you whispered, your throat tightening around every word.

sae’s sharp reply came instantly. “don’t say that.”

“… why not?” you snapped. “when was the last time we had a conversation that didn’t end like this?”

“that’s because you keep pushing.”

“no, it’s because you’re impossible to talk to!”

“maybe because nothing i say is ever enough for you.”

for a beat, neither of you said anything. then came the final straw. “fine,” you breathed, the word coming out shakier than you wanted. “… maybe soccer is the only thing you actually care about. you know what? i’m done.”

before he could respond, you ended the call.

the screen went dark instantly, your tear-streaked reflection staring back at you through the blackened glass.

for the first time since the argument started, your apartment fell completely silent. your chest felt tight. your eyes burned from crying because some part of you already missed him. and despite how angry you still were, guilt had already begun creeping in around the edges.

but right now, the resentment that had been building for weeks was still fresh, still sitting heavy in your chest. then in a fit of anger and exhaustion, you’d decided to block him everywhere— imessage, whatsapp, instagram, tiktok, even his email too. you didn’t want to hear his voice, see his name pop up on your screen, or read another dry reply that made you feel like an inconvenience.

you just needed silence and a moment of clarity for yourself.

—

on the other side of the world, sae stared at his phone screen in disbelief.

his messages weren’t delivering. his calls went straight to voicemail. when he opened instagram, your account no longer existed in his following or followers. the last message he sent you sat on ‘not delivered.’

he tried once more, then again, each attempt ending the same way. still nothing.

“… fuck,” he muttered, jaw clenched so tight it ached.

he was in his hotel room after his evening training, hair still damp from the shower, exhaustion from the day mixing with rising irritation from whatever that transpired between you two.

sae rarely lost his cool. but right now, sitting on the edge of the bed with his phone gripped tightly in his hand; he was definitely furious. sure, the two of you had argued before, but this time you had intentionally shut him out. he knew he’d said things he shouldn’t have. he knew the distance had been wearing thin on both of you. but the thought that you’d actually block him— or cut him off completely made him feel more helpless than ever.

after one last failed call, he threw his phone onto the mattress with a sharp exhale, dragging a hand down his face.

“stubborn woman…” he hissed under his breath, teal-eyes sharp with irritation. “you really think blocking me is going to fix anything?”

he leaned back against the headboard, arms crossed, his gaze fixed on the phone lying uselessly in front of him. a small part of him wanted to book the first flight back to japan without thinking twice, while the rational part of him knew you’d only resent him for ignoring the space you so clearly needed.

but the longer he sat there, unable to reach you; the heavier the unease settled in his chest. because for the first time in a long time… he couldn’t get through to you.

and he absolutely hated it.

⨳ 𝓷𝐨𝐭𝐞𝐬: errr ending it here because i might wanna do a pt 2

he lets out a breath, a throaty groan working it's way up through his chest, choking out of him even as he buries his face in your shoulder and bites down on the juncture of your neck. you jerk in his grip, but he's strong, so much stronger than he looks, and he holds you steady.

steady enough to fuck you into the wall just a bit harder, his thrusts less precise than they were, less teasing, the rubbed-raw-ragged edge of him inching into view as he loses himself slowly against you.

"mm -- shit -- s-senpai -- ah -- you're not -- being fair --"

his voice cracks, his pace falters ever so slightly; you feel his finger dig into the plush of your thighs as he hoists you back up the wall, lifting his head.

he looks utterly ruined, pink tinting the high of his cheeks, his usually steady gaze going wide and glazed as his eyes flicker over your face, like he can't quite figure out what he wants to look at most, like he wants nothing more than to drink you in, but he doesn't have the strength enough to do it all in one go.

you'd sayy something if you could, if you weren't so desperate, so close to tipping over the edge you can feel it in the tips of your fingers. you whimper as he somehow manages a smirk, leaning back just far enough for his eyes to go half-lidded.

"mm... 's that all it takes, senpai? me fucking you in a changing room for you to get all flustered like this? d'you like it? knowing that people might hear?" his voice shouldn't be so steady, not when he looks so thoroughly debauched, not when you can feel the slight quiver in his arms, but his voice betrays none of it.

"ha - ya - t-to!" you keen, your head thumping back against the wall as he rolls his hips up into you, blunted nails digging into your skin. the pain is sharp, but the sting only pushes you further towards the edge.

"senpai..." he draws out his voice like a silken string, spinning it through the sexy-mugged air betwween you, "c'mon... show me how pretty you can be... how much of a slut you are when i fuck you like this... where anyone might walk in and hear... hm?"

and really, it's that last little lilt to his voice that does it, you think, the way he cocks his head ever so slightly, like a curious hawk, watching a tiny mouse struggling, pinned beneath it's claws --

little black sptos dance a the edge of your vision as you feel your whole body seize, pleasure rocketting through you, heat rolling from the top of your head down into the tips of your fingers and toes, the aftershocks leaving you reeling.

"o -- oh --" you can't do much else but sigh, going limp in his arms as he grins and leans in to graze his lips along yoru cheek before giving you a soft, almost chaste kiss.

"mm... there... doesn't that feel nice?" he asks, voice silken once more.

you shiver, the cool air kissing your sweat-slicked skin.

suo lets you down slowly, chuckling as you hiss at the drag of his still-hard cock pulling from inside you. he glances down with a strange, detached consideration before he looks back at you.

"ah... don't you think you should at least help me, senpai? after i've made you feel so good?"

you gulp, your mouth suddenly scalding dry. you look from his slick cock to his face, his expression expectant and oddly impassive.

slowly, you lower yourself to your knees as a smile stretches his lips, a hand coming up to cup your cheek.

you’re sitting on the long wooden bench tucked under the white canopy he set up just for you, because apparently, “my princess can’t melt under the sun like sugar.” the fabric flutters softly, shading you from the daylight, and the breeze moves enough to lift strands of your hair now and then. your legs are crossed neatly, one heel dangling lazily, tapping against the bench in quiet impatience. your outfit screams money even in a place that smells like dirt—you’re in a short cream sundress with thin straps, a delicate lace cardigan slipping off one shoulder, and your feet are wrapped in glossy designer sandals, the kind that cost more than half the plants in his garden combined. a tiny gold chain rests against your ankle, glinting every time you shift, the perfect little reminder that you don’t belong anywhere near mud.

and yet here you are, because your boyfriend—sweet, gentle, annoyingly persuasive umemiya hajime—had the nerve to text you this morning saying “come watch me garden, it’ll be fun.” which, apparently, translates to “sit here and slowly lose your mind while i roll around in dirt and pretend i’m not taunting you.”

he’s in front of you now, stretching his arms above his head while he adjusts the strap of his gardening overall, the kind made from some thick, plasticky fabric that looks half-functional and half-insane in this heat. he’s got gloves tucked between his teeth for a moment while he ties the straps, and you can see the smirk starting before he even opens his mouth.

“you look like you’re attending a funeral,” he says finally, voice dripping with amusement as he glances your way. “what’s with that face, baby? i said watch, not suffer.”

you narrow your eyes at him, resting your chin on your hand, elbow on the bench’s armrest. “you dragged me up here to sit in a literal dirt museum. what did you expect my face to look like, hajime? pure joy?”

he laughs, soft but loud enough to fill the quiet rooftop, that deep, warm sound that never fails to crawl under your skin and make you want to punch him and kiss him at the same time. “come on, it’s not that bad. you’re just dramatic,” he teases, reaching for a watering can. “look at you, sitting there like royalty on her throne, glaring at the peasants.”

“if the shoe fits,” you mutter under your breath, crossing your legs tighter, one foot tapping impatiently again. “you should be thankful i even came. do you know how many people would kill for me to sit and watch them garden?”

he glances over his shoulder, half-grinning, eyes catching the sunlight just right. “oh yeah? who? your little fan club that couldn’t tell a rose from a weed?”

“don’t test me,” you warn, squinting at him through the lazy afternoon glare. “i could replace you in a heartbeat.”

“sure you could,” he says easily, turning back to the flowerbed, voice thick with sarcasm. “but would anyone else look this good in a pair of gloves while they’re elbow-deep in dirt? didn’t think so.”

you groan, flopping back against the bench. “god, you’re insufferable.”

he hums, not missing a beat. “and yet you’re still here.”

“barely.”

he chuckles again, shaking his head. “don’t act like you’re not enjoying watching me work. i can feel your eyes on me, sweetheart. or maybe you’re just mad you can’t touch me right now—don’t want to get your precious hands dirty, huh?”

you give him a flat look. “you’re disgusting.”

“mm, maybe,” he says, turning back toward you now, wiping his hands on the side of his overall and walking closer. “but i’m your disgusting boyfriend, remember?”

he stops in front of you, shadows from the canopy cutting sharp lines across his chest, and you tilt your head just slightly to avoid meeting his smug gaze. his hair’s tied back but a few strands have fallen into his face, and you hate how good he looks like that—half-sweaty, sunlit, with that grin that always promises trouble.

“you could’ve stayed inside,” he says softly this time, kneeling in front of you. “but you came up anyway. all dressed up just to complain.”

“you told me to come,” you hiss, tugging your dress lower out of habit, even though he’s already too busy staring at you like you’re the prettiest thing he’s ever seen.

“yeah,” he murmurs, leaning his arm on your knee, resting his chin there like it’s the most natural thing in the world. “and you listened. that’s what makes you so sweet sometimes. you act all spoiled but you still show up for me.”

you roll your eyes, but your throat tightens anyway. “don’t say that. it’s embarrassing.”

he grins again, eyes soft now, voice teasing but warm. “what, that i think you’re the best part of my day? yeah, real embarrassing.”

“you’re so full of yourself,” you mumble, trying not to smile.

“maybe,” he says, smirking, “but you love that about me.”

“no, i really don’t.”

“sure you don’t,” he whispers, and before you can respond, he leans forward, presses a kiss to your knee—quick, playful, and just annoying enough to make you shove at his shoulder.

“stop doing that,” you scold, your voice breaking halfway between anger and laughter.

“what? appreciating my spoiled little princess?”

“go plant your stupid flowers.”

he laughs again, rising slowly, stretching his back. “as you wish, your majesty.” then, just to be an ass, he winks. “try not to miss me too much while i’m over there.”

you throw your empty water bottle at him—it misses by inches—and he only laughs harder, voice echoing across the rooftop as he goes back to his plants, humming under his breath like you didn’t just threaten his life five seconds ago.

and somehow, despite everything—the sun, the dirt, the smell of earth, his constant teasing—you can’t help but watch him anyway. because there’s something about the way umemiya hajime moves when he’s happy, something about how every word he says drips with that mix of mischief and warmth, that makes the world feel less boring.

and maybe, just maybe, that’s why you’re still here.

you keep watching him, pretending not to, even though your eyes follow every damn move he makes. the way his shoulders flex when he bends over, the way his hair falls into his eyes when he looks down, that stupid little smirk that twitches on his lips every time he catches you staring—it’s infuriating. he knows exactly what he’s doing, and worse, he’s enjoying every second of it.

he glances up again, wipes sweat from his jaw with the back of his arm, and smirks like he can read your mind. you groan quietly, slumping into the bench, muttering just loud enough, “at least he could kiss me if he’s gonna act like this.”

his head tilts like he heard you, that slow, smug grin spreading across his face as he sets down the trowel. “what was that?”

you roll your eyes, refusing to repeat yourself. “nothing.”

he wipes his hands on his overall, walks closer—too close—and the sun catches the sweat on his collarbone, makes it worse, makes him worse. “didn’t sound like nothing,” he says, voice lazy, like he’s got all day to mess with you. “say it again, sweetheart.”

“i said—” you drag the words out, slow, deliberately testing him, “if you’re gonna keep looking at me like that, the least you could do is kiss me.”

“that so?” he asks, amused.

“yeah,” you say, feigning boredom. “but don’t touch me with those filthy glove-ass hands. i don’t want gardening residue on my skin.”

he laughs, short and low, his head dropping for a second before he looks back up through his lashes, and you know that look—it’s trouble. “filthy glove-ass hands,” he repeats, mocking your tone. “you’re lucky i like the way your mouth runs.”

“you’re lucky i let you near me,” you shoot back, but the words start to melt halfway through because he’s already moving.

and then—like some dramatic movie scene he thinks he’s starring in—he hooks his thumb under the glove and pulls it off with his teeth, slow, deliberate, eyes locked on you. the plastic shifts with a soft crackle, and he spits it out onto the floor like he’s doing something holy instead of stupidly sexy. it’s the kind of move that should look ridiculous, but somehow, on him, it doesn’t. it’s unfair.

“happy now?” he says, voice all lazy drawl, stepping closer until his knees bump yours.

“barely,” you answer, trying to sound unimpressed even though your pulse betrays you.

he leans down, placing his hands on either side of you, gripping the bench, boxing you in without touching you. the wood creaks faintly under his weight, and he smells like sun and soil and a hint of mint from whatever he’s been planting. you tilt your head back to meet his eyes, pretending like he doesn’t make your breath stumble.

“you said i could kiss you,” he murmurs, the words brushing your cheek like static, “not touch. i remember.”

“good,” you whisper, fingers twitching against your lap. “follow directions for once.”

he hums low, that sound that sits somewhere between a laugh and a groan. “you always talk too much before a kiss.”

“then shut me up.”

his grin widens, but he doesn’t move—he waits, eyes heavy, teasing. you finally reach up, pinching his jaw between your fingers, not too hard, just enough to make him tilt his head toward you. he lets you guide him, lets you think you’re in control, and the way he hums under his breath tells you he’s enjoying every second of your bratty little display.

when his lips finally meet yours, it’s warm and slow, a drag of heat that builds too quickly. you pull at his jaw to keep him close, lips brushing and parting, tasting faintly of sunlight and salt and something unreasonably soft. he kisses like he talks—lazy, deliberate, with the quiet confidence of someone who knows exactly what buttons to push.

he doesn’t deepen it, though; he stays there, hovering, keeping that thin line of tension just to mess with you. his mouth moves against yours just enough to keep you wanting more, and when you try to tilt your head and chase him, he pulls back a breath, smiling against your lips.

“what happened to not touching?” he whispers, eyes half-lidded.

“this doesn’t count,” you murmur back, voice low.

“no?” he teases, brushing his lips against yours again, barely there. “then what does?”

you tug his jaw again, rougher this time. “shut up.”

he hums, biting back a laugh, and kisses you properly this time—slower, longer, until the world narrows to the sound of his quiet breathing and the faint creak of the bench beneath you. his breath hitches when you drag your nails down his neck, not enough to scratch, just to make him twitch.

“you’re impossible,” he mutters against your mouth, but the smile in his voice betrays him.

the kiss is still hanging there between your mouths, lazy and a little greedy, when the sharp metallic groan of the rooftop door cuts through the heat. it’s the kind of sound that makes your stomach drop—slow, dragging, impossible to ignore. you freeze first, lips still parted, breath still shallow. hajime groans like he’s the one being punished.

“no, no, no—don’t you dare—” he mutters against your lips, chasing you forward as you instinctively lean back, tilting your head to see who’s interrupting. except the movement just gives him a new target. the kiss lands hot against the side of your neck instead, his mouth pressing there once, twice, while he laughs softly through his nose.

“hajime,” you hiss, pushing at his chest. “someone’s coming.”

“yeah,” he hums, lips brushing your skin again, “me.”

you shove him harder this time, laughing despite yourself. “not funny, dumbass—your friends are here.”

he pulls back with a low groan, eyes rolling like the universe just personally wronged him. sure enough, when you look over his shoulder, the door swings open all the way, and a cluster of familiar chaos spills through.

“yo, hajime!” hiragi shouts first, way too loud for someone just entering. behind him, kaji waves lazily with a popsicle in his mouth, and tsubaki’s already half-carrying a bag of drinks like they’re invading the place. but it’s the unfamiliar girl beside them that makes you straighten a little, the one with perfectly brushed bangs and that cautious little squint when her gaze lands on you—on you and hajime, who’s still standing far too close.

he curses under his breath, quiet but sharp enough that you bite back a laugh. “perfect timing as always,” he grumbles, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand like he’s been caught mid-crime.

“what?” you whisper, smirking. “didn’t plan on giving them a show?”

he glares down at you, half-embarrassed, half-annoyed, but mostly caught between wanting to kiss you again and not wanting to give his friends more material to torment him with later. “you think you’re so funny, huh?”

“i know i’m funny,” you say, tilting your head, voice dripping sweet and cruel. “but please, go greet your audience before they start clapping.”

he lets out a heavy sigh, mutters something that sounds suspiciously like i hate my life, and straightens up, stretching his back like this is all just an inconvenience.

you stay seated, watching as he turns around, shoulders squaring, voice slipping into that easy tone he uses with them. “you guys really don’t knock, huh?”

“knock? on a rooftop?” hiragi says, grinning. “bro, you were just making out under a canopy—what, you want a doorbell too?”

kaji laughs so hard he almost drops his popsicle. “look at him blushing. didn’t think i’d ever see the great umemiya hajime flustered.”

“shut up,” hajime mutters, rubbing the back of his neck. “you guys can’t read a room for shit.”

tsubaki snickers. “we read it just fine. you’re the one who turned it into a romance novel.”

the girl—still silent—just smiles, small and polite, but her gaze flicks to you again, curious, a little sharp. you can already feel the judgment in her once-over, that quiet so that’s the girlfriend look, and something about it makes you want to smirk wider.

you cross one leg over the other, fixing your dress, calling out lazily, “if you’re gonna stare, at least say hi first. it’s rude to gawk.”

that earns a quiet snort from hajime, even though he’s trying to hide it. he glances back at you, his mouth twitching like he’s fighting a grin. “behave,” he murmurs, just loud enough for you to hear.

“make me,” you whisper back.

he exhales sharply through his nose, mutters another curse you can’t catch, and turns back to his friends with a resigned smile that screams kill me now.

“guys, this is my girlfriend,” he says finally, and the way his voice softens on that last word doesn’t escape you. “she was just… keeping me company.”

“oh, we noticed,” tsubaki says with a smirk.

“you’re dead,” hajime says flatly, but his tone is too lazy to sound convincing.

you can’t help it—you laugh. soft, rich, bright, unbothered. the sound bounces across the rooftop, and hajime glances at you over his shoulder, shaking his head with that half-exasperated smile that never hides the fondness underneath.

you mouth the words you’re welcome, and he mouths back you’re impossible, which, of course, just makes your grin wider.

and when his friends finally turn away to start unpacking whatever they brought, he shoots you one last look—a warning, a promise, maybe both—before muttering quietly, “you and i are finishing that later.”

you hum, leaning back on the bench again, voice soft but laced with amusement. “oh, i know we will.”

you stand up, slow and lazy, like a cat stretching after a nap, the air warm and smelling faintly of soil and mint and him. your heels click against the rooftop tiles as you move closer, sliding your arm around his from behind, chin brushing the edge of his shoulder. he glances down immediately, that small flicker of surprise before the smirk catches up, his hand twitching like he wants to hold you but remembers you’re still surrounded by his friends.

you feel the shift in the air before you even look—the girl, standing a little apart from the others, her hand resting on her hip, her gaze not subtle in the slightest. there’s a glimmer in her eyes that feels too practiced, too deliberate, the kind of sparkle people wear when they think they’ve already been noticed. she’s watching him, not even pretending to look elsewhere, her stare sticky and sharp and sweet all at once.

you lean closer, lips barely grazing his shoulder, voice low enough that only he can hear. “who’s that?”

he hums, not even looking up. “that?” his tone is lazy, teasing. “that’s misaki. she hangs around sometimes. helps with the plants.”

you hum back, soft and unimpressed. “she looks like she’s about to help herself to your entire soul.”

he laughs quietly, tilting his head down toward you. “why, jealous?”

“of her?” you scoff, eyes narrowing as you watch misaki’s gaze trace the curve of his jaw. “please. i’ve met garden pests with more subtlety.”

he chuckles, low and warm, leaning a little into you like he can’t help it. “she’s just looking.”

“yeah,” you say dryly, “and i’m just thinking about taking her eyes out if she keeps doing it.”

he hums again, that amused, dangerous little sound he makes when you’re getting worked up for his entertainment. “mh. maybe she just can’t help it. maybe she thinks i’m pretty.”

“maybe she should start thinking from a safer distance,” you mutter, tightening your grip on his arm until he laughs under his breath.

“baby,” he says, that mock-warning tone, the one that usually means he’s about to kiss you into silence, “behave.”

you lift your chin, pouting but refusing to look at him. “you can’t tell me what to do.”

“sure i can,” he says softly, “i just don’t expect you to listen.”

you roll your eyes but the edge in you starts to crack, because that tone—lazy, fond, half-smiling—is the one that makes everything in your chest go stupid. “fine,” you mutter, quieter this time. “then give me a kiss and i’ll think about behaving.”

he doesn’t even hesitate. leans in, presses his lips against your forehead, warm and lingering. his breath fans against your skin and you almost forget the audience—until a shrill, high-pitched voice slices through the quiet like a paper cut.

“oh my god, look!” misaki chirps, voice bubbling with way too much excitement. “our plant’s blooming!”

the words hit you like cold water. you blink, tilt your head slightly, still resting against hajime’s shoulder. “your what?”

he stiffens for a second beside you, just enough for you to feel it.

you turn your head, watching her point eagerly at a small pot sitting on the far edge of the rooftop garden—a cluster of red roses, deep and glossy under the sunlight.

“what plant?” you ask, your tone light but your jaw tight enough to crack.

he opens his mouth, probably about to explain, probably about to say something harmless, but he doesn’t get the chance.

misaki beats him to it. “it’s the one we planted together!” she says, smiling too sweetly, her eyes flicking between you and him like she’s tossing bait into the air. “remember, hajime? i told you i wanted to see how red roses would grow here—and look, they actually did. our roses.”

she laughs, the sound airy and stupid and sharp all at once, and it lands somewhere ugly in your stomach. the way she says our isn’t just casual—it’s deliberate, pointed, smug, like a hand dragging down glass just to make you flinch.

you don’t blink, don’t move, just tilt your head a fraction and smile, sharp as broken crystal. hajime’s quiet beside you, shoulders tense, his jaw tight, and you can feel the shift in him—the low hum of frustration, the awareness of the storm about to form right next to him.

you keep your voice soft, almost sweet. “oh,” you say, staring at the roses like they’re something worth stepping on. “your plant, huh.”

she smiles wider, like she thinks she’s won something.

and hajime exhales slowly through his nose, his hand tightening once on your arm—gentle, grounding, warning.

you don’t look at him. not yet. you just watch her, eyes half-lidded, smile unchanging, while the air between all of you starts to hum with something dangerous. and you think, very quietly, this girl better hope those flowers are the only thing getting buried today.

it starts small, harmless, like a mosquito that won’t stop buzzing in your ear. first, it’s the rooftop again — her laughter floating in the background when you come to bring hajime coffee, the sound of her voice saying his name like she’s trying it on for size. she’s there, kneeling in the dirt next to him, pretending to listen while he talks about soil acidity or whatever plant bullshit he’s into that week. you try to stand there, smile polite, pretend you’re not plotting horticultural homicide in your head.

then it’s the café. your café. the one you told him was your spot, where the barista knows your name and he always sits across from you with his chin in his hand like he doesn’t see anyone else. except this time, she’s there too. standing behind him, leaning over his shoulder like she has the right, asking something about fertilizer ratios while you’re stirring your drink so hard the spoon almost snaps. she doesn’t even sit down, just exists too close, her perfume too floral, her voice too bright, and you want to pour your coffee on her goddamn shoes.

and it doesn’t stop there. somehow she’s everywhere—like she crawled out of the damn flowerpot and followed him home. when you meet him after class, she’s at the gate. when you pass by the park, she’s sitting on the bench next to him with a notebook open, pretending it’s about plants. once, when you went to grab ice cream, she waved from across the street like this is some kind of competition you didn’t sign up for.

every single time, she finds a way to talk about plants. the weather? plants. food? plants. love? fucking plants. it’s always the same, that high-pitched laugh and the way she pushes her hair behind her ear like she’s auditioning for the role of “background nuisance in someone else’s relationship.” and hajime, bless his dumb, gentle heart, doesn’t even notice the way she clings, doesn’t see the way she looks at him like she wants to bloom right there in his damn shadow.

you tell yourself it’s fine, you’re fine, until you’re not. until the next time you show up at the café and she’s already sitting at your table, her hands wrapped around his mug, nodding at whatever he’s saying about “root structure” like it’s poetry. and you stand there, staring at her, then at him, and the words come out before you even think.

“wow,” you say, voice sugarcoated and sharp. “didn’t know we were hosting a gardening seminar today.”

hajime looks up, startled for a second, then that lazy, infuriating smile creeps in. “hey, baby. you’re early.”

you slide into your seat across from him, not bothering to hide the glare you throw at the girl. “didn’t know you brought company.”

she laughs, that fake polite kind of laugh that makes your skin itch. “oh no, i was just asking hajime about pruning techniques—”

“yeah,” you interrupt, smiling with all teeth. “seems like you’ve been real interested in trimming lately.”

the silence stretches just long enough for hajime to sigh and say it, the way he always does when your tone gets sharp. “baby,” he murmurs, that warning laced with amusement, “behave.”

you turn your head slowly, meeting his eyes, voice flat. “i am behaving. this is my polite voice.”

he chuckles, leaning back in his chair, one arm slung lazily over the backrest. “uh-huh. and what happens when the polite voice goes away?”

“depends,” you say, stirring your drink again, metal clinking against glass. “how many limbs do you think she’d miss?”

“jesus,” he mutters under his breath, though he’s fighting a smile, eyes warm and stupid and amused. “you’re unbelievable.”

“and yet you’re still sitting here,” you hum.

he laughs quietly, shaking his head, then turns back to whatever pointless conversation the girl’s trying to resurrect. you zone out halfway through it, staring out the window, trying not to imagine every possible way to remove her from the narrative of your life.

by the time you’re walking back to the car, he reaches for your hand like everything’s normal, fingers brushing yours. you let him, but the irritation simmers under your skin, crawling up your throat.

“you didn’t tell her to back off,” you say finally, the words tasting bitter.

he sighs, looking down at you with that same gentle expression that makes you want to both kiss and strangle him. “she’s harmless. don’t waste your energy.”

“oh, i’m not wasting it,” you reply sweetly. “i’m saving it. for later. maybe when she tries to touch you again, i’ll show her just how harmless i can be.”

he laughs, a soft breath of disbelief. “you’ve got to stop threatening my friends.”

“she’s not your friend,” you mutter, but the rest gets swallowed by his low chuckle and the way his thumb strokes your hand absentmindedly, like he’s trying to calm you down without saying it out loud.

and somehow, that only makes it worse. because he’s still smiling. because she’s still everywhere. because no matter how hard you glare, she’s always there first—too sweet, too close, too damn loud.

and all you can think is how easy it would be to plant her right next to those stupid roses and see if she still smiles when you water her.

you watch the city roll past the car window, reflections sliding across the glass like water. the afternoon sun paints everything gold—terraces, storefronts, people moving too fast—and you sit in the backseat with your legs crossed, chin resting against your hand, pretending you’re not waiting for your phone to light up with a message from him. your driver doesn’t say much; he never does, just hums lowly to the sound of the traffic, and you appreciate the silence. it’s a soft kind of torture—the quiet before the storm, before the test of whether hajime umemiya actually keeps his promises.

he said he would. last night, when your voice was sharp and your patience had already started to crack, he reached across the couch, hand warm over your knee, and said, “i’ll stay away from her. i swear.” and maybe it wasn’t even the words—it was the look, the way his voice softened when you got quiet, the way he smiled like he still thought you were being dramatic but loved you for it anyway.

so now you’re here, in the backseat, hoping—no, praying—that you won’t see that girl’s face today. misaki. the name feels bitter in your mouth, like coffee that’s gone cold. one sight of her and you’ll probably walk right out, maybe throw a drink for good measure. but not before you look good doing it.

you’re wearing your favorite dress, the one that makes you feel like trouble wrapped in sweetness—a blue-and-white gingham print that hugs your waist and flares at your thighs, light enough to move when the breeze does. the neckline dips just enough, the sleeves puff slightly, the skirt short and unapologetic. your hair falls in soft curls that catch the sunlight when you tilt your head, and your shoes—bright, red, and shiny—match the lacquer on your nails. you don’t dress for him, not really, but you love how his eyes light up when he sees you. how he always leans back, looks you over like you’re the only thing worth staring at, and says something low and slow like, “you’re gonna ruin me, you know that?”

that’s what you want to hear today. that’s what you’ve been waiting for all morning.

the car slows as you pull up in front of pothos, the small corner café that smells like roasted espresso and lemon glaze. it’s warm inside when you step out, the little bell above the door chiming softly. the air smells like cinnamon and butter, and kotoha is there behind the counter, wiping down the espresso machine, her apron tied too tight, her smile genuine.

“oh my god,” she says as soon as she sees you. “you look so pretty today.”

you grin, brushing a strand of hair from your face. “i know,” you reply, voice light, teasing. “but thank you for noticing.”

she laughs, rolling her eyes affectionately before going back to work.

you glance around, eyes sweeping the room—the cozy tables, the soft hum of conversation, the warm light spilling through the big windows. sakura’s at the bar with a few of hajime’s friends, loud and laughing, waving when they spot you. they know who you are, of course. everyone does. hajime’s spoiled princess, his temper in heels, his soft spot in a short skirt. it’s not an insult, not really—it’s just what they say when they think you can’t hear.

you nod at them, polite but detached, not stopping as you move deeper into the café. the world narrows to the back booth, the one tucked beneath the big hanging plant that hajime likes because he says it makes the sunlight softer.

and there he is.

hajime sits with his back to the window, one arm resting across the booth, his hair slightly messy, his sleeves rolled up. you almost smile when you see him—almost—until your eyes shift to the other side of the table.

misaki.

of course. fucking misaki.

sitting across from him like she belongs there, hands folded neatly over the table, that same too-sweet smile plastered across her face. she’s leaning forward just slightly, the sunlight catching the gloss on her lips, her eyes soft and full of something that makes your stomach twist.

for a second, everything goes still. you don’t even blink. just stare, expression calm, too calm, like the kind of silence that comes before a storm shatters the sky. your heels click against the floor as you take another step forward, the sound cutting through the air sharper than the hum of conversation around you.

and hajime—poor, dumb, beautiful hajime—looks up just then, eyes catching yours, and his smile falters for half a heartbeat.

and that’s when you think—yeah, someone’s going to bleed for this.

you can feel the tension long before you reach the table — the kind that makes your pulse slow instead of quicken, that eerie calm that comes right before you start smiling like someone about to commit a small, beautiful crime. your shoes echo against the floor, the soft thud of each step deliberate, measured, and you hold your bag in one hand like a weapon, your phone in the other, grip tight enough to crack the case.

misaki looks up when you’re close enough to see her expression shift — that polite mask slipping for a split second before she pastes on something almost human. her smile twitches, her jaw stiffens, and her eyes flick from your face to your legs to your neckline and back again, calculating. you can see it, that urge she’s fighting not to roll her eyes, not to look away, and it makes your own smile sharpen like glass.

and then there’s hajime.

he look at you like the sun just clocked in for overtime, grin stretching wide, the corners of his eyes creasing, the kind of smile that makes everyone else in the room fade out. you catch the way his gaze slides sideways for a second — to misaki — just long enough to make a silent point before coming back to you.

“you look so pretty,” he says, voice low, full of warmth, the kind that slips under your skin before you can stop it.

you blink at him, that half-smile never leaving your lips. “do i?”

“yeah,” he murmurs, hand already finding your waist like it’s instinct. he tugs you closer, guiding you down beside him with the ease of someone who’s done this a hundred times before, his thumb brushing slow circles against your hip.

you murmur a small thank you, tone sweet but your eyes never leave misaki. she’s sitting stiff now, back straight, her bitter smile doing a bad job of hiding the jealousy that’s practically humming in the air. hajime leans in, presses a soft kiss against your cheek, and the sound — that quiet, affectionate little moment — feels louder than the espresso machine, than the chatter, than anything else around you.

you tilt your head slightly, still holding her gaze, smiling like you’re both in on a joke she doesn’t understand.

“you look… nice,” misaki says suddenly, her voice dipped in sugar, sarcasm leaking through like poison. “but don’t you think that dress is a little too revealing? i mean—” she glances at hajime, all faux innocence and fluttering lashes, “if i had a boyfriend like him, i’d never wear something like that. i wouldn’t want to disrespect him by dressing for anyone else’s eyes.”

there it is. pick-me poetry.

you can hear your own blood thrum in your ears, the way your smile doesn’t falter but your grip on hajime’s arm tightens. he glances down at your dress — slow, deliberate, tracing the curve of the fabric like he’s cataloguing every reason he disagrees — before looking back at misaki.

“nah,” he says simply, shaking his head once, that lazy grin sliding back into place. “she can wear whatever she wants.”

misaki blinks, like she didn’t expect him to answer at all. “but—”

he cuts her off with a shrug, still smiling. “it doesn’t matter. she’s not dressing for anyone else. i know that. she likes looking good. i like seeing her happy. that’s it.”

and then his tone dips, casual but with that rough edge of finality. “besides, if someone ever got stupid enough to think they could say something about it, they’d figure out real quick who they’re dealing with.”

you hum low in your throat, turning your head slightly toward him, voice just above a whisper. “you’re so romantic when you’re threatening people,” you tease, lips curling.

he chuckles, leaning closer until your shoulder brushes his chest, his breath warm against your temple. “you like that, huh?”

“mm.” you hum again, eyes cutting back to misaki, who’s staring at you both like she just swallowed glass. “lucky for you,” you say softly, a wicked tilt to your mouth, “you’re not his girlfriend.”

her expression twitches, that polite smile cracking for half a heartbeat.

you rest your chin against hajime’s shoulder, fingers idly tracing patterns along the inside of his wrist. “see, the thing is,” you continue, tone syrupy, cruel in the prettiest way, “he actually likes it when i look this good. can’t stop touching me when i do.”

hajime lets out a quiet laugh, low and breathy, his thumb slipping under the hem of your dress just slightly — not enough to be scandalous, but enough to make a point. “don’t start,” he murmurs, voice quiet enough for only you to hear.

“what?” you whisper back, grinning. “i’m just helping her understand the curriculum. she clearly didn’t do her homework.”

misaki exhales through her nose, eyes narrowing just slightly before she pastes her smile back on, all polite poison. the air between you three stretches thin, sharp, almost fragile.

you just lean in closer to hajime, your perfume mixing with the scent of coffee and tension, your voice a lazy drawl against his ear. “see?” you murmur, just loud enough. “i told you she’d still be around.”

he sighs, half amused, half resigned, and presses another kiss to your cheek. “yeah,” he says softly, “but now she knows where she stands.”

and you smile, small and slow and devastating, because he’s right — she does.

misaki doesn’t know when to quit — or maybe she does and just enjoys testing the limits of your patience, poking around to see how far she can stretch before you bite. she tilts her head when she speaks, voice all honeyed sugar, the kind that sticks to your skin in a way that makes you want to scrub it off.

“you know,” she starts, pretending it’s casual, eyes flicking to the edge of your dress again, “with the way you dress, you probably don’t like to get dirty, huh?”

the words come out soft, almost playful, but you can hear the undertone, the spoiled little princess echo that hides underneath. she keeps going before you can even respond, smiling so sweetly it hurts. “i mean, i get it—clothes like that must cost, what, hundreds? thousands? they don’t really belong anywhere near mud.”

you can feel your jaw tense, but your smile stays, slow and deliberate. you glance at hajime, who’s sipping his drink, watching the exchange with the look of a man who’s both entertained and deeply aware that he might need to stop you before you start a fire.

“you’re probably right,” you say finally, tone bright enough to be dangerous. “they don’t belong near mud. or weeds.”

her smile falters for half a second, but she catches it, leaning forward with mock sympathy. “that’s what i thought. i just find it a little sad, you know?” she says softly, voice laced with fake pity. “that hajime has to do all that work himself. must be tiring. it’d be nice for him to have his girlfriend—” she drags out the word, lets it hang there, heavy and possessive, “—help him sometimes. gardening together sounds kind of romantic, don’t you think?”

hajime’s hand twitches under the table, probably because he can already feel the murder rising off you in slow, steady waves.

misaki isn’t done, of course. she smiles, all gentle and pure and nauseating. “but don’t worry,” she adds, her tone the perfect imitation of care. “you don’t have to stress yourself about it. i’m always there, so i can help him. really, it’s no trouble at all. you don’t even need to come to bofurin anymore. i’ll be there for him.”

it’s the for him that does it. the way she says it like it’s a promise, like it’s a shared secret you’re intruding on. she’s smiling like she’s already won, like this is her territory now, and it’s so infuriating you can practically hear the blood rushing in your ears.

you inhale slowly, turn your head toward hajime with the calm of a woman one wrong word away from an arrest record. “you hearing this?”

he hums, noncommittal, hand slipping a little higher on your thigh under the table — a silent warning, or maybe a prayer.

you tilt your chin toward misaki, the edges of your lips curling. “that’s sweet,” you say, the sarcasm so smooth it sounds almost sincere. “but i’m a little too pretty for that kind of thing. dirt doesn’t really go with my skin tone.”

she blinks, confused, and you continue, your voice low and syrupy. “i like looking good for my boyfriend. spotless. perfect. he likes when i do too. right, hajime?”

he lets out a quiet breath of laughter, squeezing your leg gently. “yeah,” he murmurs, eyes flicking between you both. “i do.”

“see?” you say, smiling wider. “i’m not built for shovels and dirt and… bugs. i’d rather make sure i look like this every time he looks at me.”

misaki’s smile is starting to crack now, but she still tries to hold on, her tone softening again, fake and trembling. “i guess not everyone’s like that,” she says. “some of us just don’t mind getting our hands dirty. it’s about… effort, i think.”

you tilt your head, grin sharpening. “oh, i don’t mind effort. i just put mine into things that actually get results. you wouldn’t understand, though.”

she frowns, a tiny twitch, and you lean in closer, eyes half-lidded, voice dipping just enough. “you don’t have a boyfriend, right? that’s why you don’t get it. it’s a different kind of work, keeping someone’s attention.”

her mouth opens slightly, but nothing comes out. hajime’s quiet laugh slips between the tension, low and husky, his fingers tracing slow circles against your thigh like he’s both calming you and holding himself back from clapping.

“behave,” he whispers against your ear, and you hum softly, smiling at him without breaking eye contact with her.

“i am behaving,” you murmur. “just letting her know the dress code for my relationship doesn’t include mud.”

she exhales through her nose, and for the first time, her smile doesn’t return. you can see it—the faint flicker of irritation, the moment she realizes she lost the rhythm of her own game.

you lean back against hajime, letting him wrap an arm around your shoulder, your expression the picture of satisfied calm. “see?” you say sweetly, voice dripping in victory. “everything’s easier when people know their place.”

and hajime, ever the patient, lovestruck fool, just laughs quietly into your hair. “you’re gonna get us banned from this café one day,” he mutters.

you grin. “worth it.”

misaki looks at you like you’ve just thrown a glass of wine in her face. her smile collapses into disbelief, eyes darting between you and hajime as if she’s waiting for someone to back her up, to rescue her from the humiliation you’ve just gift-wrapped and handed over with a bow. when no one speaks, she laughs once under her breath, sharp and hollow. then she turns her attention fully to him.

“hajime,” she says, voice all brittle sugar, “you’re seriously going to let her talk to me like that?”

he blinks, frowning slightly, genuinely confused. “like what?”

“disrespectfully!” she snaps, sitting up straighter, eyes wide. “she’s been rude this entire time and you just sit there like—like it’s okay!”

you raise an eyebrow, leaning back against him like the show’s gotten good. his arm stays around you automatically, his hand resting warm at your hip, while you watch her unravel piece by piece.

“disrespect?” you echo softly, smiling just enough to sting. “that’s a big word for someone who told me i’m not girlfriend material five minutes ago.”

she glares at you, breath catching. “see? that’s what i mean. you twist everything. i was just being honest. you can’t even take a little advice without acting superior.”

“oh, don’t flatter yourself,” you say, voice calm, almost sweet. “i don’t act.”

hajime sighs, rubbing a hand over his face like he’s been dropped in the middle of a storm he didn’t see coming. “misaki,” he starts, gentle, trying to smooth it out, “come on, you kind of started—”

she cuts him off before he can even finish. “i didn’t start anything! i was being nice. i was trying to have a conversation and she—” she gestures at you, voice rising—“she keeps insulting me, mocking me, twisting everything i say like i’m the problem!”

you tilt your head, resting it against hajime’s shoulder, watching her spiral. she’s not yelling yet, but her tone’s slipping—too high, too shaky, the sound of someone who knows she’s losing ground but can’t stop digging.

“you are the problem,” you murmur, but you don’t say it loudly. it’s soft, almost a purr, and it makes her freeze.

“what did you just—”

“misaki,” hajime tries again, quieter this time, glancing around because now a few of his friends at the bar have started to notice the shift in tone, the way the air’s getting thick. “hey, relax. look, i get you didn’t mean anything, but she’s—”

“stop defending her!” misaki snaps, the words hitting harder than she probably meant them to. she pushes her chair back, the legs scraping against the floor, eyes glassy with anger. “you always do this—she says whatever she wants, and you just laugh like she’s some kind of joke. she’s mean, hajime. she’s—”

he leans back, posture still calm but his expression tightening. “she’s my girlfriend,” he says simply. “what did you expect me to do?”

she falters. for a moment, the silence stretches. you can see the exact second she realizes there’s no saving this, that the conversation’s already over. her lips tremble with another retort that never comes out, her pride forcing it back down.

and then she laughs again—loud, awkward, brittle. “fine,” she says, voice cracking just slightly at the edge. “whatever. i hope you two are happy together.”

and with that, she grabs her bag, turns sharply, and storms out of the café, the door swinging hard enough behind her that the bell jangles out of tune.

you watch her go, the corner of your mouth twitching upward, and hajime just sits there beside you, hand still on your thigh, staring after her like he’s watching the last petal fall off a dying flower.

you watch the door swing shut behind her, the bell still jangling out of rhythm, and you can’t help it—your mouth moves before your brain does. “god, she walks like a toddler who just got told santa isn’t real,” you mutter, leaning back in your seat, swirling your drink lazily like you didn’t just watch a girl’s ego disintegrate in front of an audience. “if she tripped on the way out, i’d call that divine justice.”

hajime lets out a soft sound beside you, somewhere between a laugh and a sigh, and when he says your name—baby—it’s low and warm, but threaded through with that gentle warning you know too well.

you turn to him, frown tugging at your lips. “what?”

he’s looking at you, shoulders still relaxed but eyes soft, a kind of calm you find both grounding and infuriating. he exhales, long and quiet, rubbing a thumb over the back of your hand before speaking. “don’t do that.”

“don’t do what?” you snap, more defensive than you meant to.

he leans back, expression patient, too patient. “that thing where you start tearing people apart when you’re mad. i get it, she pissed you off, but—”

“but what?” you interrupt, voice sharp enough to slice the air. “she started it. i didn’t even do anything until she decided to play saint mary of the mud pit. if anyone should’ve been told to shut the fuck up, it’s her, not me.”

he doesn’t raise his voice—he never does—but his hand catches yours mid-gesture, fingers wrapping around your wrist in that steady, grounding way that makes your heartbeat skip. “i know,” he says, quietly, like he’s been waiting for you to stop fighting long enough to listen. “i know she did. but sometimes you can be mean, baby.”

you freeze for a second, the word mean hanging in the air, heavy and dangerous. he must see the spark flicker behind your eyes because he adds quickly, “which i like, don’t get me wrong. i love that about you. i love that you don’t take anyone’s shit. it’s one of the reasons i—” he stops, half-smiling, thumb brushing slow circles on your knuckles. “i just wish you’d try a little harder with my friends. that’s all.”

you stare at him, incredulous, before scoffing and yanking your hand out of his grip. “wow,” you mutter, crossing your arms. “unbelievable.”

he blinks, confused but still calm. “what?”

“i do get along with your friends,” you shoot back. “i’m nice to hiragi. i laugh at tsubaki’s stupid jokes. i even let him call me princess without throwing my drink at him. i get along great with kotoha, too, by the way—maybe because she doesn’t try to fuck you over a flowerpot.”

hajime’s lips twitch like he’s trying not to smile, which only makes you more annoyed. he opens his mouth, probably to say something level-headed, but you cut him off before he gets the chance.

“are you seriously blaming me right now?” you ask, voice dropping low, sharp enough to draw blood.

his brows lift slightly, like he wasn’t expecting that angle. “no, i’m not blaming—”

“because it sounds like it,” you say, tone flattening. “it sounds like you’re saying it’s my fault she lost her mind, that i should’ve been nice while she was sitting there basically volunteering to be your emotional support gardener.”

he groans quietly, running a hand through his hair, the gesture slow and tired. “that’s not what i said.”

“then what are you saying?” you demand, leaning forward, eyes narrowing. “that i should’ve smiled and held her hand while she told me she’ll take my place? you wanted me to what—thank her for her fucking charity?”

his eyes soften again, that gentle patience you both hate and love returning. “no,” he says, voice low. “i wanted you to not let her get to you.”

you snort, looking away, your reflection catching faintly in the café window. “too late for that.”

he hums quietly, and even though he doesn’t reach for you this time, you can feel his gaze lingering, the air between you stretching thin—frustration, affection, and something you can’t quite name humming underneath.

you cross one leg over the other, arms still folded tight, pretending you don’t care, pretending you’re not waiting for him to say something that’ll make you soften.

but he doesn’t. not yet. he just watches you, eyes calm, lips curved in that small, maddening smile that always makes you want to kiss him and punch him at the same time.

you look away, staring hard at the window like it did something wrong. the reflection of your face blurs in the glass — angry, tight, too quiet. your chest feels like it’s caving in, the kind of ache that’s more fury than sadness but still burns the same. your jaw tightens, lips pressing together, and you bite down on the inside of your cheek just to keep it from trembling. you can feel the heat pooling in your throat, that humiliating sting behind your eyes, the kind you’d rather choke on than let fall in front of him.

you hate it. hate that he gets to sit there so calm, like he’s the reasonable one, while you’re trying to swallow every ounce of frustration that’s clawing up your ribs. he’s been letting that girl flutter around him like some fucking stray cat for weeks, smiling through it, saying “she’s harmless.” harmless. sure. until now she’s made you look like the jealous one, and somehow, somehow, you’re the problem.

your arms stay crossed tight, so tight your nails dig half-moons into your skin. the air between you is heavy, the silence thick enough to taste. hajime shifts beside you — you can feel the movement, that careful lean forward, the way his shoulder brushes yours, cautious.

“hey,” he says softly, and it sounds too gentle, too forgiving for the mood you’re in. you don’t move, don’t look at him, eyes locked on the glass. “baby, look at me.”

you don’t.

“come on,” he murmurs, fingers brushing your wrist, testing. “don’t do this. i’m sorry, alright? i didn’t mean to make you feel like i was blaming you.”

you scoff quietly, the sound sharp and bitter. “yeah, sure you didn’t.”

he sighs, trying again, his hand moving to uncross your arms, his touch slow, coaxing. “hey, stop. don’t shut down, okay? we’ve got the whole afternoon—remember the date? you’ve been talking about that damn reservation since yesterday.”

you yank your arm out of his reach, turning your head away, refusing to meet his eyes. “yeah, well,” you mutter, voice low but laced with venom, “i don’t really feel like playing happy couple after you just fucking blamed me.”

his head snaps up slightly at that, eyes narrowing in disbelief, but his voice stays low. “i didn’t blame you.”

you laugh once, sharp and humorless. “you basically did.”

“no, i didn’t.”

“you did.”

he groans, rubbing the bridge of his nose, frustration bleeding through his calm tone for the first time. “you’re twisting it.”

“am i?” you shoot back, finally looking at him, eyes burning. “because it sounded a hell of a lot like you telling me i’m the problem. like i’m supposed to just let her run her mouth and behave while she calls me spoiled to my face.”

he opens his mouth to argue, but the words die on his tongue when he sees your eyes glisten. his expression softens instantly, like watching glass crack. “hey,” he says again, quieter now, voice almost tender. “don’t cry. please.”

“i’m not crying,” you bite out, even though your throat betrays you, voice warbling just slightly. you turn your head again, blinking fast, furious at yourself for even letting the tears threaten to fall. “i’m just… so fucking mad right now.”

he exhales, slow, deliberate, leaning closer until his shoulder presses into yours, his hand hovering near your knee but not daring to touch again. “i know,” he says softly. “i know you are.”

you shake your head, jaw tight. “no, you don’t. because you’re sitting here all calm and reasonable like it’s not a big deal, like i’m overreacting. but she’s been hanging all over you for weeks, hajime. and you’ve just been letting her.”

he looks down, jaw ticking, but doesn’t interrupt. you push on, the words tumbling out, hot and bitter. “and now she finally gets what’s coming, and somehow, somehow, i’m the one who needs to behave? unbelievable.”

his hand moves again, reaching for yours, but you pull back before he can touch you, crossing your arms tighter, legs turning toward the aisle. the motion is stubborn, childish, maybe even cruel, but you don’t care.

he sighs again, that long, weary kind of sigh that says he’s trying to pick his words carefully. “i didn’t blame you,” he repeats, slower this time, his tone softer. “i just… wanted to calm things down.”

you don’t respond, jaw clenched, eyes fixed on the window again. outside, people move in and out of the café, laughing, holding hands, their lives simple and oblivious. you sit there in silence, the ache in your chest tightening with every second, your anger too raw to hide and too tangled to untangle.

you can feel him watching you, though. his gaze heavy, patient, worried. and you hate that, too — the way he still looks at you like he loves you through all the mess, like your anger is just another thing he wants to take care of.

you don’t even bother wiping your tears — they slip down your cheek slow and angry, hot with humiliation, and the worst part is that he still looks soft. he still looks calm. like you aren’t seconds away from burning the café to the ground. you can’t stand that gentle tone, the way he’s trying to fix it with warmth, as if warmth will make you forget how small you felt two minutes ago.

“i want to go home,” you mutter, voice cracking halfway through, sharp but trembling, the kind of voice that comes from holding too much in for too long. you reach for your bag, your phone, your composure that’s hanging on by a damn thread. “you can go on your little date with fucking misaki. i’m done.”

“hey—hey, baby, no,” hajime says immediately, his voice panicked now, eyes wide as he leans closer. “don’t say that, please. come on, don’t do this. i’m sorry, alright? i didn’t mean it that way.”

you ignore him, unlocking your phone, scrolling through your recent calls, your tears dripping onto the screen and smudging your mascara. you sniff, wipe at your face with the back of your hand, and press the call button before he can reach you.

“you don’t have to call your driver,” he says quickly, trying to sound soothing but failing miserably. “i’ll take you home myself, okay? just put the phone down.”

you shake your head, refusing to even look at him, the phone pressed to your ear, telling your driver to pick you up. “no. you can take misaki home,” you bite out after, hiccuping mid-word, the sound making you even angrier. “go drop her off, give her a flower crown, plant your fucking feelings next to your little rose bush and watch them wilt together.”

he blinks, startled, almost choking on his own breath. “what—what the hell does that even mean?”

“it means you can go play gardener barbie with your emotional support earthworm, hajime!” you snap, sniffling hard, your voice breaking into something half-hysterical and half-furious. “you two can water your trauma and compost your self-awareness for all i care. maybe you’ll grow a backbone next season.”

“jesus, baby—” he starts, but you keep going, eyes glassy and wild.

“no, i’m serious! go teach her how to hold a shovel properly, maybe she’ll finally dig herself a personality. you guys can post about it too—#couplegoals, #rootboundidiots, #photosynthesisandchill.”

he groans quietly, running both hands through his hair, clearly torn between laughing and throwing himself off the booth. “you’re insane.”

“good,” you hiss, still hiccuping, wiping your nose with a napkin like your anger’s leaking out of every pore. “then maybe i’ll finally be immune to watching you play horticultural therapist for every girl with a trowel fetish.”

“what the fuck is a trowel fetish—”

“look it up!” you snap, voice too loud, your pout deepening until it hurts. you sound like you’re scolding him and begging him all at once, and it drives you even crazier.

he reached forward, trying to grab your wrist, trying to ground you again, but you pull away sharply, clutching your bag to your chest like a shield. “don’t touch me,” you warn, voice shaking. “go touch your plants. or her. or whatever living organism wants your attention today.”

he exhales, long and low, dragging a hand down his face, and when he looks at you again, it’s that same damn softness that makes you want to scream. “i’m not taking misaki anywhere,” he says firmly, trying to meet your eyes. “i’m taking you home.”

you glare at him through your tears, the kind that don’t fall gracefully but roll down hot and angry, pooling at your chin. “bullshit,” you sniff, snatching a tissue. “you’ll probably drive her to bofurin after i’m gone and plant matching sunflowers or something, then she’ll post about it with some stupid caption like ‘growth is beautiful’ and you’ll fucking like it.”

he presses his lips together, shoulders shaking slightly like he’s biting back a laugh, and it only makes your chest burn hotter.

“don’t laugh at me,” you warn, voice wobbling.

“i’m not,” he says quickly, even though he is, his thumb rubbing at his temple, his tone patient and tired but fond in that way that makes you hate him more. “you’re mad, i get it. but you know i’d never pick her over you.”

you scoff, wiping your face again, pouting so hard it aches. “you shouldn’t even have to think about picking, hajime. you should’ve uprooted that bitch the second she started growing near you.”

he blinks, then lets out a soft, helpless laugh, the kind that makes your lip tremble all over again. “baby,” he says quietly, reaching for you again even though you’re still trying to call your driver, “you’re the only person i’d ever want to plant anything with.”

“stop being cute,” you mutter, voice small, angry, hiccuping, as you jab at your phone screen again, refusing to look at him. “i hate you.”

“you don’t,” he says softly.

and that only makes the next hiccup come out louder, meaner, messier, because goddammit, he’s right — and that’s what hurts the most.

he keeps talking — god, he won’t shut up — and every word feels like sandpaper dragging across a bruise. you’re staring down at your lap, nails digging into your palm, phone still in your grip, and hajime’s sitting there beside you looking like a man drowning in guilt and desperation.

“baby, please, listen,” he murmurs, voice low and soft and frantic at the edges. “i’m sorry, okay? i’m a fucking idiot. i didn’t mean to upset you, i swear. i was trying to make it better, not worse.”

you don’t move, don’t even blink. you’re done. the silence between you is sharp and heavy, like it could slice through skin.

he sighs, dragging a hand through his hair, the strands falling into his face. “look at me,” he says, gently tugging your chin, but you turn your head, jaw clenched, eyes fixed on the café window instead.

“i fucked up, okay?” he mutters, voice thick with regret now. “i didn’t think before i spoke. i said something stupid, and now my gorgeous girlfriend’s crying on the day we were supposed to have our date.”

you let out a humorless laugh, low and bitter, your lips trembling from how hard you’re biting them. “oh, you think?” you hiss, your voice tight, dripping sarcasm. “wow, someone give you a phd in emotional awareness.”

“baby—”

“don’t ‘baby’ me,” you snap, cutting him off. “you’re lucky i’m not throwing this drink in your face. i’ve seen dogs handle loyalty better than you today.”

he flinches slightly, breath catching, but still doesn’t stop. “you’re right,” he murmurs, still trying to reach for you, still gentle like an idiot who doesn’t know when to quit. “you’re right, i was a dumbass. i’m sorry. please, don’t cry anymore, okay? you’re too pretty for that.”

“oh, fuck off with that line,” you spit, still not looking at him. “if i had a dollar for every time you used ‘you’re too pretty for that,’ i’d buy a better boyfriend.”

his lips twitch — maybe in pain, maybe amusement — you don’t care. you’re done pretending you’re fine. you hear him sigh again, long and ragged, his thumb brushing a tear off your cheek before you slap his hand away.

“stop touching me,” you mutter.

he does, finally. he leans back, defeated but still watching you, his knee bouncing restlessly under the table.

“i just—fuck, i hate this,” he mumbles. “i hate making you cry. i hate that you’re mad at me. it’s the fucking worst feeling in the world.”

“good,” you snap, wiping another tear away. “maybe next time you’ll think before you decide to be a spineless, clueless, misaki-apologist piece of shit.”

his mouth opens like he wants to argue, but your driver appears outside the glass door before he gets the chance. hajime spots him first, his head jerking up in relief like he’s been waiting for divine intervention.

“wait, no—don’t go yet,” he says quickly when you stand, reaching for you again. but you’re already grabbing your bag, shoulders squared, expression cold enough to frost glass.

you don’t even look at him when you walk past. he rushes up anyway, long legs closing the distance easily. he gets to the café door before you do and pulls it open, stepping aside.

“baby, come on,” he murmurs, his voice breaking just a little. “don’t do this. not over this.”

you walk out without a glance, heels clicking against the pavement, the weight of your anger holding your chin higher. hajime follows, trailing a few steps behind, still muttering apologies under his breath like a prayer.

“i’m sorry,” he keeps saying. “i’m sorry, i’m a fucking idiot, i know i am. i didn’t mean to make you feel like shit. please—hey, stop walking so fast—”

you stop right by the car, turning to him with a glare sharp enough to gut a god. “don’t fucking please me,” you hiss, your voice trembling with the effort of holding back another wave of tears. “you can take that tone and use it on your little gardening partner, maybe it’ll make the weeds grow faster.”

his shoulders sag, his breath shaking, but he still steps forward, reaching out like he’s going to hold the door for you.

“i’ll take you home,” he says, softer now, almost pleading.

you laugh—dry, cruel, beautiful in that venomous way. “no thanks,” you say, snatching the door handle before your driver can even move. “you can take misaki’s ass home. maybe you two can plant a fucking family tree while you’re at it, carve your initials in the trunk and die under it together like the two dirt-souled lovebirds you are.”

he winces, opening his mouth to say something, but you’re already ducking into the car, your voice dripping with sarcasm. “hell, maybe you can name your kids after fertilizer brands. that way, every time someone says ‘shit,’ you’ll think of her.”

“baby, stop—”

“don’t call me baby,” you snap one last time, your voice thick and trembling and furious, “you don’t get to call me that after defending that potted-plant enthusiast.”

he grips the top of the door, knuckles white, his other hand reaching for you again like he can still fix it. “please,” he whispers, but you won’t look at him.

you sniff hard, shaking your head, and mumble, “go water your conscience, hajime.”

and then the driver starts the car, the sound of the engine swallowing whatever apology he tries to mumble next, the world blurring as the café disappears behind you — him standing there, hands in his hair, looking every bit the idiot you just called him.

and umemiya hajime tries everything—calls, texts, paragraphs that could qualify as love letters if they weren’t just him apologizing seventeen different ways. every few minutes, another ping lights up your phone, his name glowing like he’s haunting you. you see them. you just don’t care. let him sweat.

because for all his patience and warmth, hajime can’t stand one thing in this world—his girlfriend angry at him. it eats him alive, that quiet space where you don’t talk to him, where your voice is replaced by silence. he can handle a punch, a slap, a full-blown tantrum. but your silence? that’s his apocalypse.

so by eight, he shows up. no call, no warning. the housekeeper must have let him in, because the next thing you hear is the deep, hollow creak of your bedroom door being pushed open. your room is massive—big enough to echo the sound of his shoes on the marble. the kind of big that makes his apartment feel like a closet. he pauses by the door for half a second, taking it all in, that soft, low whistle under his breath that he doesn’t even realize he makes.

you’re on the bed, sitting against the headboard, your knees tucked up, silk pajamas hugging you like a whisper. the balcony doors are open, letting the night air drift in, your hair moving slightly in the breeze. you don’t even look surprised. just annoyed. pretty and annoyed—a deadly combination he’s learned to fear and adore.

“what the fuck do you want?” you say, voice low and sharp, not even turning fully to him. “i thought i made it clear i didn’t want to see your piece-of-shit self tonight.”

he doesn’t blink, doesn’t flinch. the insult rolls off him like water off glass. he steps inside, shuts the heavy door behind him with a soft click, then locks it. you glare at him for that, but he doesn’t care. he hums, hands sliding into his pockets as he walks deeper into your room, his lips twitching at the corner like he’s trying not to smile.

“yeah,” he says quietly, stopping at the edge of your bed before sitting down. “i’m a piece of shit.” his tone is steady, but there’s a flicker of guilt in his eyes that gives him away. “so why don’t you tell me exactly why?”

the challenge hangs in the air between you, thick and dangerous. you finally turn your head, eyes sharp enough to kill. “you really want me to spell it out?”

he shrugs lightly. “might as well hear it from the source.”

you scoff, the sound short and mean. “fine. you’re a piece of shit because you’ve got the emotional intelligence of a rock and the situational awareness of a traffic cone. because you let some over-perfumed, photosynthesis-obsessed charity case orbit around you for weeks while she looked at you like she was about to hump the hydrangeas.”

his jaw tightens slightly, but he stays quiet. you keep going.

“you’re a piece of shit because you sat there like a golden retriever on standby while she called me spoiled, and you didn’t even blink. because instead of backing me up, you told me to behave—like i was the one who needed manners. newsflash, hajime, i wasn’t raised in a barn.”

you lean forward, eyes flashing. “you’re a piece of shit because you keep acting like your niceness makes you some kind of saint when really it just makes people think they can walk all over you—and by extension, me. and i don’t get walked on. not by some chlorophyll-brained pick-me with a shovel and definitely not by my boyfriend who should’ve told her to fuck off the second she batted her eyelashes.”

you exhale sharply, chest rising and falling, your anger so thick it hums. “there. that’s your summary. congratulations. you’re the human embodiment of a doormat with biceps.”

he stares at you for a long beat, jaw slack, breath caught halfway between a sigh and a laugh, eyes glassy from how hard he’s holding it in. you know that look—the one he gets when you’re being cruel and brilliant at the same time.

and when he finally speaks, his voice is quiet, low, wrecked and fond all at once. “okay,” he says softly. “that’s fair.”

you’re not done. not even close. your voice sharpens again, that lethal edge returning, each word slicing clean and deliberate. “and you know what else?” you hiss, glaring at him like the very sight of him is offensive. “you’re a piece of shit for letting her ruin my day. the day that was supposed to be ours. our date. the one you promised would make up for all the bullshit this week.”

you sit up straighter, arms folding over your chest, chin lifting high like a queen about to announce someone’s execution. “you’re a piece of shit because you let that girl get in between us like she fucking belonged there. you sat there—smiling, nodding, pretending she was part of the conversation—while she pissed all over the mood i built, and you didn’t tell her to shut the fuck up. you didn’t even blink. you just let her talk, and talk, and talk—like some possessed lawn decoration who didn’t realize she wasn’t invited to the goddamn picnic.”

hajime exhales softly through his nose, but you’re on a roll now. your tone slides from sharp to venomous, your words slick with sarcasm. “you should’ve told her the only thing you and her were growing was a distance, not some fucking roses. a stupid, tragic, half-dead bush that’s probably crying for help under her fake nails. i hope the thing dies, by the way.”

you pause just long enough to give him the kind of look that makes men rethink their entire life choices. “you know i love roses. you know that. they’re my favorite flower, hajime. and now—” your voice cracks, just a little, the anger melting into something raw, “now i have to find something else to like, because every time i see a rose, i’ll think of your dumb ass playing gardener with that chlorophyll-chasing, dirt-scented freak.”

he opens his mouth, but you keep going, your words picking up speed, your sarcasm dripping like honey turned acid. “i can’t even look at roses now without imagining you two standing there with watering cans, smiling like idiots, pretending you’re in some fucking cottagecore commercial for heartbreak. oh, look at us, hajime and misaki, the love story nobody asked for, sponsored by miracle-gro and emotional negligence.”

you laugh, short and bitter, wiping your face with the back of your hand. “so yeah, congratulations. you ruined roses for me. do you have any idea how dramatic that is? who the hell ruins a flower for someone? that’s psychotic behavior.”

you gesture vaguely toward him, voice trembling from equal parts fury and heartbreak. “and don’t you dare try to fix it with one of your sorry smiles or your stupid soft voice. i don’t want to hear ‘baby’ or ‘sweetheart’ or any of that crap. you’re not charming your way out of this one. you killed my favorite fucking flower, hajime.”

his shoulders drop, and for a second, he looks genuinely stricken. like he knows exactly what he’s done but can’t find the words to climb out of the grave he dug himself.

you sniff, crossing your arms tighter, looking away toward the balcony. “piece of shit,” you mutter, quieter this time, but the venom still there, thick and deliberate. “next time you decide to plant something, plant your sense of boundaries. maybe it’ll bloom faster than your fucking stupidity.”

he lets out a shaky breath, and though you’re not looking, you can feel it—the guilt, the way it weighs heavy on him, pulling him forward, pulling him closer.

but you don’t move. not yet. you just sit there in your silk pajamas, glowing under the soft light, furious and heartbroken and beautiful, like the kind of mess only someone stupidly in love could make.

he lets you talk, lets you spill every bit of poison sitting behind your teeth. when you finally run out of words he exhales, eyes flicking between your face and the balcony door.

“okay,” he says quietly, almost hoarse. “you’re right. i let her get near you, i let her get near us. i should’ve shut it down the first time she opened her mouth. i thought she was just harmless noise, but i see how it looks now. it’s on me.”

you don’t answer, still watching him like you’re deciding whether to throw him off the balcony.

he keeps going, voice soft but frantic underneath. “i’ll fix it. i’ll get rid of the fucking roses—hell, i’ll rip the whole bed out tomorrow if it makes you feel better. i’ll plant something else, something just for you. lilies, orchids, daisies—whatever you want. i’ll bring you every damn flower in the city if that’s what it takes.”

you snort, leaning your head back against the headboard. “oh wow, a floral apology tour. maybe you can get a discount card—buy ten bouquets, get your girlfriend’s forgiveness free.”

he smiles a little at that, but it’s weak, guilty. “i mean it,” he says, reaching out. his palm catches the side of your face, thumb brushing the line where your cheek’s still damp. “i’m sorry, baby. she can keep those roses for herself, i don’t give a fuck about them anymore. she’s not coming near you again. not at the garden, not anywhere.”

“good,” you mutter, still not looking at him. “because if she did, i’d turn her into mulch and send her to her own funeral in a flower pot.”

he huffs a laugh, forehead falling forward till it touches yours. “you really scare me sometimes.”

“you should be scared,” you whisper, your voice all sugar and steel. “you’re the one who thought sharing a hobby meant adopting a parasite.”

his shoulders shake with a quiet chuckle, and he leans closer until his nose brushes your temple. “no more parasites. just you. i promise.”

you hum, still pretending you don’t care, even though your hand’s already in his hair, tugging once like punishment. “you better, or next time i’ll be the one planting something—and it’ll be your dumb ass six feet under.”

“deal,” he says softly, kissing the corner of your mouth before you can say another word.

he kisses you like a man desperate for forgiveness, soft at first—testing the waters, lips brushing your jaw, the edge of your cheekbone, the corner of your mouth—each one a quiet apology shaped like warmth. it’s annoying how good he is at this, how every gentle touch feels like he’s rewiring your anger cell by cell. you’re still mad, still seething, but your body betrays you, leaning into the familiar scent of soap and soil and him.

his thumb strokes your chin; another kiss lands just under your eye, another on the tip of your nose, and he murmurs something stupid like “i’m sorry, baby” between each one until your brain starts to blur around the edges.

you groan, half irritated, half drunk on his breath. “you think you can just mouth your way out of this?”

he grins against your skin. “maybe,” he says, voice rough, hopeful.

“yeah, well, don’t get too excited,” you mutter, pushing a hand against his chest though you don’t really mean it. “tomorrow i don’t want to see those stupid fucking roses ever again. burn them, drown them, sell them to a funeral home—I don’t care. just make them disappear before i develop a rash from secondhand betrayal.”

he laughs, low and nervous, the sound vibrating through his chest. “you really hate them that much?”

“hajime,” you say slowly, looking him dead in the eye, “if i see one more petal, i’ll start a bonfire big enough to roast your guilt on. i want that bush gone. dug out. i want the soil salted like we’re closing off a cursed graveyard.”

he presses his forehead to yours, trying not to laugh, but you can feel it—the soft shake of his shoulders.

“i’m serious,” you add, poking his chest hard. “you let that chlorophyll homewrecker touch my favorite flower. you think i can look at a rose now without hearing her voice? please. that plant’s tainted. it’s basically a botanical crime scene.”

he hums, still grinning. “alright. no more roses. i’ll get rid of them tomorrow.”

“good,” you whisper, eyes narrowing. “because if i see a single leaf left standing, i’ll personally rent a bulldozer and flatten that garden myself. and maybe your ego while i’m at it.”

he laughs properly this time, head dropping to your shoulder, the sound rumbling low against your skin. “you’re insane,” he says softly.

you smirk, fingers slipping into his hair as you pull him closer. “yeah, but at least i’m your problem.” and he kisses you again, the kind of kiss that tastes like surrender, like he’s already planning the funeral for those damned roses.

it doesn’t take long for the anger to start crumbling—not completely, not all at once, but enough that your shoulders stop shaking, enough that the edge of your voice softens. hajime’s always been good at this, at quiet apologies that sound like promises, at letting his warmth do the talking. his hands are steady against your jaw, thumb tracing lazy circles against your skin, and every time he says something low and soft, you can feel the fight bleeding out of you.

his voice does that thing again—deep, patient, with that tiny tremor that always sounds like he means every word. “hey,” he murmurs, brushing his nose against your cheek, “breathe, yeah? i’m right here.”

you sigh, half in frustration, half in surrender, your fingers finding the hem of his shirt, tugging lightly. “i hate how you sound so calm,” you mutter, voice muffled. “it’s like your voice was made for manipulating me.”

he laughs quietly, his breath warm against your ear. “i’d call it soothing, not manipulating.”

“whatever,” you say, leaning closer until your forehead rests against his collarbone. your anger’s still there, simmering somewhere in the background, but it’s mixed now—with exhaustion, with affection, with that stupid ache that always shows up when you’re too close to him for too long. you murmur it before you can stop yourself, soft and tired, “i miss you.”

he stills for half a second, then hums, the sound rumbling deep in his chest. “missed you too,” he whispers, pressing a kiss to your temple. “and i’m sorry again, sweetheart. you must’ve been really upset if you missed me this much.”

you tilt your head up, glaring weakly. “don’t get smug about it.”

he chuckles, his hand sliding down your back, slow and careful. “not smug. just… relieved you still want to see me at all.”

“please,” you snort, swatting his chest. “i wanted to see you so i could yell at you again. don’t flatter yourself.”

he grins, that soft, stupid smile that makes your heart twitch even when you want to punch him. “fair enough. but you’re calmer now, right?”

“barely,” you mutter, though your hand’s already tracing the edge of his jaw, your thumb brushing the corner of his mouth. “you owe me.”

his brows lift. “yeah?”

“yeah,” you say, lips twitching. “you better plan another date. and i don’t mean one of your boring, coffee-shop, let’s-hold-hands-and-watch-you-pretend-to-be-a-gardener kind of dates. i want something nice. something expensive. something that doesn’t involve dirt or that woman’s cursed aura.”

he laughs, low and soft, tilting his head until your noses almost touch. “so… spa day, dinner, rooftop champagne?”

“keep talking,” you murmur, smiling against his mouth. “and maybe i’ll let you live.”

he grins, brushing his lips over yours again. “deal.” you hum, satisfied, closing your eyes as you let him kiss you again, the taste of apology and warmth and just enough smugness to remind you why you fell for the idiot in the first place.

you stay quiet for a long time, tracing the seam of his shirt between your fingers, the air heavy and warm from all the things you threw at him earlier. it sits there between you both—your anger, your guilt, your pride—like a ghost that doesn’t know when to leave. hajime keeps running his thumb along the back of your hand, like he’s waiting for something to shift, like he’s scared you’ll pull away again.

finally, you sigh. not the soft kind, the world-weary, dramatic, “fine, i surrender but only halfway” kind. your head stays against his chest, voice muffled and small but still sharp enough to sting. “i was mean,” you mutter. “like… really mean.”

he tilts his head down, kissing the crown of your hair. “mm.”

“and i said some fucked up things,” you continue, twisting your fingers into his shirt, “about you, not about her. i don’t regret any of the shit i said to her. she deserved every syllable. if anything, i wish i’d used bigger words.”

he laughs quietly, low in his throat, the sound vibrating under your ear. “noted.”

“but you…” you pull back enough to look at him, eyes still narrowed but softer now. “you didn’t deserve all of that. maybe eighty percent, tops. i might’ve… gone nuclear when a regular slap would’ve done.”

he hums, pretending to think. “so i’m only eighty percent a piece of shit now? progress.”

you glare, but the corner of your mouth betrays you. “don’t push it.”

his grin widens. “you’re apologizing. that’s new.”

“don’t get excited,” you warn, flicking his collar. “this is a limited-time offer. i’m still mad, i just feel bad for calling you a spineless gardening simp and comparing your emotional awareness to a traffic cone. that was… maybe too creative.”

he bites his lip, trying not to laugh. “i liked the creativity part.”

“yeah, you would,” you mutter, rolling your eyes. “you’re lucky you’re hot. if you looked like a thumb, i’d still be screaming.”

he smirks, leaning closer, his breath brushing your cheek. “you’re forgiving me because i’m hot?”

“no,” you correct, voice dripping with sarcasm. “i’m forgiving you because i’m merciful. the hotness just makes it easier to look at your dumb face while i do it.”

he chuckles, kissing the tip of your nose, his hands coming up to cup your jaw again. “i’ll take it.”

you tilt your head, pretending to think. “but just to be clear, i’m only apologizing for being mean to you. not the rest. not the part where i threatened to salt your garden or to start a bonfire with the roses. that’s still on the table.”

he laughs against your skin, the sound so warm it almost makes your chest hurt. “deal.”

“good.” you tug at his shirt, voice softening just slightly. “now start planning my damn date before i change my mind and go back to hating you again.”

he smiles, that stupid, gentle, hajime smile that always makes you feel like you’re the only person in the room. “already on it, princess.” you hum, resting your head back against him. “yeah, you better be. and it better not include a single fucking rose.”

you stay where you are for a bit, your head on his chest, heartbeat steady under your ear, the air thick with warmth and that faint post-argument stillness. his thumb keeps tracing the curve of your waist, the rhythm almost hypnotic. after a while you pull back just enough to look at him, eyes skimming his face — that maddeningly perfect symmetry, the soft smirk that always looks one breath away from trouble. you try to fight the grin tugging at your mouth, suck your lips in like you’re hiding something, but he catches it instantly.

he raises a brow, knuckles brushing your cheek. “what’s that look for? you plotting something? or you’re about to say something perverted, aren’t you?”

you laugh, short and low, the sound melting into the quiet between you. “you wish,” you mutter, smacking his chest with a lazy slap that makes him chuckle.

“nah,” he says, smiling like he already knows what’s coming. “you’ve got that evil sparkle in your eye. that’s your danger zone face.”

you roll your eyes, drawing a little circle on his collarbone with your fingertip. “fine,” you whisper, voice slipping into a mock-serious tone, “you wanna have make-up sex?”

his reaction is immediate: a sharp inhale, a burst of laughter that fills the whole room, head tilting back as he grins like an idiot. you giggle too, the tension cracking open between you.

“jesus,” he laughs, still catching his breath. “you’re unreal. a whole menace wrapped in silk.”

“oh, please,” you snort, leaning closer until your lips brush the edge of his jaw. “you act like i came up with this all by myself. you’re the one who trained me for chaos, remember? i was a perfectly innocent girl before you showed up with your stupid voice and your stupid hands.”

he hums, grinning. “so now i’m the bad influence?”

“oh, absolutely,” you say, fingers curling into his shirt as you tug him closer, until he’s hovering over you. “you built this monster. now deal with it.”

he laughs again, lower this time, the sound rougher around the edges as he shifts his weight, letting you guide him down with that smug little pull. you fall back against the pillows, his body leaning over yours, the mattress dipping with the familiar gravity of him.

“god, you’re trouble,” he murmurs, voice half-amused, half-breathless.

“and yet,” you whisper, smirking, “you’re still here. congratulations on your poor life choices.”

he doesn’t answer. he just kisses you — slow at first, like he’s savoring the taste of forgiveness, his lips brushing yours once, twice, before deepening the kiss. it’s the kind that feels like an apology without words, a quiet ache that makes your chest twist. his mouth is warm, soft, a little desperate; you can feel the tension in his jaw, the slight tremor of relief underneath all the heat.

your hand slides up to the back of his neck, pulling him closer, and he groans softly into your mouth, his laugh ghosting over your skin when you bite at his lip just to be annoying.

“still mad?” he murmurs between kisses.

“ask me again in five minutes,” you mumble against his lips, smiling when he laughs quietly, his breath catching at the sound.

he moves lower, tracing kisses along your jaw, down to the curve of your throat. the world shrinks to the sound of his breathing, the slow, steady drag of his lips against your skin. he lingers there, just under your jawline, his mouth open enough to leave warmth that makes you sigh, your fingers threading into his hair as he works his way down.

“you’re ridiculous,” you whisper, breath uneven, though your tone still carries that familiar sarcasm. “you think kissing my neck’s gonna fix your entire PR disaster?”

he hums, lips brushing the spot just below your ear. “working so far,” he says, the words a low vibration against your skin.

you laugh quietly, a sound that melts into a sigh when he kisses you again, slower this time, longer — lips dragging lazily against the curve of your neck, his breath warm and steady. the scent of him fills everything: soap, coffee, and something faintly floral that makes you roll your eyes mid-blush.

“you smell good,” you whisper.

he chuckles, the sound muffled against your throat. “i showered. i’m trying to smell like redemption.”

“try harder,” you murmur, your hand fisting in his shirt.

he tilts his head, kissing higher, slower, until your breath catches again. his thumb traces the corner of your mouth, the motion tender, almost teasing.

“better?” he whispers.

you hum, pretending to think, even as your heart’s beating too fast. “you’re getting there,” you say finally, your lips twitching. “if you keep going, i might even forgive you by sunrise.”

“i’ll take my chances,” he murmurs, pressing one last kiss just below your jaw before lifting his head, eyes meeting yours with that stupid, boyish smile that always ruins you.

and you sigh, pushing his hair back from his face, the sarcasm softening just a little. “fine,” you say, voice barely above a whisper. “maybe i’ll keep you around.”

“oh, lucky me,” he teases, grinning.

“don’t push it,” you mutter, but you’re already pulling him down again.

the next day, the sun’s already too bright for your mood, and you’re still halfway convinced hajime dragged you out just to test your patience. you’re in the passenger seat, sunglasses on, coffee in hand, your attitude set firmly to don’t talk to me unless it’s praise or apology. he’s humming to himself like an idiot, that calm little smile on his face that always looks suspiciously like he knows something you don’t.

“you’re being shady,” you mutter, swirling your straw. “you have that face. that ‘i’m about to do something dumb but it’s romantic so she can’t kill me’ face.”

he glances at you, laughing softly. “you’ll see.”

“if you brought me somewhere near dirt again, hajime, i swear to god—”

“you’ll see,” he repeats, obnoxiously patient, and keeps driving.

by the time you’re standing on the bofurin rooftop again, you’re seconds away from throwing him off it. the sun hits hard, the air smells faintly of soil and humidity, and you’re ready to start your usual speech about how this place is your personal hell on earth—until you look around.

no roses.

not a single one.

the corner where they used to bloom in arrogant little clusters is now spotless, the soil turned, fresh, bare. no sign of red, no smug petals staring back at you like a reminder of your temporary insanity. just dirt, clean and unbothered.

you hum, slow and satisfied, the sound low in your throat as you fold your arms. “well, well, look who actually listens for once in his life,” you say, smirking at him. “did you kill them yourself or did you outsource it to someone with emotional stability?”

he grins, leaning against the fence, hands in his pockets. “i did it this morning.”

“oh, how poetic,” you deadpan. “nothing says devotion like early morning floral homicide.”

he chuckles, stepping closer, his eyes soft even as yours gleam with smug triumph. “you’re welcome.”

“damn right i’m welcome,” you mutter, squinting at the empty patch of soil. “good riddance. those roses had bad energy. smelled like insecurity and pick-me perfume.”

he laughs louder this time, shaking his head. “you’re unbelievable.”

“no, i’m traumatized,” you correct, turning toward him. “do you know how cursed those things were? every time i saw one i could practically hear her voice talking about root systems and sunlight exposure. i had flashbacks, hajime. actual horticultural PTSD.”

he covers his mouth with his hand, clearly trying not to laugh, but the sound still slips out.

“go ahead, laugh,” you say, pointing at him. “but if one rose dares to regrow here, i’m calling an exorcist. i’ll sage this whole fucking rooftop and hang garlic like it’s a vampire nest.”

he grins, stepping behind you, his arms wrapping loosely around your waist. “no roses,” he murmurs against your ear. “just us.”

you hum again, smug as hell, tilting your head back against his shoulder. “as it should be. you and your dirt patch—romantic in a tragic, redemption-arc sort of way.”

“you really can’t just take the win, huh?” he teases, his voice warm, brushing against your skin.

“oh, i’m taking it,” you say, reaching up to pat his cheek lightly. “i’m taking it, framing it, and engraving ‘i was right’ in gold letters.”

he laughs, his breath against your neck. “you’re something else.”

“yeah,” you murmur, glancing over the empty garden with a self-satisfied smile. “something better than a rose.”