by the time sukuna comes back with your drinks, you’re fuming. and he expects that from you. this entire week he’d been testing to see when you’d blow.

you haven’t.

yet.

that glare that you’re throwing at him right now is new though. sukuna finds himself growing wary, like he knows an explosion’s coming and he very much regrets his earlier actions.

“you playing games with me, ryomen sukuna?” you glower at him, and hell it’s the first time you’ve ever been even moderately fierce towards him and it’s kind of hot but also slightly unsettling.

he finds himself swallowing the lump in his throat, body stiffening up slightly. “uh, i’m not-”

you exhale through your nose, sharp and pointed and sukuna admits that you look scary when you’re mad, arms folded across your chest, body leaned back against the leather chair. “i’m done here, i wanna go home,” you say, just leaving your seat with a sigh and drinking just a sip of your beer.

sukuna calls your name but that doesn’t stop you from making your way to the exit, neither does your cold shoulder stop him from following you and blocking your way just before you get to the door.

“move,” you say, nerves hard as steel and gaze sharp enough to cut.

“will you just tell me what’s wrong-”

“figure it out yourself,” you cut him off before you’re sidestepping and letting yourself out. oh—but you stop yourself just before the door closes between you. “you can go date the bartender if you’re so interested in her.”

and you say that with a smile too, batting your pretty eyelashes and sukuna’s driven speechless.

then you let the door close on him.

sukuna hates you. like really really really hates you.

it’s been three months.

you’re still either leaving him on read or responding two days later with a halfhearted apology (which slowly fades into no apology at all). and somehow, he’s still texting you, still trying to get you back to normal.

which hasn’t been working well, because apparently, you’d been on dates with other guys too. sukuna hears names being dropped from his friends whenever they start talking about you.

meanwhile, he hasn’t entertained any other girl since then. fuck what you’re able to make him do.

so after six long fucking months without so much as a single date with you, without even being able to get you alone anywhere (you’re real good at avoiding him, you know that?)—sukuna’s waving the white flag.

no, he’s not giving you the fuck up because he thinks you’re actually quite cool and there’s an alarmingly small (micro) sample size of people that fall into that category for him.

at midnight on a random weekday, sukuna somehow finds himself at your door, being greeted by your unamused expression once you begrudgingly open it after he had to convince you over call for five minutes.

“are you serious?”

all you do is sigh at his question and would have slammed the door shut right there if his quick feet didn’t get in the way.

“okay okay, wait,” sukuna is the one sighing this time, waving the white flag more vehemently now. “i’m sorry, okay?”

for the first time in six full months, he sees your expression soften. you stand in the doorway, keeping your arms crossed.

“oh? thought you liked playing games.” your tone’s still pretty threatening. a calm before the storm. that kind of feeling.

sukuna sighs again, wondering what luck he must have to fall in lo—no, like—to like you. that’s just what it is, it has to be.

“i won’t do it again, okay? i haven’t even entertained any other girl since that night at the bar,” he explains. for the first time in his life. he’s explaining himself. crazy what you make him do.

you roll your eyes. as if you’re just going to buy his words just like that. “rightttt, i’ll think about it,” is all you say before you try and turn tail but sukuna’s quick to wrap his arms around your waist, his chest pressed up against your back.

it’s fucked up, it’s so unfair, it’s so difficult to not fall back into him when he’s like this. he’s pressing a kiss to your temple, trailing down to the shell of your ear, and god how you missed him. sure, you’ve tried dating other guys, but the chemistry was never as good.

it served as a good lesson for sukuna, you suppose. you wouldn’t be opposed to giving him a taste of his own medicine if he needs it.

“still gonna date the other guys?” he asks, voice low and strained and unfortunately, still as attractive to you as it was the first time you heard it.

“still gonna fuck around and-”

“no, promise,” sukuna whispers into your ear, body leaning slightly into you now, like he’s too tired to carry his weight.

you have to forcefully pull yourself away to get out of his grasp, because sadly for him, you’ve got too much pride and ego to let him in just yet. so you make sure he stays outside the door—can’t let him in. not tonight. because you actually like him.

like really really like him.

thoughtfully, you stare at him, contemplating before you ultimately give in and press a smile, thin as it may be. “i’ll probably make you start from square one all over again.”

you expect him to complain.

“done. what else?”

sukuna surprises you instead.

“if you ever pull that kind of shit again, i’ll cut your balls off.” because if you ever have to see your man letting another woman get their hands all over him, you’re pretty sure everyone around you will get to see red.

sukuna didn’t expect any less, really. he nods. (old him would’ve been distraught—there actually exists someone to be able to make him bow down to them after all. it’s reserved just for you.) “my balls are yours.”

he inches closer, and when you don’t step away, sukuna finally feels the weight lift off his shoulders. he didn’t think anyone’s absence would affect him this much at all. you really are something.

“now will you just be my girlfriend already?”

and you can laugh at how impatient it sounds, and you do—and god how much sukuna missed that sound.

“i don’t know… six months of you groveling doesn’t seem enough to me,” you joke, and for a fleeting moment, sukuna thinks that if it’s you, you might be able to get him to grovel for life. (he can’t tell you that though, as sadistic as you are, you might actually have him do that.)

“shut up, i know you missed me,” he mutters into your skin, lips pressed against the side of your face. you smell so good and your skin feels so perfect and he’s about ready to just pull you in when he finds himself being pushed back, crimson eyes falling on your smirk.

“grovel some more tomorrow, maybe you’ll finally get me all to yourself,” you say with a grin—evil.

as much as sukuna hates the way you threw the wet blanket all over the both of you, he still does as he’s told. still chases you down the next day, still gives you too little personal space, still asks you to be his girlfriend again.

so after six months and one day of sukuna groveling for his sins, he finally gets to call you his girlfriend.

“one day i’m gonna kill you for being this evil,” he huffs beside you as he walks you back home, arm around your shoulder, all bark and no bite.

you chuckle, because you know you’re the one person who could ever have such a hold on sukuna.

“try it, then. you’d miss me in a day then kill yourself,” you shrug, all smug and cocky and just the way he likes you.

he’s soooo funny in this really quiet way, like he doesn’t even know he’s being funny which makes it so much better, and like he'll say “good gravy” without irony when something goes inevitably wrong with the projector and mutters “criminy” under his breath when he realizes he printed the wrong notes and his brows are furrowing and his lips jut out in a very, very slight pout. he types so softly. he eats his lunch on a bench behind the humanities building like a little old man on a break from the farm. old habits die hard.

and then one day you sit next to him again, and he offers you half his sandwich before even asking if you brought your own. like of course he fucking does. just splits his grilled cheese in half and then munches along with you in the back while wiping up the crumbs on your desk. and that's how you learn pretty quickly that he’s the kind of guy who remembers what kind of snacks you like and carries napkins in his backpack just in case, like not for any specific reason, but yknow. just in case.

he really, really likes the way you talk. he likes the way you’re not afraid to tease him, how you say “yes, country boy” or call him a midwestern huckleberry every time he does something hopelessly sweet and homemade like give someone directions or pick up a dropped pencil without making a big deal out of it. you'll catch him staring at your lips a lot while you're animatedly ranting or teasing him or chewing on your pen cap.

clark takes you to a house party once—just one, because they're honestly lame and you guys aren't doing anything that one friday night, so what the hell—and you’re not even halfway through your second drink before he’s offering you water and asking if you’re warm enough and if you want to sit down, if your shoes are okay, if maybe it’s too loud. you tell him he’s fussing. he tells you he likes fussing. you stay curled up together on a sagging couch for the rest of the night, playing some dumb party game with the rest of the floor and sneaking unsubtle little glances at each other every time someone asks “who in this room would you wanna kiss silly in the closet?"

when you end up drinking too much (happens to the best of us), he holds your hair back and rubs your back gently and just says, “you’re okay, i got you, you’re okay,” over and over and over until your stomach stops trying to escape your fucking body. doesn’t even flinch or make a face. doesn’t make fun of you. instead, he helps you rinse your mouth out and puts you in one of his old high school football t-shirts and tucks you into bed like he was born to take care of people and maybe he was.

and yeah, it’s a little awkward dating him at first, like you go to hold his hand and he's thinking you're going to high-five him so you guys bump knuckles. but then when he realizes, he just gets this... this look on his face like he got hit with a whole freight train and you’re like “clark. it’s just hands. it's me.” he nods way, way too fast and says “right. yep. just hands. totally great with hands.” and turns bright beet red from the implication.

he’s such a great fucking boyfriend, it honestly pisses me off. like high-key, not even low-key in the slightest, amazing.

clark's always ready with a granola bar or a spare umbrella or some dumb compliment that he says without even realizing i. "you’re really good at that,” he’ll say even when you’re just doing something small like showing him your notes or trying to fix your keycard that's slipped out of your wallet or brushing your hair out of your face, and it always catches you off guard because it’s so goddamn genuine.

he’s the one who drags you guys to the student health center to pick up a paper bag of free condoms before your first time and even some pamphlets because “they’re there for a reason” and you’re both sweating buckets the whole time. you do try to be casual about it, bless your soul. but you're also evil at the end of the day, so you whisper, “you picking out a good flavor for us, clark?” and he knocks over an entire bowl of dental dams. the whole fucking center goes quiet and looks over at you. you guys have to LEAVE. but he still picks up the bag :)

something you take advantage of is the fact that he gets flustered SO easily. like you’ll say one thing, not even filthy, just... maybe suggestive enough to make a nun blush—maybe something like “bet you’d look real pretty on your knees” and he just about dies. goes bright pink and blinks slow like he needs to reboot. swears and says “you’re gonna kill me” with this breathy, overwhelmed laugh, and then immediately proves you right.

and he wants. good grief, he wants so many things, so fucking bad. not just the sex, though, like hell yeah dude, that too, with this deep steady ache like gravity, but all of it. the mess of it. your clothes half on, his half off. the press of your hips against his in the middle of making a microwave dinner. lazy morning make-out sessions before running to class when neither of you smell great but you still can’t stop. he wants to be in your orbit, wrapped around you, under you, whatever you’ll let him have. he'll take it.

he’s so stupidly, wonderfully in love that it just leaks out in moments you don’t expect. like you’ll be kissing, slow and easy, not even really thinking of going anywhere in particular, and he’ll murmur “you’re so good to me” against your mouth and it knock the fucking the wind out of you. enough to make you pull him in between the stacks and wrench a couple more praises out from his pretty little mouth.

you guys also study together. or, at least you try. it usually starts out okay and productive enough but unfortunately for your grades, it ends with both of you horizontal on his tiny dorm bed, heads pressed together, blinking up at the ceiling like it might contain the answers for your exam more often than not. he hums when he reads, soft and low like a tractor engine, and when you fall asleep in the middle of writing flashcards, he covers you with his hoodie and finishes the rest for you.

he WILL say a lot, eventually. he starts off quiet in the relationship, never really opening up about smallville or his powers or his insecurities, but give him time and he’ll talk to you about everything—about growing up in a place with only one flickering streetlight and a high school class of thirty-two, about the first time he saw his name in print on the smallville post, about how sometimes he worries he’s too much, too soft, too honest for the world he really wants to write about.

you tell him he’s just right. and he believes you. eventually. again, it just takes time and a little elbow grease and some love.

but yeah... clark in college... he'll still show up to class ten minutes early. still gives you backup pens. still carries everything anyune hands him. but now he stands and waits for you by the door to the lecture hall. now he saves you a seat in every class you guys take together. now he’s got a piece of your scribbly handwriting tucked into his notebook, a little note you left him once that he rereads when he’s having a rough day, and he never tells you about it, not really, but you catch him smiling at it once and decide not to say anything. just squeeze his hand a little tighter in a dark, crowded lecture hall and smile with your eyes and ask him where he wants to get coffee that day. and that's enough.

From: [email protected] Subject: email? really?

Dear Gojo Satoru,  Clearly you can’t take a hint. Let me spell it out for you. I. Am. Busy. Leave. Me. Alone. Unhappily,  Your girlfriend P.S. Do not call yourself ‘big-dicked daddy.’ It upsets me greatly.

From: [email protected] Subject: keep being mean to me please im close

Dear adorable goth baby,  You’re so hot when you’re being mean. I already know you’re frowning in that cute way that makes me want to smother you in kisses and you’re rolling your eyes so hard NGH! I already said I’m sorry.  Please give me another chance. I’m so damn bored I started playing spin the bottle alone in my room. I made out with that picture of you sleeping with drool down your chin. Picture You was even getting handsy. ‘Down girl!’ I said. ‘Bad!’ Stay tight,  Toru (not Gojo Satoru, that’s like a slur coming from you, very triggering stuff) P.S. I am your big-dicked daddy tho I’m confused?

From: [email protected] Subject: shut up

Satoru,  I gave you multiple chances when I asked you to stop and give me at least 5 hours to study before we go out for dinner and I entertain you, you giant freaking child. But no, you just had to hound me with your dick, like I was supposed to be dickmatised and persuaded to drop everything at your beck and call.  Fuck, I’m getting mad all over again.  Stop emailing me. You’re gonna see me at 7pm for our date anyways. You can last 4 more hours. Yours not for long,  Girl who just wants to pass

From: [email protected] Subject: my bad bro

Sweetiepie :( I’m sorry.  I thought it was gonna motivate you to work hard. Pwease forgive me. Pwease? Towu is vewy vewy sowwy.  In fact, I’m so so so sorry, I’ll pay for dinner tonight. Scout’s honour. Asking for mercy and forgiveness,  Your boyfriend no matter what

From: [email protected] Subject: dinner? that the best you can offer?

You always pay for dinner. Last time I offered, you damn near wrestled me in the middle of the restaurant so you could get your card out first. We’re still banned from there, remember? Btw, you were never a Scout, don’t play with me.

From: [email protected] Subject: you gotta address me and sign off!

Dear love of my life who doesn’t understand how email etiquette works,  Of course I always pay for dinner — you’re broke and your family is destitute, I remind you lovingly. But even if you were as rich as me, or even richer (which isn’t possible, not to flex), I would still pay every single time. It’s the least I can do for reparations for the violence committed by my gender against yours. Plus, that restaurant sucked anyway — the owner is problematic towards immigrants and the servers don’t even know if the meat is locally and ethically sourced, like hello??? In the big 2025?!? How’s studying going? Do you need a snack or a smoothie to boost you?  I can drop by. Promise I won’t linger. I just didn’t see a purchase on my card for breakfast or lunch. Please don’t starve. If I can’t watch your ass jiggle when I hit it from the back, I’m gonna be devastated.  Yours most sincerely,  Satoru P.S. You have to be a Scout to say Scout’s Honour? Crazyyyyyy

From: [email protected] Subject: so fucking bossy omg

Dear Satoru (happy now?), Please don’t remind me of my family’s shortcomings. You know I like to pretend I came from a normal background. And stop being more woke than me. It’s hot. Studying’s fine, I guess. I think I forgot how to study. I’ve missed a lot of content too. If a certain someone hadn’t been clinging to me so tightly every morning, maybe I wouldn’t be so behind. God, you make my life so hard.  A smoothie and pastry would be lovely, actually. I can’t be bothered leaving my room to get some food. Just drop it off outside and disappear by the time I open the door — if I see even a glimmer of white hair, I’m going to freak.  Thanks. Love begrudgingly, A girl who’s gonna fail her exam

From: [email protected] Subject: you're not gonna fail

Dear cutie,  I don’t cling to you that hard. You’re dramatic. I wonder where you got that from. And last I checked, we have a safeword you can use anytime to get me away from between your legs if you really wanted to get to class. But I like our game where you pretend you’re not just as obsessed with me as I am with you (I know you get all hot and bothered when I reference Marx, dirty girl) Food’s outside babe. The line was stupid long and I ran into Fushiguro — remember the guy I told you has the highest body count on campus? He’s in a relationship now and he’s so pussywhipped lmaoooo Couldn’t be me. Hoping you’ll stuff your face and get all the brain power you need,  Satoru

From: [email protected] Subject: not impressed

I told you to disappear before I could see you.  You didn’t have to kiss me and hump my leg you animal. My neighbours were NOT happy with the pornographic noises you made, asshole.  Yeah, I remember Toji. Cool dude. Always wearing gym wear no matter the weather and for some reason hates you. Don’t make fun of him for being loyal and loving to his girlfriend. You’re probably so much worse. I envy his girlfriend. She probably doesn’t have to put up with a yapper who spams her with dick pics. Thank you for the food though. Very appreciated. What I didn’t appreciate, however, was the number and the smiley face on my drink. I already told you, if someone tries to hit on you, bark at them and tell them you have a girlfriend you worship endlessly. 

From: [email protected] Subject: EMAIL. ETIQUETTE. COME ON.

Look: Dear angry girlfriend I do in fact worship endlessly and beyond,  I’m sorry I didn’t follow your exact orders but I desperately needed a kiss from my girl. If I don’t get my daily dose, I wilt, like a rose. You know this.  And disrespectfully, f your neighbours. It wasn’t anything they hadn't heard from us before. Sensitive ears ahhh About Fushiguro — he does not hate me. Why does everyone say that?  We’re actually besties. We’re like dumb and dumber, but dumber is him obvi. Plus, once he gets some shots in him, he’s super in love with me. I get more over the clothes action from him than from you lol You never need to thank me for feeding you. I fear that’s like bare minimum. Get those standards up girl. Oh and sorry about the drink. I didn’t even notice. Leave it outside your door and I’ll get you a new one. I’ll even make a scene and call the manager over. Maybe I’ll buy the store and get everyone fired. Just give me the word babe. Yours forever,  Satoru 

From: [email protected] Subject: YOU ARE EXHAUSTING

Dear my sweetest, most frustrating boyfriend, Fine, I’ll forgive the kiss (I might have needed it too). And yeah, f my neighbours because the guy on my left loves playing Doctor Who Season 8 on repeat and on full volume every night like clockwork. It’s not even the best season! Forget about the drink. Just don’t ever go back there again. Number and smiley face aside, the drink is abysmal and tastes like bog water. Pastry is great though. 10/10 You’d really make a scene for me? Yours occasionally,  No longer starving girlfriend

From: [email protected] Subject: awww I knew you loved me really

Dear the Morticia to my Gomez,  I’d make a scene for you at the drop of a hat. I’d serenade you in malls, on campus, in a Michelin star restaurant, and in a lecture. Heck, I’d yell ‘BOMB’ in an airport if you asked me to – just maybe not an airport we frequent. There’s quite literally nothing I wouldn’t do for you. If you didn’t know that already, then I’m not as great of a boyfriend as I thought I was. I will remedy that immediately, my goddess eternal. Obsessedly yours,  Your husband in every way but legally (we can fix that)

From: [email protected] Subject: ugh

Dear Toru,  Stop being sweet. It’s disgusting. Come inside already. I’m done pretending I’m getting anything from the textbooks. I’m only giving myself a headache.

From: [email protected] Subject: woahhhh

You can tell I’m outside???

From: [email protected] Subject: you're loud as hell

I can hear you giggling at my emails, Satoru. You’re probably sitting on the floor, leaning against my door. 

From: [email protected] Subject: just got shivers

Damnnnn are you sure you’re not a witch?

From: [email protected] Subject: well?

Are you coming in or what?

From: [email protected] Subject: yippeeeee

Okay okay, yes I am. LOVE YOU BABY <3

You’d catch his gaze lingering when he thought you weren't looking. Sometimes, he'd tilt his head slightly, a small, almost imperceptible smile playing on his lips. It made you wonder what he was thinking. Was he judging your latte art? Probably. You were still working on that.

But when you turned around to give him his iced vanilla latte with extra whipped cream and three shots of caramel (it never varied, not once in six months), he'd break his smile to you, his gaze softening for a second, and then his fingers would brush against yours as you handed him the paper cup.

He always thanked you with “Much appreciated”. It made your heart skip a beat, if you'd be honest. Not that you read all too much into it of course. And so for six months, this had been your routine. 

5:30 AM: Arrive at the café.

6:00 AM: Open up, prep for the day. 

7:13 AM: Start making his drink because you knew he'd walk in exactly two minutes later. 

7:15 AM: Heart fluttering slightly as your hand brushed his as you gave him his order.

10:00 AM: Shift end. 

10:30 AM: Rush to classes.

Some mornings, he’d arrive in wrinkled scrubs, the faint scent of antiseptic clinging to him. Other days, it was a tailored dress shirt, sometimes with a matching tie. But the routine never changed.

Same order, same time, the same easy smile that would soften slightly when you remembered his order without him having to say it. Not that it was hard to begin with. 

“Someone’s got a secret admirer,” Maki would say, nudging you with her elbow as Dr. Gojo left. You’d roll your eyes, but a faint blush crept up your neck anyway.

Between customers, you'd try to squeeze in some studying. The early morning shift wasn't exactly ideal, but it paid better, and you needed every cent you could get for your pre-med textbooks. Those things cost more than your rent, it felt like.

Your anatomy textbook usually lay open behind the counter, hidden from customers' view but accessible during slower moments. Sometimes, when the morning rush died down, you'd catch Dr. Gojo's eyes flickering to the pages as you made his latte. His expression would shift slightly, but he never commented on it.

You wondered sometimes if he was judging your highlighting technique (chaotic at best) or your margin notes (mostly question marks). He must have gone through all this years ago, probably with much more grace than your current fumbling through medical terminology.

The café job barely covered your expenses — between tuition, rent, and those damn textbooks — but at least it was flexible with your class schedule. Your manager understood when you needed to switch shifts for exams, and the free coffee helped during all-nighters.

Your coworkers thought you were crazy for taking such early shifts. "No one should be awake at 5:30 AM," they'd say. But they didn't understand the quiet peace of morning prep, the satisfaction of perfect latte art, or the way certain blue eyes would crinkle at the corners when you got his order just right.

It was a small thing, a fleeting smile, a brush of fingertips, but it was enough to make the early mornings, the aching feet, the constant struggle, almost worth it.

Not that you stuck to this schedule just for him. Obviously not. The extra dollar per hour for opening shift was the real motivator. The fact that it coincided with Dr. Gojo's apparent coffee schedule was just... coincidence.

Sometimes, during chaotic study sessions between customers, you'd catch him watching you mouth medical terms to yourself as you steamed milk. His eyes would linger on your textbook, then flick back to your face with that same intense look that made you wonder if he was counting your remaining days or something—or still trying to figure out if that one mole on your cheek was turning malignant.

The morning you had your anatomy midterm, your textbook sat next to the register, full of sticky notes and frantic annotations. You saw him notice it, saw something shift in his expression as he took in the obvious signs of exam stress. That day, he left an extra large tip with a small note that just said "Good luck."

It was probably just pity. He'd been through med school. He knew the hell you were going through. That had to be it. Absolutely. No other explanation.

That’s what you told yourself, anyway, as you added the note into your wallet, shoving it down next to a crumpled grocery list and a faded movie ticket stub, as if burying it under a pile of mundane objects could somehow bury the flutter in your chest.

For six months, this had been your life. Balancing early mornings, late classes, endless studying, and the mystery of a doctor who looked at you like you were a puzzle he couldn't quite solve.

So when he finally broke pattern that random rainy monday morning, it wasn't with some dramatic revelation about your health you’d imagined. Instead, he tilted his head slightly while waiting for his usual and said, "You changed your hair."

You nearly dropped the caramel syrup. After six months of intense stares and loaded silences, after convincing yourself he was cataloging your symptoms or contemplating your mortality, he was commenting on your hair?

"Oh." Your hand instinctively went to the ends you'd trimmed over the weekend. "Yeah, just a few inches."

"It suits you." He said it so casually, like he hadn't just shattered half a year of mysterious doctor mystique with three words. Then, with that same matter-of-fact tone, "The pathophysiology textbook you were reading last week—Robbins, right? It’s really good. Especially the part about metaplasia. Interesting stuff."

And just like that, the spell was broken. No terminal diagnosis. No earth-shattering revelations. Just a doctor who apparently noticed haircuts and had opinions about medical textbooks. 

The sudden normalcy of it all was almost jarring. For months, you’d been half-convinced he was silently cataloging your every freckle, every mole, every perceived imperfection, convinced he was about to deliver some devastating news. Now? He was talking about metaplasia. It was almot—anticlimactic. 

And, if you were being honest, a little embarrassing. All those covert checks in the reflection of the espresso machine, all those frantic Google searches for “atypical nevi”—for this?

You almost wanted to laugh.

After that day, your morning routine shifted slightly. He still came in at exactly 7:15, still ordered the same diabetis-inducing latte, still watched you work with those intense blue eyes the color of glacial ice. But now he'd occasionally comment on your study materials, or mention an interesting case that related to whatever chapter you were currently highlighting.

"Cardiac arrhythmias today?" he'd ask, spotting your textbook. "Had a case of atrial fibrillation yesterday. The patient presented with…" He’d then launch into a quick explanation, sketching a diagram on a napkin that somehow made more sense than three hours of lecture on the same topic.

Your coworkers were almost disappointed by this development. "That's it?" Maki had said when you told her. "Six months of smoldering looks and he just... helps you study?"

But somehow, it felt right. The mysterious doctor with pretty eyes turned out to be just a man who noticed details and perhaps had a soft spot for struggling med students. 

He still made your heart do that stupid flutter thing when his fingers brushed yours during the handoff, but now you had a perfectly logical explanation for that of course—the vagus nerve or some other equally fascinating cardiovascular phenomenon he'd just explained.

That had to be it.

Some mornings, when the café was quiet and you were stumped by a concept, he'd even linger a few minutes after getting his order. He’d lean against the counter, close enough that you could smell the faint scent of his cologne, gesturing with his cup while breaking down complex medical theories into digestible pieces, somehow making autoimmune disorders sound as simple as iced latte recipes. 

"You'll make a good doctor," he said one morning, completely out of nowhere and your cheeks flushed a deep crimson.

Your relationship—if you could even call it that—settled into something comfortably in-between. More than customer and barista, less than friends, but with a rhythm all its own. He'd quiz you while you made his usual, turning morning coffee runs into study sessions.

"Name three complications of chronic hypertension," he'd say while you pumped caramel into his cup.

"Increased risk of heart attack, stroke, and kidney disease," you'd reply, adding the extra shot of espresso he never actually ordered but always appreciated.

"Good. Now tell me about secondary causes."

One random Tuesday morning, however, the bell didn't chime at 7:15. You glanced at the clock, then back at the door. 

7:16. 

7:17. 

A knot of unease tightened in your stomach. It was ridiculous, really. Why did you even care? He was just a customer. A regular customer, yes, but still just a customer. It wasn't like you were waiting for him or anything. You were just—used to the routine. That was all. 

But despite your attempts at rationalization, a small, nagging worry began to gnaw at you. Had something happened? Was he okay? You found yourself staring at the door, your hand hovering over the espresso machine, your usual movements faltering slightly. You even messed up a latte, the foam swirling into a sad, lopsided blob instead of the usual pretty rosetta. 

At 7:20, just as you were about to convince yourself he’d just overslept and that you were being completely ridiculous, the bell finally rang. He rushed in, slightly out of breath, his cheeks flushed. "Sorry I'm late," he said, his voice a little rushed. "Crazy morning at the hospital."

He looked like he’d run all the way, which was odd. Why would he run? It’s not like his coffee was that important. Right? And yet, your stupid heart did a little flip at the sight of him, a traitorous swell of warmth blooming in your chest. He made it. He was here.

He stayed extra long that morning. After the rush died down, he listened to you recite your flashcards, correcting your pronunciation of medical terms with a patience that made you wonder if he moonlighted as a professor. It was a strange sort of intimacy, this shared moment of slow study amidst the busy morning rush and the soft hum of the refrigerators. 

And you never wanted that morning to end.

Your coworkers had stopped teasing you about him—mostly—and started asking if he could explain their own health questions instead. Then came the random stormy Wednesday that changed everything.

The morning had started normally enough—he arriving at 7:15 sharp, you already having his sugar latte ready. But the sky had opened up while he was waiting, rain drumming against the café windows. It wasn’t a gentle shower. It was a deluge, the kind that turned streets into rivers in minutes.

"Did you bring an umbrella?" he asked, watching you glance at the downpour.

"No," you sighed, already dreading the soggy walk to campus. "I checked the forecast last night—it said sunny all day." You internally cursed the weather app.

"When does your shift end?"

"Huh? Oh, uhm 10 AM. I have microbiology at 10:30."

His lips twitched into a faint smile and he left without another word. You tried not to feel disappointed—what had you expected? It's not like he could control the weather.

But at 10 AM sharp, as you were pulling your jacket tighter and preparing to make a run for it, you spotted him through the rain-streaked windows. He was standing outside the café in his white coat, holding a large dark blue umbrella. 

Your heart definitely did more than flutter this time.

"Ready?" he asked when you emerged, as if waiting in the pouring rain for some barista was perfectly normal doctor behavior.

"You didn't have to—"

"Can't have my favorite barista catching pneumonia," he said. "Besides, I'm heading that direction anyway." You knew for a fact the hospital was in the opposite direction.

The walk to campus was suddenly—intimate. It was strange being this close to him. You’d seen him every morning for months, but always across the counter, a safe distance separating you. Now, you were walking side-by-side, the scent of his cologne so close it made it hard to focus on anything but his proximity, to say the least.

"So, what are you studying in Microbiology?" he asked, breaking the silence.

"We're covering bacterial pathogenesis this week," you replied, and the conversation drifted naturally to a discussion of how different pathogens could affect various organ systems like it was normal small talk.

As other pedestrians passed, their own umbrellas bobbing and weaving, he’d subtly pull you closer. Each time he did, your breath would catch in your throat, and a fresh wave of warmth would wash over you. You were grateful for his height, because you were certain your cheeks were flushed a deep shade of red.

It was absurd, how flustered you were by such a simple act, but the feeling of his arm occasionally brushing against yours, the shared intimacy of the small space beneath the umbrella, was enough to send your heart racing.

Desperate to focus on something else, you blurted out, "What kind of doctor are you, anyway? I never actually asked."

"Cardiology," he replied simply.

“Cardiology,” you repeated, the word lingering on your tongue. A doctor of the heart. When you reached the medical sciences building, he paused, lowering the umbrella slightly. The rain had begun to ease, but the air still smelled wet and clean.

"Thanks," you said, meeting his gaze. "For the umbrella escort."

"Anytime." That soft smile again, the one that made your heart do a stupid little skip again.

As you watched him walk away, umbrella tilted against the rain, you realized something had shifted. Maybe you weren't quite friends, maybe you weren't quite anything definable, but whatever this was—it felt like the beginning of something. Something more than just sharing an umbrella on rainy days.

⋆꙳•❅•̩❅*̩‧͙ *̩❆₊˚｡❆

Winter arrived on a random thursday morning, transforming rain into snow and turning your early morning walks to work into arctic expeditions.

It was during one of these frigid mornings, while you were preparing Dr. Gojo's usual order and the steam from the espresso machines fogging up the frost-covered windows, that your phone rang. Your mother's contact photo flashed on the screen.

You answered with your phone pressed between ear and shoulder, still working the machines. "Hi, Mom."

"Sweetheart! I was just planning Christmas dinner. You're bringing someone this year, right? That nice boy from your anatomy class you mentioned?"

You winced, catching Dr. Gojo's raised eyebrow from where he stood at the counter. "Mom—"

"Because Aunt Marie's daughter just got engaged, and you know how she gets—"

"My boyfriend's actually busy with hospital rotations," you blurted out, immediately wanting to punch yourself. "He's, uh, very dedicated to his work."

"Boyfriend? Why didn't you tell me? What's his name? What does he—"

"Sorry, Mom, huge line forming, gotta go!" You hung up, letting your forehead thump against the coffee machine with a groan.

"That sounded stressful," Dr. Gojo commented, amusement clear in his voice.

You looked up to find him watching you with that slight smile that always made you shiver. "Just my mom being... my mom." You resumed making his latte. "She's convinced that at twenty-five, I'm practically a spinster."

"Ah." He tilted his head. "And this fictional boyfriend with hospital rotations?"

Your cheeks heated. "Seemed easier than explaining why I'm still single. Between work, classes, and studying, I barely have time to sleep, let alone date." You handed him his usual. "Plus, now she'll stop trying to set me up with every eligible male she meets through her book club."

"A creative solution," he said, taking a sip. "Though hospital rotations over Christmas? Sounds like a terrible boyfriend." A playful smirk tugged at the corner of his lips.

"Yeah, well, imaginary men are often disappointing." You started wiping down the counter, needing something to do with your hands. "At least this way I'll have a few weeks of peace before I have to tell her we broke up."

"Sounds like you've done this before," he observed, watching you attack an imaginary coffee stain with perhaps too much force.

"Is it that obvious?" You sighed, abandoning your fake cleaning. "Last year he was studying abroad. The year before that, he was sick. I'm running out of excuses, honestly. Pretty sure my mom's stopped believing me, but she plays along because it's less awkward than admitting we both know I'm lying."

He made a thoughtful sound, then pulled out his prescription pad (why did doctors always carry those around anyway?). You watched, confused, as he scribbled something down and slid it across the counter.

"Here," he said. "My number. Call me during Christmas dinner."

You stared at him. "What?"

"Well, your imaginary boyfriend should at least make an effort, don't you think?" His eyes held that familiar amusement. "I'll tell your mom all about my very important hospital rounds, maybe throw in some medical words. Make it convincing."

You stared at him, mouth slightly agape. Was he… offering to pretend to be your boyfriend? You couldn't quite process what was happening. 

"You know," he said, after you'd probably been quiet for too long, "some of us actually do work hospital rotations over Christmas."

"I know, I just—" You stopped, realizing how her words might have sounded. "Oh god, I didn't mean to imply… I know you probably have to work during the holidays too, I wasn't trying to—"

"Someone has to make sure all those Christmas dinner caused heart attacks are properly treated," he interrupted, that familiar, almost-smirk back on his face, easing the tension in your shoulders. "Though I do get Christmas morning off this year."

You couldn't tell if he was trying to make you feel better about your lie, your accidental insult, or just sharing information. With Dr. Gojo, it was often hard to tell. After a moment of stunned silence, you managed, "Are you… sure?"

"Perfectly.”

"Thank you," you said, finally finding your voice as you picked up the slip of paper. "Really, thank you."

"Anytime," he said, that familiar, soft smile gracing his lips. "Consider it a Christmas gift. From your very dedicated, albeit fictional, boyfriend."

As you watched him leave, coffee in hand and snowflakes catching in his white hair. Even if he was probably going to tease you endlessly about your fictional, workaholic boyfriend for weeks to come, a small, stupid part of you was already looking forward to it.

⋆꙳•❅•̩❅*̩‧͙ *̩❆₊˚｡❆

The Christmas dinner was a random Friday night.

The table, laden with enough food to feed a small army, was surrounded by the usual suspects and the dinner turned out to be exactly as excruciating as you'd expected. You'd barely made it through the appetizers before the interrogation began.

"So, this boyfriend of yours," Aunt Marie started. "What did you say he does again?"

"He's a doctor," you said into your mashed potatoes.

"A doctor!" your mother brightened. "You never mentioned that part."

Your cousin Sarah leaned forward. "What kind of doctor? Where did he study? How did you meet?"

You were considering faking a sudden illness when your phone buzzed. Dr. Gojo's name lit up your screen with a video call request. You hadn't even suggested a video call—he was truly committing to this.

"Oh, that's him now!" Your mother said, clapping her hands together. "Put him on speaker!"

Before you could protest, you were surrounded by a sea of curious relatives as you answered the call. The screen filled with Dr. Gojo's face, and—oh god—he was actually in scrubs, in what looked like a real operating room.

"Hey, my love," he said as if it was the most natural thing in the world, and the casual nickname hit you like a train, making you forget your own name. You felt your cheeks flush and it didn’t help that he somehow managed to look unfairly handsome even under the surgical lights. "Sorry I couldn't make it. We had an emergency valve replacement come in."

"Are you... actually in surgery right now?" you asked.

"Just finished!" He tilted the phone slightly to show a glimpse of a team of medical staff behind him, all of whom waved. One even gave a thumbs up. "Thought I'd catch you before dessert. Is that your family I see?"

Your entire extended family crammed themselves into frame, cooing and waving at your "doctor boyfriend" who was dedicated enough to call from work.

"Oh my god, he's gorgeous," your cousin said.

"Dr. Gojo," your mother pushed forward, "we're so disappointed you couldn't join us. Though of course, saving lives comes first!"

"Please, call me Satoru," he said, flashing that unfairly attractive smile of his. "And I'm more disappointed than anyone. I was really looking forward to trying your famous apple pie that your daughter keeps telling me about."

Your mother clutched her chest, delighted. You had never once mentioned her apple pie to him. 

"Are those Christmas decorations I see in the OR?" your aunt squinted at the screen.

And indeed, there were actual Christmas lights strung up in the background. Either this hospital was very festive, or he'd gone to ridiculous lengths for this act.

"We try to keep the holiday spirit alive, even here," he said, then suddenly looked off-screen. "Oh, looks like we have another emergency coming in." Dramatic beeping noises increased in the background. "I'm so sorry, but duty calls. It was lovely meeting you all!"

"Such a dedicated young man," your mother sighed after you ended the call.

"So handsome too," Aunt Marie added. "Those eyes!"

You slumped in your chair, caught between mortification and amusement. He really didn't have to go that far—the Christmas lights in the OR? The perfectly timed “emergency”? The entire surgical team playing along? It was almost impressive.

Your phone buzzed with a text: 'How'd I do? The lights were my colleague's idea. They says Merry Christmas, by the way. Your family seems nice.'

Another buzz, a separate message: 'Also, I expect a slice of that famous apple pie at the café tomorrow. After that performance, I think I've earned it.'

You typed back: 'You are absolutely insufferable. That was completely over the top.'

His response came almost instantly: 'Is that any way to talk to your dedicated doctor boyfriend who just saved a life AND charmed your entire family? I'm hurt.'

Despite yourself, you smiled.

Your phone buzzed one more time: 'By the way, your cousin already found my hospital's public contact info and sent a friend request. Should I accept? I feel like a committed boyfriend would.'

You groaned, burying your face in your hands. He was absolutely loving this. 

Way too much.

The next morning, you weren't surprised when he showed up at his usual 7:15, despite it being his day off. What did surprise you was that he was still wearing scrubs. They were rumpled, like he'd been wearing them for a while.

"Please tell me you didn't actually work all night just to make that video call more convincing," you said as he approached the counter.

"You know, I am a doctor in real life, right? This isn't just a cover for your mom." He smirked. "But anyway, just finished an actual emergency shift." He glanced at the paper bag you had waiting next to his usual sugary coffee. "Is that… what I think it is?"

"Your well-earned reward for yesterday's Oscar-worthy performance." You handed him both coffee and pie. "Though I still can't believe you got your entire surgical team to play along."

"Bold of you to assume I had to ask." He took a bite of the pie and his eyes widened slightly. "Okay, your mom's reputation is deserved. This is actually amazing."

"Yeah, well, enjoy it while it lasts, because—" You hesitated, took a deep breath, and decided to just rip the bandage off. "She invited you to dinner. Tomorrow."

He paused mid-bite. "Oh?"

"I told her you're probably busy—"

"What time?"

You stared at him. "What?"

"What time is dinner?" He took another bite of pie, looking perfectly casual about the whole thing. "I actually have Sunday evening off, and this pie has convinced me your mom's cooking is worth experiencing in person."

"You can't be serious."

"Why not?" He shrugged. "I've already met them virtually. Might as well complete the experience. Unless you're worried I'll embarrass you?"

"I'm worried you'll be too convincing again," you said. "My mom's already planning our wedding, by the way. She told me this morning that your 'dedication to work' proves you'd be a good husband."

"Well, I'd hate to disappoint a future mother-in-law."

"This isn't funny!"

"It's a little funny." He leaned against the counter, grinning. "Come on, one dinner. I promise to be slightly less charming this time."

"Somehow I doubt that's possible," you said before you could stop yourself.

His smile widened. "Was that a compliment?"

"That was a complaint about your inability to do anything halfway." You busied yourself with wiping down the already clean counter. "But fine. Sunday at seven. Try not to bring Christmas lights this time."

"No promises." He pushed off from the counter, taking his coffee and pie. "Oh, and by the way?"

"Hmm?"

"I accepted your cousin's friend request. She's already invited me to your family's New Year's party."

He was halfway to the door when he paused, turning back with an expression that was softer than his usual teasing smile. "You look pretty today, by the way. The new sweater suits you." 

You froze, your heart skipping a beat. You hadn't even realized he'd noticed you'd changed from your usual work shirt into a cozy sweater for your afternoon classes.

He was out the door before you could stammer out a response, leaving you to wonder what exactly you had gotten yourself into. And why one simple, genuine compliment made your heart race more than all his dramatic boyfriend performances combined.

⋆꙳•❅•̩❅*̩‧͙ *̩❆₊˚｡❆

Sunday evening found you pacing a worn path in the carpet by your parents' front door, checking your phone every two minutes. 7:15 came and went—apparently his almost unnervingly precise timing only applied to coffee runs. 

You tried to convince yourself it was fine, that doctors had unpredictable schedules, but a nervous flutter had taken up residence in your stomach.

At 7:20, your mom’s worried, "Maybe he got called into surgery?" was interrupted by the doorbell. You took a deep breath, smoothing down your dress, and opened the door.

Standing there was Dr. Gojo—Satoru, you supposed you should call him now—looking slightly disheveled in a way that somehow only emphasized his unfairly attractive features. His white dress shirt, though slightly untucked at the waist, bore the clear signs of a hurried ironing, and he was carrying what looked like an expensive bottle of wine—definitely not the kind you’d find at the corner store.

"I'm so sorry," he said, running a hand through his already slightly tousled white hair. "Emergency consultation ran late, and then traffic was—"

"It's fine," you interrupted, a wave of relief washing over you. He’d actually come. "Really. You didn't have to—"

But the rest of your sentence disappeared into a surprised squeak as he stepped forward, closing the small gap between you. He leaned in and gently pressed a kiss to your cheek, his free hand settling naturally on your waist, just above your hip, as if he’d done it a hundred times before.

"Hi," he whispered against your ear, and you could hear the smile in his voice. "Missed you today at the café."

You stood frozen, brain short-circuiting from the casual intimacy of it all. This wasn't part of the plan. You hadn't discussed... this. The way his hand felt warm through your dress, how his cologne made you slightly dizzy, how natural it felt to have him this close. It was as if your body already knew this was right, even if your mind was still scrambling to catch up.

"I... you..." Words. You needed words. "You're late."

He pulled back just enough to give you that familiar amused look. "And you're blushing."

Before you could even process that observation—or the fact that your heart was currently attempting to beat its way out of your chest—your mother appeared behind you. "Satoru! We're so glad you could make it!"

He smoothly stepped past you to greet your parents, all charm and apologies for his lateness, seamlessly weaving a plausible story about a last-minute emergency consult and unexpected traffic. He shook your father’s hand with just the right amount of respectful firmness and charmed your mother with a compliment about her festive decorations. All while he left you standing in the doorway, slightly dazed, trying to remember how to perform basic human functions like breathing and blinking.

The slight smirk he threw over his shoulder as he joined the others in the living room told you he knew exactly what he'd done.

Insufferable man.

The dinner was simultaneously the longest and shortest evening of your life. Satoru slipped into the role of doting boyfriend with an unsettling ease, weaving medical anecdotes (carefully tailored for a non-medical audience) and charming compliments into the conversation like he'd been rehearsing for weeks. He even managed to compliment Aunt Marie’s notoriously sweet cheesecake without visibly wincing.

He sat close enough that your legs brushed under the table, his hand finding its way to your knee during your mother's third attempt to bring up wedding venues (she was already browsing bridal magazines online, you’d noticed). The casual touch, which should have made you incredibly nervous, instead felt strangely good, like a shared secret between the two of you in the midst of the family chaos.

"And how did you two actually meet?" your aunt asked over dessert.

"She makes the best coffee in the city," Satoru answered smoothly, his thumb drawing absent circles on your thigh beneath the tablecloth. "Though it took me months to work up the courage to say more than my order."

You nearly choked on your wine. He was mixing truth and fiction so seamlessly you almost believed it yourself. 

Every story he told had just enough reality to make you question your own memory. He mentioned how you study between customers, but added details about imaginary conversations. He even talked about your first "date" with such specificity that you found yourself half-believing it had happened.

His hand never left your leg for long, occasionally squeezing gently when your relatives’ questions became too invasive. Somehow, he’d effortlessly positioned himself as both the charming guest and the attentive boyfriend, deflecting awkward questions with a disarming smile. And you’d never been so grateful for anything in your life as you were for him breaking the pattern on that random, rainy Monday morning.

"He even helped me with pathophysiology," you found yourself saying, leaning into him slightly, enjoying it. Two could play at this game.

"She didn't need much help," he replied, his voice laced with a warmth that sounded genuinely proud. It made your heart flutter. "Just someone to hold her flashcards while she made my ridiculously sweet coffee."

Your father, who hadn't said much all evening, finally smiled. "She works too hard sometimes."

"She does," Satoru agreed, his hand sliding just a fraction higher on your thigh under the table. "Though that's one of the things I admire most about her." A wave of heat rushed to your face, and you quickly looked away, focusing on a particularly uninteresting spot on the tablecloth. This is getting out of hand.

As the conversation shifted to some other topic—something about your uncle's questionable golf swing—you leaned in slightly, whispering just loud enough for him to hear, "You're awfully charming."

He leaned in closer, his voice dropping lower so that only you could hear. "Funny, you don't seem to hate it." You felt your cheeks burn even hotter now.

By the time dinner ended, your mother was completely smitten, your aunts were bickering over who would host the next family gathering (with Satoru as the guest of honor, of course), and your cousin had somehow convinced him to follow her Instagram—and had already tagged him in three separate stories.

It was all too smooth, too perfect, too real. 

The way he helped you clear the table, his hand brushing the small of your back in a casual, yet intimate touch as he passed. How he effortlessly recalled every detail you’d ever mentioned about your family, from your grandmother’s obsession with crossword puzzles to your father’s love of bad puns. The soft, lingering looks he gave you when he thought no one was watching, filled with an emotion you couldn't quite decipher.

"You're very good at this," you said as you stood side by side at the sink, washing dishes after dinner.

"At what?"

"Playing pretend."

His hands paused for just a moment. "Who says I'm pretending?"

The wine glass you were drying slipped from your suddenly nerveless fingers. You managed to catch it before it shattered on the tile floor, but not before making enough noise to draw his attention.

"Hey." His hand was immediately at your waist, steadying you. "You okay?"

"Fine! I'm fine, just—" You set the glass down carefully, very aware of how close he was standing.  When you turned to face him, you found yourself effectively trapped between his broad frame and the hard edge of the kitchen counter. "Slippery hands. From the... soap."

"Hmm." His eyes searched your face, and for a fleeting moment, you thought—you could have sworn—his gaze flickered down to your lips before returning to meet your eyes. "You know, for someone who spends all day handling hot liquids, you've seemed very clumsy tonight."

"Maybe I'm just… distracted.”

You could feel the warmth of his breath on your face as he leaned infinitesimally closer, his eyes fixed on yours. One hand came up to gently brush a stray strand of hair from your cheek, his fingertips grazing your skin, the contact sending a shiver down your spine. "By what?" 

"You're doing it again," you whispered.

"Doing what?"

"Being too convincing."

A slow, almost hesitant smile spread across his face. It was a smile that reached his eyes, a smile that felt utterly real, utterly intimate, making your heart stutter in your chest. "Perhaps," he whispered, his voice barely more than a breath against your skin, "maybe I'm not trying to convince anyone anymore."

You could feel his breath ghosting over your lips, the slight tremor in his hand where it rested on your waist, the way the kitchen suddenly felt too warm, too small, too—

"Who wants coffee?" your mother's voice carried from the dining room, making you both jump apart. Satoru cleared his throat, taking a hasty step back, his hand dropping from your waist. 

The rest of dinner passed in a surreal haze, neither of you quite able to forget the charged moment in the kitchen. What was that? You kept replaying the scene in your mind. His hand on your waist, his breath on your lips, the sudden shift in his eyes. It had felt… different. More real than any of the playacting. 

It wasn't until your aunt, after a drawn out round of goodbyes and air kisses, finally got up to leave that anyone noticed the shift in the weather. "Oh my goodness," your mother gasped, pulling back the curtains. "When did it start snowing?"

Outside, the world had transformed into a winter wonderland that would've been charming under different circumstances. At least a foot of snow covered everything, still falling heavily in thick, white sheets.

"The weather alert says it's going to continue all night," your father reported, checking his phone. "They're advising against any travel. Roads are already getting bad."

Your mother immediately switched into hostess mode. "You absolutely can't drive in this, Satoru. These roads won't be plowed until morning, at the earliest."

"I'm sure I can—" he started.

"Absolutely not," she interrupted. "You'll stay here tonight. Both of you."

You nearly choked on air. "Mom—"

"Don't be silly, dear," she said, already bustling towards the hallway. "You can take your old room, of course. It's all made up. Satoru," she called over her shoulder, "I'll go find some spare cloths for you." Then, turning back to you, she added, "And honey, you still have some things in your old room, so it'll be just like old times!"

Old times? What old times? Your childhood bedroom with those old embarrassing school photos and faded posters of your first boyband crush that you’d somehow never gotten around to taking down? This was not part of the plan. This was definitely not part of the plan.

He wasn't supposed to see that side of you.

As you counted down the seconds until you completely died from embarrassment your parents bustled off to prepare the rooms, leaving you and Satoru alone again. He leaned against the window, watching the snow fall, a small smile playing at his lips.

"Convenient weather we're having," you said suspiciously.

He raised an eyebrow. "Are you implying I somehow arranged a snowstorm?"

"At this point, I wouldn't put it past you."

His laugh was soft and warm. "As flattered as I am by your faith in my abilities, even I can't control the weather." He glanced at you. "Though I have to admit, this is working out better than my original plan of pretending my car wouldn't start."

"You're impossible," you groaned.

"So I've been told." He pushed off from the window, moving closer. He stopped just inches away, until you could feel the heat from his body. His gaze dropped—or you thought it did, your pulse quickening at the mere possibility—to your lips for the briefest of moments before returning to meet your eyes. You blinked, trying to clear your head. No, it couldn't be. "Though I notice you're not exactly complaining about the situation."

Before you could formulate a witty retort (or even a coherent thought, for that matter), your mother’s voice rang out from upstairs, effectively putting an end to whatever was about to happen. "I found some spare clothes, Satoru! And honey," she called down, "your old band t-shirts are still in your dresser!"

You covered your face with your hands. "Please forget everything she's about to show you."

"Now how could I possibly pass up the chance to see teenage you's fashion choices?" 

You peaked through your fingers to find him smirking, looking far too delighted by this turn of events. This was going to be a very long night.

⋆꙳•❅•̩❅*̩‧͙ *̩❆₊˚｡❆

"I really can sleep on the floor," Satoru offered for the third time, shifting his weight awkwardly in the doorway of your childhood bedroom. He looked around, taking in your teenage decorating choices, and you could practically hear the gears turning in his head.

"Don't be ridiculous." You tried to sound casual as you smoothed down the NASA bedsheets you'd had since high school on your small bed, that suddenly looked barely big enough for one, let alone two adults. "We're both adults. We can share a bed without it being weird."

He was quiet for a moment, and when you glanced up, you found him studying your teenage self's wall decorations with poorly hidden amusement. It was a chaotic mixture of faded movie posters (mostly featuring heartthrobs from your early teens), band posters (an ambarrasing One Direction poster taking center stage), and a poorly crafted periodic table, complete with hand-drawn elements and color-coded categories.

"Nice periodic table," he finally said.

"Shut up," you muttered, throwing a pillow at him. He caught it easily, because of course he did. "Some of us were nerds before med school."

You turned to your old closet, pulling out one of those oversized band t-shirts you'd lived in during high school. You gripped the hem of your sweater, suddenly very aware of his presence in the small room.

You could feel his eyes on you, a weight on your back, and you could feel the heat creeping up your neck. You paused, your fingers frozen on the soft knit. "Um… could you…?" you trailed off, not wanting to meet his gaze.

He didn't say anything, didn't move. You could practically feel his gaze burning into your back. Finally, you turned, holding your band t-shirt protectively in front of you. "Seriously. Turn around."

He blinked. "You know, I am a doctor. I've seen it all."

"Still," you insisted, your cheeks flushing. "Turn. Around."

He sighed, but finally turned his back, though the lingering amusement in his eyes told you he was still enjoying the situation immensely.

“You’re enjoying this way too much,” you muttered, pulling the t-shirt over your head. You smoothed it down, then took a deep breath. 

"I would never," he said.

"You can turn around now."

He turned, his face carefully composed, though a telltale twitch at the corner of his mouth gave him away. His eyes traveled from the hem of the shirt to your face, making your heart stutter. "You look… cute."

"You're a terrible liar.”

You both settled into bed with careful movements, lying rigid as boards, backs facing each other in a vain attempt at maintaining some sort of personal space. The mattress, however, had other plans. It dipped under his weight, creating a subtle slope that kept trying to draw you toward the center—toward him. 

Your childhood bed, which had seemed perfectly adequate when you were sixteen, now felt absurdly small. You pressed against the edge, but it was no use, there couldn't have been more than a few inches between your back and his. You could feel the heat of his body, warming the small space between you, his every breath, the subtle shift of the sheets when he moved.

The silence stretched, filled only with the sound of falling snow outside your window and your own heartbeat. It felt so loud, you were certain he could hear it.

"Thank you," you finally whispered into the darkness. "For tonight. For all of it. You didn't have to do any of this."

The bed shifted as he turned over. After a moment's hesitation, you did too, finding yourself face to face with him in the dim light of the streetlamp filtering through your old curtains. His hair was disheveled from the pillow, his expression softer than you'd ever seen it.

"It was fun," he said simply, his breath warm against your cheek.

A small laugh escaped your lips. "Fun? My mom interrogated you about your entire medical history, my dad made you look at his coin collection for an hour, and my cousin tried to show you every embarrassing photo of me from middle school."

"The braces years were particularly charming."

You kicked his shin lightly under the covers. "Shut up."

He grinned, the warmth in his eyes visible even in the dim light. "I mean it, though. Your family is… lively."

"That's a polite way of saying chaotic."

"They care about you. It's nice."

You studied his face, searching for the truth in his words. "Why did you really come tonight? You could have easily found an excuse to avoid this disaster of a family dinner."

"Would you believe me if I said I wanted to?"

"No," you said. "Nobody wants to spend their evening being questioned by my parents and subjected to my aunt's weird baking."

He was quiet for a moment, his eyes never leaving yours. When he spoke again, his voice was softer, more serious. "Maybe I wanted to understand you better. See where you came from. Meet the people who made you... you."

Your heart stuttered in your chest. "Why would you care about any of that?"

"Isn't it obvious?"

You stared at him, suddenly very aware of how close you were, how little space there was between you in this too-small bed. "No," you whispered. "It's not obvious at all."

"Then I must be doing a terrible job of showing you."

Your heart was racing now, your voice barely audible. "Showing me what?"

Before you could respond, he shifted, until he was hovering above you. Your breath caught at the change, at how his white hair fell forward framing his face, at how his eyes seemed to hold entire galaxies in them.

And then he kissed you.

The kiss was nothing like the casual touch of lips from before. It was soft, sweet, and achingly tender at first. He moved against you slowly, his lips parting slightly, inviting you to deepen the kiss. You met his silent invitation, your own lips parting in response. One hand cupped your face, his thumb gently stroking your cheek, while the other braced against the mattress, supporting his weight. 

Then, with a soft sigh, he deepened the kiss, his lips moving against yours with a gentle urgency that made your heart ache with a longing you hadn’t known you carried. He pulled you closer, just a fraction, the kiss becoming more urgent, more demanding, yet still laced with a surprising tenderness. 

You could feel the rapid thump of his heart against your own chest but then, just as suddenly as it began, he pulled back, breaking the kiss. He didn't move far, though, remaining close enough that you could still feel his breath on your face, see the rapid rise and fall of his chest. "Still think I'm just playing pretend?"

This time, you didn't hesitate. You were the one who moved forward, your hand sliding into his hair, the soft strands tangling around your fingers, pulling him back down to you. His surprised intake of breath was quickly lost as your lips met again.

This kiss was different—deeper, more urgent, six months of watching and waiting poured into a single moment. He made a low sound in his throat as your fingers tightened in his hair, urging him closer. 

His own hand slid from your cheek to the back of your neck, his fingers pressing gently into the sensitive skin there. The weight of him pressed you into the mattress, his warmth seeping through the thin fabric of your band t-shirt.

"I've wanted to do that since the first time you rolled your eyes at my coffee order," he said against your lips, his voice rough in a way that sent shivers down your spine.

"That long?" You tried to sound teasing, but it came out breathless instead.

He smiled against your lips. "Longer, probably." He pressed a gentle kiss to the corner of your mouth, then another to your jawline. "Though watching you try to diagnose yourself with every terrible disease I mentioned was pretty entertaining, too."

You groaned, burying your face in the crook of his neck. "You're never going to let me live that down, are you?"

"Never," he agreed, pressing a kiss to your temple. Then, quieter, more intimate, "But I've got plenty of time to make it up to you."

His lips trailed down your neck, each gentle press sending shivers through your body. When he reached the collar of your t-shirt, he paused, his fingers toying with the hem. "Can I?"

You nodded, not trusting your voice, and he slowly, teasingly, pushed the fabric up, revealing your stomach inch by inch. The first brush of his lips against your bare skin made you gasp, your fingers tightening reflexively in his silky hair.

He took his time, pressing kisses to your belly, your ribs, the valley between your breasts. His tongue darted out, tasting your skin, leaving trails of fire in its wake. Your back arched, subtly at first, but with increasing urgency as his lips and hands explored your skin.

His fingers, still toying with the hem of your shirt, finally slipped beneath the fabric. He traced the curve of your waist, the swell of your breasts, leaving goosebumps in their wake. When his thumbs brushed over your nipples, you couldn't suppress the moan that escaped your lips. "More," you whispered, the word barely audible, but he heard it, his eyes flicking up to meet yours.

"You sure?"

"Yes," you breathed. "Please."

His fingers hooked into the waistband of your sleeping shorts. Your heart raced, your skin flushed, every nerve ending racing with the promise of what was to come.

He dragged the fabric down your legs, the cool air hitting your heated skin making you shiver. He settled between your thighs, his broad shoulders forcing your legs wider, and lifted one of your legs over his shoulder, his kisses trailing down your inner thigh. And then his mouth was on you, and the world fell away. 

⋆꙳•❅•̩❅*̩‧͙ *̩❆₊˚｡❆

The next morning felt like stepping into a dream—a world where Dr. Satoru Gojo, the man you’d spent six months convinced was silently diagnosing you with rare diseases, was actually just a man utterly smitten with you.

It was as if a blurry lens had finally snapped into focus, revealing a picture so obvious you almost laughed. All those intense stares, the carefully timed coffee shop visits, the way he’d linger at your counter, even helping you study—it had never been about mysterious illnesses or professional concern. 

He’d simply been trying to be near you, and you’d been too busy inventing medical mysteries to notice.

And the most embarrassing part? How obvious it had been to everyone else. Your coworkers’ knowing looks finally made sense, as did your mother’s immediate acceptance of him as your “boyfriend.” Even his colleagues had been in on it, helping stage that ridiculous Christmas video call just to make you smile. 

When you later confessed your obliviousness to your coworkers, their reactions ranged from “Finally!” to a bewildered “Wait, you mean he wasn’t actually your boyfriend this whole time?”

Over breakfast, as he effortlessly charmed your mother into accepting a third helping of pancakes he casually dropped the bomb to your mom, “I actually rearranged my entire consultation schedule to match her shifts. I don't even like coffee."

Your mind went blank for a moment. He… what? Then, the implications crashed down on you. He’d rearranged his entire work schedule just to see you. And he hated coffee. He’d only ever ordered those sugary lattes because… because of you.

A blush crept up your neck, and you couldn't believe how adorably dense you’d been.

He met your gaze then, his blue eyes softening in that way that always made your heart flutter. Only now you understood what that look truly meant. He hadn’t been studying you. He’d been cherishing you with his gaze. He’d wanted to see you, to be near you, to simply be with you. And the realization made you ridiculously, undeniably happy.

Satoru walked over to you from where he stood next to your mom and leaned down, his breath warm against your temple, and pressed a soft kiss there. You closed your eyes, savoring the simple touch. God, you wanted more. You wanted him closer, his arms around you, his lips on yours again, just like last night.

You'll probably never get enough of that.

He pulled back slightly, his hand cupping your cheek, his thumb gently stroking your skin. His gaze held yours, a soft smile playing on his lips. Then he whispered three words that made your world stand still, "I love you."

Three little words.

But those three words little changed everything.

It felt as though time itself had stopped. He loves me, the thought echoed in your mind, a fragile, beautiful sound you couldn't quite believe was real. You’d imagined this moment countless times in secret, tucked away in the quiet corners of your heart, but you'd never truly believed it could happen.

And in that moment, surrounded by the warmth of his hand, the sweet scent of pancakes, and the soft morning light filtering through the kitchen window, you knew you’d never been happier in your entire life. 

And most importantly, you didn't have to pretend anymore. He wasn't just someone you were pretending to date for your family's sake. He was actually your boyfriend. Really, truly your boyfriend. And what had once felt like a performance suddenly felt very much like coming home.

But the best part? At exactly 7:15 the next morning, he still walked in, ordered his usual diabetes in a cup, and watched you work with those intense blue eyes. Only now, when you handed him his drink, he'd pull you close for a kiss that tasted of caramel and cinnamon.

"You know," he said one morning, watching you make his order, "for someone smart enough to get into med school, you were remarkably dense about this whole thing."

"Says the man who spent six months staring instead of just asking me out."

"I was building suspense."

"You were being creepy."

"Maybe," he said, then smilled. "But it worked, didn't it?"

And really, you couldn't argue with that. Though you did make his next latte extra sweet, just to watch him pretend to enjoy it.

After all, some things were worth suffering through overly sugary coffee for.

masterlist + support my writing

author's note — if you're familiar with a certain story on my blog, then no you didn't see this story, and this is definitely not a healthier version of another couple, and i absolutely do not have a thing for medical AUs, okay thank you.

anway, this was supposed to get spicier, but time got away from me because i really wanted to share it with you all for christmas so this is only suggestive, but i hope you enjoyed it either way. & thank you so much for reading this far !! your support means everything to me.

wishing you all a very merry christmas !! hope your holidays are filled with sweet coffee, warm embraces, and maybe even a handsome doctor of your own <3

ps: if you want to get notifications for future updates, you can join my taglist here!

tags — @fayuki @starmapz @snowsilver2000 @starlightanyaaa @sxnkuna

@cocomanga @nanamis-baker @rosso-seta @shervinss @chiyokoemilia

@janbannan @bloopsstuff

and you mean it.

so every sunday, even on a slow autumn morning like today when you both have a long extended weekend due to a public holiday... you're both up before 9. you, half awake and with no pants, and him, an apron neatly tied behind his back and his fingers covered in pancake flour.

"just saying, nami." you mumble, eyes drifting shut then open as you attempt to wake yourself up. "i'm still traumatized by seeing a practically naked man going through my cupboards late at night."

from this angle, he can count every curve and dip of your face, the golden sunlight filtering in through the slightly ajar window. it's a sight he never tires of, the way the sun seems to perfectly alight your hair in an auburn blaze, your cold arms wrapping him closer.

"again, my sincerest apologies. would a stack of banana pancakes win your forgiveness?" he teases, nudging you towards the finished stack of pancakes sitting on the stove. the smell hits you more than anything, and you look up at him with a challenging grin.

"perhaps."

setting the table is an easy, familiar routine. you straighten the napkins, unfold the tablecloth from under the sink, and grab the maple syrup from the upper counter. nanami's already brewed your coffee, kept warm in a microwave and now poured into your favorite mug. the berries for the pancakes have already been handwashed and dried in a yellow bowl, every knife and fork perfectly aligned in height on the table. and whilst you duck under him to set the plates, he's humming an old jazz tune to himself, plating the pancakes neatly in perfectly stacked circles.

you sit down first, resting your head on your hands, arms propped up on elbows to watch him move around the kitchen. he moves gracefully and effortlessly - sliding in dishes and shutting oven doors, taut muscle flexing underneath his shirt every time he reaches for something up ahead.

"you're staring." he teases, to which you playfully scoff, hands straining to try and open the bag of powdered sugar resting on your lap.

"oh, like you don't?"

you finally manage to get the bag open, only for it to go everywhere, powdery white sugar caking your face and the table. your eyes shut at the sudden explosion, only peeking them open when you feel nanami's warm fingers on your lips. he looks amused, dusts away the sugar on your lips before bringing it up to his mouth, tasting it with a knowing smirk on his face.

"well if i don't stare at you, darling, who will make sure you don't blow up our apartment with sugar?"

you pout at his good natured teasing, which is quickly remedied with a kiss - soft, sweet, a dash of bitterness from the afternotes of nanami's morning green tea. he fishes a clean hand towel from the bathroom and gently rubs the sugar off your face, being careful not to poke you in the eyes.

"next time, perhaps let me open the bag of sugar?" he teases, and you groan at him in response.

the bathroom

you hear his footsteps before you even see him.

you don't need to turn your head around to look at the clock adorning the wall to confirm your suspicisons that it's almost 10pm.

it's been another late day in the office for nanami, and his work shoes hit heavy when they fall half-hazardously to the floor, followed by the dragging of fabric (his stuffy blazer) and the soft jiggling of house keys.

he's exhausted. he's texted you hours beforehand that he'd be late, apologising profusely that he's going to be having another bento box from 711 instead of your home-cooking. he's dragging a hand down his face, fully prepared to be extra quiet to not wake you from your sleep.

to nanami's surprise, however, the shared bedroom is empty. instead, the bathroom is emitting a muted yellow glow from where the door is left slightly ajar, warm steam unfurling from the room.

"honey." your voice cuts through the dark, tired but warm, almost as if putting him in a trance. his work bag is quickly discarded on the bed, tie left loosely hanging from his neck when his feet carry him over to the bathroom by instinct.

it'a sight that nearly makes him cry with gratitude. you're in the bathtub, bubbles up to your shoulder, two glasses of white wine delicately balancing next to you alongside an assortment of skincare products.

"care to join me? please?"

nanami's suddenly wide awake, pulling the fabric from his skin at a record-breaking pace, before sinking in across from you in the bath. the hot water settles around his aching body perfectly, your legs entangling with his in the water as you come in closer towards him.

"hi." you giggle, brushing the spare bubble stuck on his chest.

"hi." he smiles at you, a light blush still coating his cheeks at the sight of you. it doesn't matter how many times he sees you naked, he always gets a bit flustered in an endearing way.

"can i pamper you?"

he blinks at you, a few times, taken back by your request.

"pamper me?"

"you know." you shrug, fingers tracing his face. "do your skincare. give you a massage. let you sip your glass of wine."

he's ready to refuse, given the time of day.

"darling, it's awfully late and i know you've had a full day of work as well, i don't want you to-"

"but i want to. please?"

and damn, when you stare up at him with that pleading tone and that sweet face, your husband is never able to deny you.

so he lets you. rub lavender oil on his back and massage his shoulders. gently apply an exfoliating face mask to his face, complaining when he tries to interrupt you by kissing you. he gets his few sips of wine in as you shuffle back and forth in the narrow tub, reaching for a variety of different scrubs, oils and serums, whilst he admires how radiant you look even at 10pm with no makeup.

"stop smiling, ken." you say aloud with your back turned to him, making him smile even wider.

"and why am i not allowed to smile at my gorgeous wife?"

"you're crinkling the face mask - it won't dry if you do that."

after the bath is drained and his face fully washed off, it's his turn to treat you.

he towels you off gently, kissing the top of your head as a thank you, and fetches you a nice change of clothes from the closet. he makes sure to fluff up the pillows on your side of the bed and closes the curtains in the room, checking the locks on the front door for the final time.

he brushes his teeth, you plug in your phone for the night, and he flicks off the remaining light in the room before climbing into bed with you. he feels you curl into his chest in the dark, quiet breaths filling in the air, as his arms tighten around your frame.

"thank you for tonight. you truly didn't need to go through the trouble." he confesses quietly into the dark, imagining how your face would be scrunching up in response.

"i wanted to." you murmur, sleep already overtaking your senses as you fight a yawn with each word. "you... you deserve the whole world, nami."

"impossible." he whispers into the crown of your head. "i already have you, love."

you're already asleep on his chest at that point, but it doesn't matter to him. heart bursting with affection and skin still smelling of lavender from the bath, sleep overtakes him too within minutes.

his smile, permanent on his lips.

the home office

"please????"

you're pulling out all the stops. his favorite dinner? already set on the table, with a homemade recipe you've been cooking since 4pm. his favorite dress on you? worn, despite the cold temperature outside. your best begging face? engaged.

and yet, your husband looks incredibly torn at your request to get a kitten, scratching his neck awkwardly whilst looking at anywhere but you.

"i... i just don't know, darling..." he trails off, hating having to deny you but wanting to stick to his principles.

"whyyyyyy?" you groan, trapping him from running away by sitting on his lap. you both fall on the couch in a quiet plop, your legs straddling him as you cross your arms across your chest. it's taking everything within him not to fold then and there.

"i've just... never had a pet before."

"well neither have i!"

"and it's a big commitment, love. lots of responsibility. time, care, affection, training, money..."

he's trying to remain logical and grounded. to apply his business tactics to his negotiations with you, for crying out loud. but two years into the marriage and you know all his little tricks and quirks. whilst his colleagues would nod and politely agree, you simply shake your head and pull on his shirt, looking absolutely irresistible whilst doing so.

"but we can do it, i know we can!"

"we both work-"

"i can work more days from home. and on the days we're really busy, i can ask shoko to catsit for us-"

"we don't know what cats need-"

"i'll read every single cat book there is and watch a ton of videos on how to raise a perfect cat!"

"cats need a lot of attention and care-"

"well." you stop rambling, a mischievous glint in your eyes as you lean forward, challenging him. "i need a lot of attention and care. and you can handle me."

he can't help but let a smirk escape at that comment.

"i suppose that's true."

"so that's a yes?"

his silence eventually graduates to a reluctant yes, and three weeks later, you're carefully holding a bundle of white fur against your chest as you sit down on the office chair. setting down the heavy supply of cat food and toys in the corner, he watches the small creature meow from your arms, its blue eyes looking up at you with such adoration that it makes his heart melt.

"i think she likes the place." you comment quietly, as the cat's small eyes dart around the room in curiosity.

"i think the real question is if she'll like me." nanami jokes, sitting across from you. the cat recoils a bit at the sudden movement, hiding under your left arm, before its small head emerges back up in the air.

"don't be silly, of course she loves you. yuki, you're such a good girl, aren't you?"

thing is, nanami should be a little peeved. that the cat tower is taking up space in his office room. that his folders and books have had to be rearranged to make space for a cat. that instead of him being in your arms, it's a small white cat, purring and lapping up your attention like there's no tomorrow.

but any sense of jealousy and annoyance just melts away at the pure joy he feels at just how happy you look, how your radiant smile widens when yuki stretches or meows or does anything.

"i need the bathroom. hold her for me?"

before he can even object, you're carefully setting down the kitten on his lap, leaving the cat to meow loudly in defiance in your absence. yuki just keeps on looking towards the direction you left the room, meowing profusely, before her voice quiets and her curious blue orbs gaze up at him. spine suddenly straightening, he feels nervous under her gaze, left hand carefully coming up to stroke her head.

"h...hello."

to his surprise, she doesn't hiss. or bite. she just stares, as if nanami's the most interestingly shaped person in the world, sapphire blue eyes staring endlessly into his honey brown ones.

she suddenly then darts up his arm, settling down on his shoulder. her claws dig into his arm, though not painful given that her claws aren't sharp. it's still enough to make him jolt, particularly when she decides that isn't high enough and makes her way up to his head. he's baffled, confused, and also scared - not wanting to move instead he accidentally hurts the small creature.

it's then that you come back and burst out laughing, much to nanami's dismay.

"please help me, darling." he says weakly, whilst you're laughing so hard that you're folded in half.

"awwww, see, i told you she'd like you!" you tease, pulling out your phone. "i need to take a photo of this for gojo."

the photo of your husband in his office - half scowling, half smiling in amusement - with a baby yuki practically falling asleep on his head, becomes your phone lockscreen for months to come.

"alright alright, you've had your fun. now please help me?" nanami tries again, practically pleading at you. it's only then that you fold, carefully removing yuki and cradling her back into your arms.

"you're a great sport, nami." you tease, kissing him quickly on the lips.

he just sighs, pulling you down onto him so that he can wrap himself around you. and when he looks at the sight of you staring at yuki lovingly, carefully bundling her in a blanket and kissing her head, a vision flashes in his mind.

you, cradling his child in his arms.

it alights something warm in his chest, fuzzy and syrupy, but he chooses to keep it to himself. his hands rub soothing circles into your skin, his smile low and constant, as he allows himself to dream.

maybe someday, he thinks.

the garden

the shared communal garden is one of your favorite things about you and nanami's current apartment.

it's spacious - cobbled paths leading to large vines of fruit and vegetables, marble benches next to glass tables, a nice shaded area surrounded by trees and a longstanding greenhouse. on a sunny spring day like today, it's perfect for when you want an escape from the inside of your house, perched outside with an iced coffee and your favorite book.

so when a shadow falls over your book from behind you, you're certain that it's nanami, having come to check on you after being out of the house for a few hours.

"hi darling." you say aloud, not bothering to look up from your book.

instead of your husband's voice, however, it's a much darker, quieter voice which responds.

"that's bold. you call every stranger that?"

closing your book shut, you nearly jump in surprise at the unexpected voice, headphones slipping down your shoulder as you look up at the stranger. he looks to be around your age, if not slightly a bit older. dark hair, sharp jaw, lean. his left hand is covered by a gardening glove, his right hand carrying the other.

"oh god, sorry about that-" you stumble over your words, feeling mortified at the mistake.

he waves you off, seemingly amused by the situation.

"nah, don't worry about it. my fault for sneaking up on a pretty girl without saying anything, hm?"

maybe it's because you rarely go out without nanami. or that you and him have practically the same friend group, all of whom know how crazy you two are for each other. or that you always have headphones in whenever you go out, blocking out the calls of the outside world.

it's been years since someone's boldly flirted with you, someone that isn't your husband, leaving you at a loss for words at his boldness.

"i... i should get going." you're flustered, quickly tucking your book under your arm as you try and stand up. only to accidentally knock the glass on the table, spilling it.

"shit."

the man only chuckles, crouching down and fetching the glass for you. you only manager to whisper a meager thank you, not able to look at him in the eyes as he holds out the glass towards you.

"name's eren, what about you?"

yikes. you hype yourself up in your head, ready to tell him that you have a husband, one that you're crazy for and would never leave.

"i-"

but before you can even say anything, there's a hurried set of footsteps and a familiar arm shooting out to pull you against him.

nanami.

his usually kind, gentle gaze is gone. replaced by something fierce, like a tidal wave about to crash into the shore, jaw clenched tight as he pulls you behind him.

"thank you for catching her glass." he lets out through gritted teeth, voice professional and taut. he's the one to take the glass from eren, steely gaze never leaving the other man's eyes. "but my wife won't need further assistance, i'm afraid."

it's only then that eren's eyes catch your wedding ring, carefully tucked underneath your shirt as a necklace, visible only when you shift and your collarbone is exposed through the gap in your sweater. eren feels foolish, and nanami feels even more protective at how the man clearly stared at your exposed skin.

"ah, sorry. i didn't know you were taken."

"clearly." nanami cuts in, whilst you grip his arm tightly at his sudden outburst.

"nanami! sorry." you give eren your best apologetic smile, trying to ease the tension. "um, it's okay eren. but as you can see, my husband-" you give a pointed look to the blonde man, who is still glaring holes into eren's head. "and i are very much still happily together."

"no worries. again, my bad for not checking."

before nanami can get another smart comment in, you're tugging him away from the garden, all warm smiles and courtesies of "have a nice day!" being exchanged in rapid succession. nanami's hand sneaks behind your back, possessively applying pressure on your skin in a way that makes you grin like an idiot.

he doesn't let up all the way down the stairs of the garden, inside the elevator to your apartment floor, not even when the front door shuts behind you two. hanging your scarf at the front door, you're barely two steps into your house when nanami spins you around and kisses you against the wall. hands gripping your waist, lips hungrily attacking yours, a small groan escaping his throat.

"that was... awfully rude of me, i know." he admits, kissing you again. "but i couldn't stand thinking about him touching you, love."

"you're awfully jealous today, nami." you tease, voice coming out hoarse from the lack of air. "i like it."

"next time-" he murmurs against your skin, lips tracing your neck. "take me to the garden with you, okay?"

"okay."

the bedroom

nanami usually cherishes his silences with you. the quiet calm at the dead of night, the comfortable quiet that settles in between the two of you on a lazy day, the unspoken affection when you place your head on his shoulder when you're tired.

but not this kind of silence.

no, instead, this type of silence - the kind that you've been maintaining for the past three hours, your inability to look at him in the eye or acknowledge his existence - is the most painful.

he's seen you mad before. of course he has. you two have had disagreements. what couples don't?

but you were furious.

so angry that the only words you'd spoken to him was demanding that he sits down on a hastily pulled out chair in the shower, rinsing the blood away from his left leg before you pulled out the first aid emergency kit from under the sink.

"i'm terribly sorry, darling." he tries, for the millionth time.

silence. your eyebrows don't even twitch, your gaze dead and empty as you methodically measure the length of bandages needed.

"i know i went against what we agreed on."

ignored. you cut into the medical tape with scissors, eyes unwavering.

"i know i must've terribly scared you when i pushed you away from the curse."

the snip-snip of the scissors cut through the icy silence, tape ripping in the same rhythm of his heart. his wife, the love of his life, is refusing to look at him. anger radiates off you in waves, and you're bandaging his wounds with an equal amount of grudge and anger.

"but i wasn't willing to risk it being you who i got injured. i couldn't." he tries pleading with you. to get you to understand, to see it from his perspective, that he'd much rather it be him than you who gets hurt-

you just snap the first aid kit shut with a loud crack, buckling the box shut before sliding it back down under the sink.

you refuse to even look back at him, instead walking off to the closet to change out of your current clothes. he winces, genuinely winces at your reaction, one shaky leg walking after another in an attempt to catch up with you.

"darling-"

you throw your clothes on the floor as if they've personally offended you, fingers hastily pulling down your comfy clothing from the clothing rack without bothering to unbutton them first.

"love-"

you walk past him towards the kitchen, grabbing yourself a cup of water. you stand motionless in front of the sink, waiting for your cup to be filled up as nanami continues to beg. yuki meows at you from the corner, your eyes lighting up at the sight of her, but strategically avoiding meeting nanami's.

"sweetheart-"

you settle back down onto your bed with yuki jumping in after you, curling into your chest as you carefully pull the covers up over you, turning the only light in the room (the lamp next to the bed) off. blinking at the sudden darkness, nanami forces down his sigh, before flicking the bedroom lights back on.

"honey-"

he finally meets your eyes, begging you to talk to him, but you just turn your body around the other way. the guttural sigh that escapes his lips is one of genuine pain, his heart breaking in two at the continued fight. he hates fighting with you. worse, he hates having hurt you, knowing that you'd had to patch up his wounds and finish off the curse yourself as he was unable to walk properly.

he wobbles over to where you're lying down, and gets on his knees.

"darling, please. you're killing me over here."

"oh, like how you almost killed yourself back there?" you spit, your tone venomous and unwavering.

"i know, i know. i fully accept that i was being reckless. not only to my own life but yours - i left you to exorcise a special grade curse by yourself because i was too hasty and got injured in the process."

"i didn't need you to jump in front of me, you know."

"i know, darling."

"oh really? then why do you consistently have to get yourself hurt? do you not trust me?"

your question drives a dagger into his chest, and he shifts closer towards you, now sitting down on the bed to look down at your crumpled face. you look halfway between shouting at him and crying, a sight he hates to see.

"what? of course not, darling. there's no one else in the world i trust more than you."

you sit up at that comment, yuki still curled up and dozing on your chest, as tears sit on the bottom of your lashes.

"then why can't you trust me to handle things by myself?"

he shuffles in closer, careful to not sit on your legs.

"it's not that i don't trust you, love, it's that..." he wrestles with himself, sighing. "knowing that you signed to be a sorcerer, that you're okay with getting hurt... i'll never be able to accept it. i mean, as a fellow sorcerer, i should, but as your husband of four years, i-"

biting down a shaky breath, he forces himself to continue.

"i'd rather die than see you get hurt." he says it with complete finality, complete conviction, meeting your watery eyes with his steely gaze.

"you could've gotten killed today, kento." you whisper quietly, as if you're scared of saying it out loud, your eyes darting away from meeting his. a spare tear escapes from your eyes which you quickly wipe away, embarrassed. "i can't tell you how terrified i felt when i saw you lying there on the dirt, your left leg bleeding and your eyes shut."

"oh darling..."

he wraps his arms around your shoulder then, your whole body starting to shake with sobs as he shakily kisses your hairline. with every kiss, he's whispering an apology, promising he'll do better, acknowledging that he's messed up.

"h-how would you feel i-if the roles were reversed, hm?" you let out through sputtered breaths. the question sends an icy chill down his spine. even the slight imagination of losing you makes him sick, a nightmare he doesn't even want to entertain.

"i've really, really screwed up darling. you may punish me in any way you find fit. but please, please..." he pulls away slightly, and pulls your chin up so your eyes meet his. "don't shut me out. anything but that."

"okay." you respond, leaning into his touch.

out of the corner of his eye, nanami can see that it's nearly midnight. smoothing down your hair, he kisses your forehead again in comfort.

"you're exhausted, love. let's sleep on this for the night and talk about it in the morning, okay?"

"okay."

"... i love you. so so much."

he's gripping you so tight, as if he's afraid you'll break into a million pieces if he doesn't.

the love is always louder than the hurt.

dining room

"do you prefer the sunflowers out in front or slightly behind the bookcase?"

it's your birthday party, and yet you're the most antsy. constantly walking back and forth, re-adjusting the balloons. rearranging the decorations, checking the fridge to pull out new snacks and put away old ones, turning your phone on and off for news of your friends.

"it's all lovely, darling." nanami tries to ease your anxiety from behind you, a warm hand reassuringly resting on your back. you look up at him, playfully glaring at him with your hands on your hips.

"of course you'd say that."

"would a good husband of five years not?"

"touche."

slowly but surely, guests begin to arrive - shoko's brought a birthday cake big enough for thirty people. geto trails in with a neatly wrapped gift and an apologetic smile at the sight of gojo, a sugar-fuelled mess with a mountain of presents balancing on his shoulders. somewhere in the blur, you notice a few school friends, old colleagues, even the really sweet elderly neighbors from downstairs who always bake you cookies.

it's a lively party, a jazz record humming in the air, people chatting over food and drinks. you're almost dizzy with how many people there are to greet, old friends and new, lots of thank yous for nicely wrapped gifts and neatly written cards.

nanami's with you through it all. sometimes, with a hand on your back, politely nodding along to conversation and taking the heavy gifts out of your hands. even when you two separate, so that you can go talk to your friends and he talks to his, you can feel his gaze anywhere in the room.

and when you look up at him, he just smiles knowingly, nodding at you in a loving way.

"how's mrs. nanami doing?" gojo teases, swinging his arm around your shoulder to pull you in close. nanami scowls but you find gojo's teasing harmless, as if he's never grown up from his teenage days when you all met.

"tired, but good."

"tired? on your birthday?" he gasps, as if what you said is scandalous. you carefully look towards shoko, one of the few people to know your secret, who just hides her grin behind her glass of wine.

"just feeling a little bit more tired than usual. haven't been sleeping well, that's all."

nanami straightens up at that comment, his face quickly crumpling in worry.

"you haven't been sleeping well? darling, you didn't mention this."

"it's nothing, i promise." you whisper back to him squeezing his head reassuringly.

"relaxxxxxxx nanami. i'm sure the mrs just needs a few glasses to chill her out, anyways. here." gojo digs through his mountain of gifts before pulling out a sake bottle. "this stuff is really expensive and really good. want me to pour you a glass?"

you shift nervously from side to side, trying to retain a neutral expression.

"oh, i'm not drinking."

gojo's eyes nearly burst out of his skull at your response.

"really? even on your birthday?" he eyes you playfully, bumping into your shoulder to coax you. "come on, just a sip."

"no, i...." you feel everyone's eyes on you, including gojo's confused ones and shoko's amused gaze, which all makes you even more nervous. nanami's stopped drinking his own glass of wine, carefully dissecting your conversation with gojo with an expression that you can't quite read. swallowing anxiously, you let out a short laugh. "look, i just... i can't."

gojo doesn't catch on, simply cocking his head to the side.

"what do you mean you can't?"

"it's not.... good for me." you pause, struggling to get through the sentence. the background chatter is still there, light jazz mingling with a cacophony of different voices - neighbors to neighbors, strangers laughing over cigarettes, someone slapping their friend on the back enthusiastically - but all you can feel is the rushing of blood between your ears, and the intense gaze of your husband which doesn't let up. "now, anyways." you nearly whisper the final part, diverting your gaze from gojo.

shoko just hides her laugh between her glass. she knows, of course. geto's expression breaks into a knowing, amused smile, whilst gojo stares at you dumbfoundedly for a few moments (needing a few seconds for the announcement to settle in). the relative peace is broken when you hear the sound of glass hurriedly being put down on the wooden table and warm hands grabbing your waist gently, spinning you around to look straight at nanami.

his honey brown eyes are cautiously hopeful, eyebrows furrowing in a mix of shock and giddiness, and his fingers are rubbing circles into your skin.

"darling, are you..."

"i'm pregnant, kento."

the blonde breaks into the widest smile you've ever seen, before he's kissing you square on the lips - strong but delicate in a way to ensure he doesn't hurt you - and you catch a glimpse of tears begging the corner of his eyes when he pulls you into his embrace.

shoko is busy taking photos of you and nanami in the moment, geto lets out a warm congratulations, and gojo is eagerly trying to hug you whilst nanami glares at him to stay back from the corner of his eyes.

"so... am i going to be the godfather?!" gojo instead decides to tease, causing you to giggle from nanami's embrace.

"this is going to be an interesting journey, isn't it?" he whispers against your collarbone, the comment only being caught by you. catching shoko's wink from over nanami's shoulder, you shrug amusedly and snuggle into his embrace.

"probably. but aren't we ready for it?"

"we sure are."

and this time, when gojo joins the hug by wrapping his arm behind you, neither of you or nanami complain.

the nursery

the house is unusually quiet when the front door clicks behind you, your boots clicking against the wooden floor as you carefully set down the grocery bags and announce your arrival. usually, you're greeted by nanami's warm voice and the babblings of your daughter, but today, it's completely silent.

nanami's shoes are still in their perfect rows on the shoe rack, his favorite coat is left untouched folded over the couch.

he hasn't left the house then, so far as you know. so where was he?

trodding up the stairs, you notice the door to the nursery being wide open and decide to peek inside.

the sight you find makes your heart melt.

nanami, in his painter's overalls, dozing off on the rocking chair with your daughter clutching tightly onto the lapels of his shirt. her toys still scattered on the floor, the bedroom walls half-way painted in baby pink, the instruction manual for a bookcase still propped up on a desk with a (now cold) cup of tea holding it down. his blonde hair slightly messy, reading glasses falling down over his nose, lips slightly parted as slow breaths coming out.

you feel your heart neatly jump out of your chest at the cuteness, fingers scrambling to dig out your phone to take as many pictures as you can.

quietly giggling, you freeze when you notice your daughter start to stir, her sleepy eyes blinking open before falling on you. before she can start crying, you run over to her quietly, carefully scooping her into your arms to not wake your husband up.

though, at the sensation of a familiar weight being lifted off his chest, nanami wakes immediately. his cheeks blushing a vibrant red when he notices you holding his daughter in your arms, realizing you caught him falling asleep in the nursery mid-way through painting.

"good morning husband." you tease, rocking your daughter up and down in your arms as nanami's blush deepens.

"good morning. my apologies, i didn't hear you get back from the store." he stands up quickly, as if remembering something. "do you need me to move anything to the fridge?"

"no, no, it's all fine. you've done enough for today, clearly."

his left arm loops around your waist and he groans into your neck at your teasing.

"enough teasing your poor husband, no? i... didn't mean to fall asleep, but amu was being quite playful today and i suppose it wore me out faster than expected." he says, sheepish, scratching the back of his neck in the most endearing way.

"hey." you look up at him sincerely, gaze melting with adoration. "you've already done a lot for the house, okay? baby proofing all the corners, buying baby supplies, assembling the furniture, painting the walls..." you kiss him gently, feeling his stubble against your face in the process. "you've done enough."

as if agreeing with you, amu opens her mouth and babbles, her eyes twinkling up at nanami as a silent form of communication. you both laugh, nanami's hands smoothing over her hair as he looks at you with a wry smile.

"it'll never be enough for me. not for you girls."

"how about i get my overalls on as well and help you finish painting?" you muse, rocking amu back and forth in your arms.

"you should be resting, darling." he frowns, fussing over you as always.

"hey, this is my house too, mister. i'd like to help it look nice too."

"it's all owed to you, darling. every single room in this house." he whispers against your lips, a sacred prayer of devotion lingering in the room. your heart melts at his confession, your head leaning back against his chest.

"... even though you've built all the furniture?"

"even so."

and despite the half-painted walls, the disorganized children's books on the floor, and the box of wooden shelves yet to be assembled leaning against the wall in the corner-

everything feels complete.

because he has you.

and the house that you two built together.

a/n: OH MY GODODODODODODDDDDD HI EVERYONE it's been so long since i posted anything (,,>﹏<,,) long story short has been that life has been absolutely insane: law school readings keep piling up, my run clubs keep me so engaged/busy and i'm learning japanese atm too!!!. i also don't think it helps that i'm a perfectionist and am incapable of writing short blurbs/fics sksksk so i had to wait until i had a good idea and could write for a while. anyways. i really like the idea of this fic, not too sure about the execution but!!!! gonna post it anyways.

also i am really excited for some of my wips... not gonna spoil too much but i am working on (1) a romeo and juliet!AU with romeo!gojo and juliet!reader (who is sukuna's sister so it's a sukuna v gojo twist) and (2) an avengers AU with captain america!nanami that i am just obsessed with.... hopefully that stuff sees the light of die before christmas (lmao) and you guys like it too. why am i so into aus atm idk. anyways. been so long since i posted my writing, a little nervous. just hope you guys like it!