By the time he gets to you, you’re prodding at the battery terminal with pure confusion, clearly out of your depth. He stops by the driver’s side fender, his shadow stretching over the engine bay and swallowing up what little light the morning offers.

"Get in and try to crank it," he rumbles, his voice still rough from sleep.

You flinch slightly, nearly dropping your keys, as you turn to find the massive mechanic who’s just materialized out of the fog. Stumbling through a rushed, embarrassed explanation about how the dashboard lit up like a christmas tree before the steering went stiff, you slide behind the wheel, fingers trembling as you twist the key. The engine coughs out a pathetic, sluggish click-click-click before dying completely.

Sukuna leans over and scans the open engine bay with narrowed eyes. He brings his hand down to the alternator, then straightens and wipes a streak of grease off on his thigh.

"Alternator's shot," he diagnoses, pinning you with a flat stare through the windshield. “It stopped charging your battery while you were driving. That's why your steering went stiff, and all those warning lights came on. Battery's flat now."

He glances down the road toward his garage, jerks his chin in that direction, then flicks his gaze back to you, waiting. "Not fixing it out here. I can tow it in and take a look, if you want.”

You blink at him, hesitation suddenly tightening your chest. He's a huge, imposing stranger with eyes that seem to see right through you. You have no clue what his garage charges, and for all you know, he’ll tow your car a few meters and hand you a bill big enough to drain your entire savings account. Biting your lip hard, you look down the foggy road toward the distant city lights, debating whether freezing out here for your usual mechanic is worth it.

"Really?" you ask, your voice thin and cautious.

"You got a better plan?" Sukuna asks, raising a skeptical eyebrow. He doesn't look like he's got the patience for a long deliberation this early in the morning.

Your eyes flick from the dead dashboard to the shutters of his garage down the road again. Waiting for your own mechanic could mean hours out here, and you’re already running late. Shoulders sagging, you let out a shaky, resigned sigh and nod. "No, not really. Okay, yeah. Please tow it."

True to his word, ten minutes later your car is hooked up to his truck and rolled right onto his hydraulic lift. He works quietly, hooking up a diagnostic scanner and testing the voltage. You stand on the side, nervously watching him work through the tangle of wires and metal, while the smell of old coolant and burnt oil fills the air.

Finally, he wipes his hands on his coveralls. He glances up, meeting your gaze with a flat, unreadable look before speaking. "Alright. It's definitely the alternator. Parts and labor, you're looking at around two hundred, maybe two-fifty if the belt snapped when it seized up."

He braces himself for the usual routine: the hesitant sigh, the defensive wince, maybe a drawn-out complaint about how expensive car parts are these days. He’s seen it all before, a thousand times over.

None of that happens, though. You just blink at him, completely speechless, like he’s started speaking a foreign language.

"Are you..." You swallow hard, eyes darting between your car and the man in front of you. "Are you undercharging me out of pity? Did I really look that pathetic standing on the side of the road?"

Sukuna freezes, and the rag stops mid-wipe against his palm. He stares at you, his brow knitting into a dumbfounded, deep scowl, entirely derailed by the accusation. "What? No. That's the price of the part and half an hour of my time. I don't do pity discounts.”

"Seriously?" A breathless, half-disbelieving laugh escapes you, as your hand comes up to press against your forehead while you try to make sense of the numbers. "My mechanic charges me a small fortune every time I bring this thing in. Like... last year I paid almost three hundred for an oil change, so I figured something that actually stopped the car from running would be..." You trail off, your eyes wandering up to the underside of a different car on the lift. "Honestly, I have no idea. Just… more."

Disbelief hardens his stare, and a sharp, sudden outrage flares in his chest at whoever’s been fleecing you, quickly followed by a heavy wave of disappointment. He can't quite believe you’d just hand over a small fortune for basic maintenance without so much as a second thought.

"An oil change," he repeats in a low rasp. "He charges you three hundred dollars for an oil change?"

"Well... yeah? And..." Shifting your weight from one foot to the other, you wince as your sneakers squeak against the slick concrete. Your hand waves uselessly in the air when you’re trying to remember the items from the invoices you received. "Some other things? He always says there are other things."

Silence settles over the garage, broken only by the steady drip of fluid into a drainage pan nearby, each drop echoing like a ticking clock.

Sukuna tosses the rag aside, leans against the workbench and folds his arms across his chest. His eyes narrow, studying you with a look that grows more troubled by the second, like you’re some puzzle that refuses to make sense.

"You know what those other things were?"

You frown, your shoulders pulling in slightly under the weight of his intense stare. "Not really."

That stare doesn’t budge, flat and unblinking, and it makes you want to sink straight into the concrete floor.

"And you paid anyway."

It's not a question, but a flat statement, paired with a slow, disappointed shake of his head that twists your stomach.

Heat crawls up your neck, embarrassment prickling across your skin. You wrap your arms tightly around yourself defensively, trying to salvage a scrap of dignity. “He’s a mechanic, so like… why wouldn’t I trust him about… mechanic stuff?”

"So you just pay whatever he puts on the invoice?"

After a beat of hesitation, your eyes flick toward the garage exit before you force yourself to meet his gaze again. "I mean..."

The irritation in him doesn’t fade; if anything, it settles in deeper. The more you talk, the clearer it gets that this wasn’t just one bad invoice. It’s a pattern.

"How long you been taking your car to this guy?"

A startled blink, caught off guard by the rapid-fire questioning. "A few years?"

A muscle jumps in his cheek as his jaw flexes. "Christ." His arms drop, one hand coming up to rest flat against the workbench behind him. "You don't know anything about cars, do you?"

You open your mouth, ready to stammer out some flimsy defense, but he cuts you off with a sharp, impatient wave.

"No, don't answer that." He pinches the bridge of his nose, squeezing his eyes shut for a long moment. "I already know." When he lowers his hand, his expression darkens. "And he knows it too. That's the problem." He takes a slow step toward you, his towering height making the small garage feel instantly crowded. "He knows you don't know what you're looking at. He knows you won’t question the invoice. He knows you’ll just nod, pull out your card, and pay whatever number he pulls out of thin air."

His words hit with bruising accuracy, uncomfortable in their honesty. Swallowing hard, you feel the bitter reality of years of being scammed settle like a stone in your stomach. Sukuna clicks his tongue, the sharp, dismissive sound echoing off the concrete walls.

"And he's been taking advantage of it, overcharging the hell out of you.” He shakes his head again, his hands clenching into fists at his sides. "It's disgusting."

—

The last clink of metal fades, giving way to the low, steady purr of your car’s engine. Sukuna lingers, listening to the alternator hum, his attention fixed on the sound until he’s sure everything is running just right. Only then does he cut the ignition and shut the hood.

At the sink, he scrubs at the thickest layer of grease on his hands and forearms, while each pass of the soap gives him a moment to stew. The whole time he’d been working on your hatchback, the audacity of your last mechanic kept simmering in the back of his mind, needling at his sense of professionalism and refusing to let go.

He dries his hands on a clean rag, then heads back to where you’re waiting by the office door. The invoice comes off the clipboard, and he holds it out to you along with your keys.

"Alright, you're good to go," he rumbles, his voice level and calm. "It was just the alternator. Parts and labor came out to two hundred, exactly like I said."

You take the keys and the paper, relief washing over you as your eyes land on the total. Exactly what he quoted. No hidden fees, no sneaky line items, no surprise charges, nothing lurking in the fine print.

Sukuna stands there, his large hands settling loosely on his hips. His gaze flicks from your face to the paperwork in your hands, brow furrowing slightly as he hesitates. Then, the words slip out before he can stop them.

“If you want, you can bring your old receipts by sometime. Dig 'em out of your glovebox or whatever." He clears his throat, the sudden offer surprising even him as it leaves his mouth. This isn’t something he does. He doesn’t take work home, and he sure as hell doesn’t do clerical charity for strangers. Still, he pushes through the awkwardness, keeping his tone flat and businesslike. "I’ll look through 'em and write down what you actually should have been paying for that basic stuff. That way you have a baseline reference sheet next time you go back to your guy, and you'll know if he's trying to pull a fast one."

There's no pressure behind his words. He leaves it entirely up to you, offering a casual favor simply because he despises seeing someone get taken advantage of.

You blink at him, completely caught off guard. You look up to his face, and gratitude cuts through your usual wall of caution.

"Really?" you ask, a soft smile breaking across your face. "You'd actually do that?"

Sukuna gives a short, dismissive shrug, shifting his weight like he’s trying to play down the gesture. "Takes me ten minutes. It's no big deal."

"Thank you. Seriously, that’s... incredibly nice of you," you say, genuinely touched by the gesture. You fold the invoice carefully, tucking it into your purse. "What day would work best for you? I don't want to interrupt your business."

Sukuna rubs the back of his neck, eyes drifting toward the calendar tacked to the garage wall as he does the math in his head. "Day after tomorrow," he decides, looking back down at you. "I usually wrap up around six. Come by then. The shop's quiet after hours."

"Six on Wednesday. Perfect," you nod, your smile widening slightly. "Thank you again. I really appreciate you fixing the car so fast, and for... well, everything else. I'll see you Wednesday."

"Yeah," he mutters, his voice dropping a fraction softer as he nods back. "See you then. Drive safe."

He stands in the open bay, watching as your hatchback backs out of the driveway and pulls into the morning traffic. Only when your taillights disappear down the street does he finally let out a low breath, turning back to his tools and wondering what possessed him to volunteer his free time to look at old paperwork.

——

Just like he promised, the shop is mostly quiet when you pull up to the garage on Wednesday. With the bay doors rolled halfway down, the usual street noise is muffled, leaving only the clink of a wrench against metal to let you know he’s still inside.

Pushing open the side door, you’re greeted by the soft chime of the bell overhead. Sukuna appears from the back a moment later, dragging a clean rag over his forearms. His crimson eyes catch yours before flicking down to the stack of papers in your hand and the box tucked securely under your arm.

"You actually found 'em," he rumbles, a faint quirk tugging at the corner of his mouth before his expression smooths back into that usual, unreadable mask.

"Every single one I could find." Stepping up to the high counter that separates the office from the shop floor, you set the invoices down and nudge the box toward him, careful not to jostle what’s inside. "And I brought this. As a thank you."

Sukuna glances down at the cardboard box but doesn’t reach for it. He folds his arms across his chest, and his brow instantly furrows into a stubborn, defensive scowl.

"I don't need cake," he snaps, voice blunt and dismissive. Shifting his weight from foot to foot, clearly uncomfortable, he looks like he’d rather be anywhere else than accepting a gift. "I fixed the alternator, you paid the invoice. We're even. You don't owe me anything."

"It's not cake. It’s an apple pie. And it’s homemade," you counter softly. Before he can get another word in, you reach out and pop the lid open, letting the sweet scent of baked apples and cinnamon spill into the grimy, oil-scented room. You shoot him a small, stubborn look that dares him to refuse. "And you're taking it."

For a split second, Sukuna freezes, his eyes darting from the warm pie back up to your face, looking completely out of his depth. The tension drains from his broad shoulders, and he lets out a low, grudging grunt, realizing he’s being difficult for no good reason.

"Fine," he mutters, reaching over. He grabs the box and carries it to the small, cluttered desk in the corner, sweeping aside a stack of part catalogs to clear a spot. Pausing, he peeks into the box again, then nudges a metal stool toward the desk for you with his boot. "Sit down. Let me wash up."

While he heads over to the sink to scrub the grit from his hands, you pull the pie out of the box. Only as you glance around the cluttered office does the realization hit you. You look down at the pie, still warm in its baking dish, then at your empty hands.

When Sukuna walks back in, drying his hands on a paper towel, he finds you perched on the stool, mortification written all over your face.

"Um," you manage, cheeks burning with embarrassment that creeps up. "I just realized... I forgot plates. And forks. I was so focused on getting the pie out of the oven and not showing up late that I didn't even think about it."

Sukuna stops, staring at your flushed face, and a slow, amused smirk tugs at his lips. He opens a filing cabinet, rummages through a plastic bin in the top drawer, and pulls out two plastic forks he clearly hoarded from a takeout order.

"Don't worry about it," he says, dragging a second stool over and settling in beside you. One fork is pressed into your hand, while he plunges his own straight into the pie, breaking off a steaming chunk. "We can eat it out of the dish. Problem solved."

A relieved laugh slips out as you take a bite for yourself. The pie is actually good—better than you hoped and the relief from that is almost dizzying. Watching this massive, intimidating mechanic quietly savor a dessert you’ve made in his own garage fills you with a sudden, unexpected warmth.

A few bites in, Sukuna reaches for the stack of invoices you brought along. He fishes a battered yellow highlighter from the drawer, uncapping it with his teeth, and drags the first sheet closer. Instantly, his whole demeanor sharpens, focus narrowing as he scans the lines of text.

"Two hundred for an air filter?" he mutters, jaw clenching so fast you can almost hear his teeth grind. Flipping the page back a little too sharply, he scans the top of the sheet, eyes narrowing. "When was this?"

"Last… three months, I think?" you offer, leaning in to peer over his elbow, the edge of his sleeve brushing your arm.

"Three months ago," he confirms, voice dropping into a dangerously low, tight register. The highlighter clicks against the paper, and a muscle jumps in his cheek. "I looked at your air filter on Monday when I was checking the belt. There is absolutely no way a filter looks that bad after ninety days of city driving. He didn't even change it. He just wrote it down and charged you for the part."

Your fork stalls halfway to your mouth. Staring at the highlighted line, you feel disbelief crash over you, cold and sharp, prickling along your skin.

"Wait... what? He just... left the old one in there?" You shrink down on your stool, while both embarrassment and genuine offense burn in your chest. "I actually remember sitting in his waiting room for an hour because he said he had to go fetch the specific part from the back warehouse."

Sukuna lets out a sharp, cynical grunt that cuts through the room and makes you wince. "Yeah. He was probably back there taking a nap on your dime." He flips to the next invoice and scoffs loudly. "A hundred and fifty for a 'diagnostic fee'? Your car doesn't even have a complex computer system. You plug the reader in, it takes two minutes. He's padding the numbers because he knows you’re not gonna question it.”

You blink, eyes glued to the number on the page, the math slowly ticking through your head. "Two minutes... for a hundred and fifty...?"

He’s working himself up again, but his eyes keep flicking to you, making sure you’re following every step of his explanation on why it's a scam. He breaks down the mechanics in plain English, laying out the real labor time versus what was billed, and you find yourself keeping pace with him, asking about parts, checkup schedules, and why on earth a single fluid could ever cost that much.

Sukuna’s highlighter hovers over a line, pausing as he takes in the questions you’re firing back at him. Whatever assumption he had about you being gullible is gone now. He sees you're not stupid or careless, just someone who did what anyone would: you trusted a professional because you didn’t have the background to know better. The way you’re sitting here, eagerly learning, determined to protect yourself, earns a flicker of respect in his eyes.

"You're tracking this fine," he says, irritation melting away into something unexpectedly gentle. "You just needed someone to actually layout the baseline for you."

"Yeah," you murmur, smiling a little self-consciously. "Nobody ever really explained it before."

Any trace of your nervousness has vanished. Settled into his office, you absentmindedly swing your legs beneath the stool, taking another bite. Eating straight from the baking tin, you instinctively leave the best pieces of crust for him. It’s a small, polite habit that doesn’t go unnoticed, and Sukuna finds it oddly endearing.

Powdered sugar dusts your thumb as you hold the dish steady while digging your fork in again, and without thinking, you lick it off while scanning an invoice. The gesture is so unselfconscious, so normal, but it catches his attention and draws his gaze to your face.

This close, he can’t help but notice the small things: the way your eyes crinkle at the corners when you’re focused on the paperwork, the little smile that appears each time you taste the pie, how small you look perched beside him. For a moment, his mind just goes completely blank.

The realization hits him square in the chest—you’re beautiful. And you went out of your way to bake a pie for him.

All at once, the office starts to smell different. The sharp tang of oil and metal slips away, replaced by the sweetness of apple and cinnamon, and beneath it all, your perfume.

You point to a line on the invoice, but his attention drifts to your hand resting next to his on the desk. His own fingers are thick and calloused; yours look impossibly soft and small by comparison. The urge to see how your hand would feel in his is so distracting he nearly loses track of what you were saying.

For a moment, the usually unshakeable and confident mechanic is thrown completely off balance, his thoughts tangling so fast he almost forgets what he’s supposed to be doing. Somehow, he keeps his face neutral, handling the rest of the paperwork with a steady voice, but underneath, panic is already clawing at him. He has no clue how he’s supposed to get your number before you walk out that door.

Hesitation or tentativeness have never been his style. If he wants something, he takes it; if he likes someone, he just tells them. It’s always been that simple. But with you leaning over his desk, a crumb of crust clinging to the corner of your mouth, something unfamiliar creeps in and stiffens his limbs. It isn't shyness—he doesn’t have a shy bone in his body, and he certainly doesn't embarrass easily. Still, this strange, careful caution settles in his bones, making every movement feel intentional and new.

For once, he actually cares about the reaction he’s going to get, and that shift in the stakes makes his usual straightforwardness feel too rough, too heavy-handed for this. The thought that messing this up could mean never seeing you again roots him to the spot, every instinct to act suddenly tangled up in hesitation. His hands feel too big, his words too blunt, and the risk of screwing this up presses in until he feels almost clumsy.

Ideas tumble through his head, each one worse than the last, none of them good enough. Sliding his business card across the desk? Too impersonal, like he’s just angling for another job. Handing over his phone and asking you to put your number in? That’s too aggressive, too much like he’s trying to corner you in his own shop. Even making up some excuse about needing to text you a follow-up on the alternator warranty feels cheap, and the idea of playing a game just to get your number makes him feel ridiculous.

The whole thing leaves a sour taste in his mouth, every option making him feel more foolish than the last. Frustration builds until his jaw aches from how tightly he’s been clenching it, tension crawling up into his temples. He can’t remember the last time he was this stuck on something so simple.

At last, he forces his jaw to unclench, loosening his grip on the highlighter before setting it down. Glancing around the cramped office, something cuts straight through his frustration. Here you are, sitting in a garage after hours with a man twice your size you barely know, just because he offered to help. You trusted him enough to walk into his shop after closing, carrying a homemade pie as a thank-you that feels so genuine it almost hurts.

The last thing he wants, and the absolute last thing his pride will allow, is to make you feel like he used a professional angle just to corner you. If he pushes for your number now, after spending an hour showing you how vulnerable you’ve been to a scam, it’ll feel like an ambush. It’ll undo every bit of safety you felt sitting next to him and ruin any chance he might have had. The thought hits him like a splash of cold water, cooling his temper.

Drawing in a sharp breath, Sukuna reaches past you for a pen resting on the clipboard. He pulls the top invoice toward him and scrawls his phone number across the margin of the page.

"Look," he rumbles, his voice steady and stripped of the chaos in his head, sliding the stack of paperwork back across the desk to you. "You're gonna have to find a new shop now or keep dealing with that idiot down the road. If he—or anyone else—hands you a quote and it feels even a little bit off, you text a photo of the invoice to that number." He taps his thick thumb against the handwritten digits on the page. "That's my personal cell. I’ll look at it and tell you if they’re trying to rip you off."

Blinking down at the paper, you’re completely oblivious to the war he just waged with himself. The gesture is so unexpectedly kind that warmth blooms in your chest and a soft smile tugs at your lips as you glance back up at him. "Are you sure? I don't want to bother you any more than I already did."

"It's not a bother," he mutters, keeping his face carefully blank even as his pulse hammers a little harder against his ribs. "Just think of it as a backup plan. I can't stand watching people get scammed."

"That… actually makes me feel a lot better. I’ll make sure to save it," you murmur, glancing up to meet his unreadable gaze. The papers fold neatly beneath your fingers before you tuck them into your bag and rise from the stool. "Thank you. Seriously. For the alternator, the invoices, all the explanation and… for the company."

"Yeah," he mutters, his throat suddenly tight as he gives a single, gruff nod. "Don't sweat it."

Once your empty baking dish is tucked back into the box, you offer him one last warm smile that squeezes his chest uncomfortably tight. He pushes himself up to walk you to the door, the bell above your head chiming bright as you step out into the cool evening air.

"Goodnight, Sukuna."

"Goodnight," he calls back, standing entirely still as he watches you walk toward your car.

The warmth lingering in the office vanishes, leaving only a cold, hollow ache in its place. Through the glass, Sukuna watches your car start up, headlights slicing through the dusk as you ease out of the driveway and disappear around the corner. The instant your taillights blink out, frustration slams into him, heavy and relentless.

"Damn it," he barks into the empty shop, slamming his hand flat against the workbench.

Never in his life has he felt this powerless. Control is what he prides himself on—knowing exactly how a machine or a situation will play out because he’s the one steering it. But right now? He’s handed over his only leverage, left the whole gamble in your hands, and the lack of control is enough to make him want to tear his hair out.

He has no name saved in his phone, no confirmation. Nothing. He’s got no way to reach you, which means he’s stuck waiting, and everything now hangs on whether you decide to text. What if you lose that paper? What if the number gets buried in your purse and you forget about it until your car dies again months from now? What if you just think he was being polite and have no intention of ever using it?

The weight of not knowing gnaws at him, driving him to pace the shop floor, muttering curses under his breath for being so damn careful.

Two hours later, fresh from the shower, he sinks into the couch with a cold beer he hasn’t even opened yet. Usually, Sukuna finds the quiet of his apartment a relief after a day spent surrounded by noise, but tonight the silence feels heavy and irritating.

His phone lies face-up on the coffee table. By ten, he’s already picked it up and set it down more times than he cares to admit, each glance met with nothing but the glow of the lock screen and the relentless crawl of minutes. By eleven, frustration curdles into something uglier—doubt.

Doubt isn’t something he’s ever felt before, but alone in the dark, his mind starts tearing apart every second of that hour you spent in his office. The memory of your shoulder brushing his lingers. He can still hear your laugh when you realized you’d forgotten the plates, see how easily you followed his explanations, and how you smiled. He’d been so sure there was something there. He’d bet on it.

But as midnight approaches without a single vibration, his thoughts twist, turning defensive and sharp. Maybe he’d read the whole thing wrong. His brow knots as a heavy, sour thought appears and settles right in his gut. You didn’t feel a connection. You were just being polite, bringing an apple pie to thank a mechanic for doing his job. Sitting on that stool, chatting with him, you were just well-mannered, not interested. He’d blown it all out of proportion, let himself believe there was a spark when, to you, he was just the guy who fixed your alternator and handed out some advice.

—

Sukuna arrives at the shop in the worst mood humanly possible. Sleep barely touched him last night, and whatever patience he might have had for the rest of the world has been ground down to nothing.

Fingers curling around the cold iron handles, he wrenches the shutters up, and metal slams against the top of the frame so hard the glass windows in the office rattle. Not that he gives a damn. His jacket lands carelessly on the hook as he storms inside, and the paper coffee cup hits the workbench hard, sloshing the dark liquid over the plastic lid. It tastes like battery acid, but he drinks it anyway, needing the bitterness to match what’s inside of his chest.

He sets his personal phone right at the edge of the workbench, telling himself it’s just so it won’t get crushed in his pocket while he works. He knows that’s bullshit. Each time he reaches for a tool or crosses the bay for another socket, his gaze flicks back to the black screen, searching for a flicker of light that stubbornly refuses to appear.

Around nine, the shop's cell rings, echoing through the empty bay. Sukuna’s heart lurches, a ridiculous, frantic leap before his brain can rein it in—maybe you lost his number but found the shop’s online. The wrench clatters to the floor as he strides into the office, snatching the phone off the desk with a grip that’s just a little too tight.

“Ryomen’s Automotive," he grunts, his voice a rough, impatient gravel.

"Hey, man, just checking if you got those brake pads in for the pickup?"

Disappointment slams into him right beneath his ribs. His jaw locks, knuckles whitening around the mobile. "Yeah. They’re here. Come get 'em," he snaps, hanging up before the customer can get another word in.

Storming back into the bay, he grabs up his phone and shoves it deep into his pocket, as if that’ll keep the urge to check it all the time. The impact gun roars as he goes after a stubborn lug nut, the booming racket finally loud enough to drown out the chaos in his head. That’s it. He’s done checking. If you haven’t texted by now, you’re not going to. You probably tossed the paper, and he needs to get over it.

By one, Sukuna is elbow-deep in the greasy undercarriage of an old sedan, forearms streaked with black smears, his expression locked in a scowl so forbidding that even the delivery drivers have been giving him a wide berth all day.

He’s just reaching for a torque wrench when his phone vibrates on the workbench.

Bzzzt.

The sudden vibration catches him off guard, freezing him mid-reach. For a moment, he doesn’t move at all, letting the faint clicks of the cooling engine overhead fill the silence. It’s probably just spam, he tells himself. Or some useless data plan alert. Or a wrong number.

Peeling off his gloves, he slides a hand into his pocket, pulls out the phone, and swipes the screen awake. There’s a text from an unknown number—except the first line of the preview makes his chest seize up.

[You]: Hey! Sorry for the late text, I didn't want to bother you last night since it was way too late. Just wanted to send this so you have my contact too. Thanks again for looking through those invoices with me, the pie was a small price to pay for saving my bank account!

OH THANK FUCK.

Relief hits him in a bone-deep wave, draining the tension from his shoulders. He draws in a slow breath as he stares at the words glowing on the screen. It takes a moment for his brain to catch up and register the gap between his own spiraling and your ridiculously polite message. You were just being considerate, that’s all.

Clearing his throat, he uses a clean patch of his forearm to wipe the grease off his thumb before he even thinks about typing. Something clever would be good, something that proves he’s not rattled by any of this, but his fingers feel thick and awkward on the keys. Finally, he settles for something short that won’t give him away.

[Sukuna]: No worries. Pie was great, by the way. Just let me know if you get any more of those invoices.

He taps send, eyes glued to the delivery confirmation, then instantly adds the number to his contacts. Your name appears at the top of the chat, and for the first time all day, a smirk tugs at his mouth, breaking through the hard set of his jaw.

The phone disappears back into his pocket, and he turns to the sedan on the lift, with a jolt of energy running through him. As he grabs his wrench, the reality of the situation hits him from a completely different angle: you texted just to be polite and acknowledge the professional favor, and he just capped his own response by telling you to let him know if you get more invoices, boxing himself right back into being the helpful mechanic. Now what? How is he supposed to ask you out without trampling all over the boundaries you just so carefully respected?

By Friday night, that pitiful text thread on Sukuna’s phone has become a full-blown obsession. Sitting on a kitchen stool, he ignores the bowl of dinner going cold on the counter, his attention fixed on the glow of his screen. The chat is as embarrassingly short as it was the previous day: your polite thank-you, then his own awkward reply about the pie.

With a low, frustrated rumble in the empty apartment, he taps the empty text box. He’s never had to plan a conversation in his life, but suddenly, the weight of actually caring what you think drags every word through mud.

Hey, you free this weekend?

He glares at the five words. The line looks all wrong, like something a teenager would send on a dating app, hovering over his phone, waiting around for a girl he barely knows to throw him a bone. Sukuna is a grown man; he doesn't do vague, open-ended checking-in. And if you say no, or tell him you have plans, that’s it. Conversation over. No way to push back without looking like a desperate idiot.

Worse, you texted him because he'd offered to help with invoices, not because you'd expected him to use your number for anything else.

"Don't be a fucking asshole, Sukuna," he mutters.

With a heavy, irritated sigh, he holds down the backspace key until the box is wiped clean.

Saturday evening drags in after a brutal ten-hour shift, wrestling with stubborn leaf springs and rusted exhaust bolts. As he’s slumped on his couch with a cold beer in his hand, his muscles ache, but his mind is still stuck on the same loop. He pulls out his phone again and opens the chat. All he needs is an excuse—something car-related, since that’s the only ground you both actually somewhat share.

Let me know if that alternator’s making any noise.

His thumb freezes before he can hit send, and he scowls at the message, a sharp spike of professional irritation cutting through the haze. If the alternator was making noise, that would mean he’d screwed up the belt tension. He knows it’s perfect. He checked it twice before you left the bay. Asking about it now is basically calling his own work sloppy, and his pride won’t let him insult himself just to get a text back. With a shake of his head, he deletes the line and takes a long pull from his beer, trying to rework the phrasing, still clinging to the car angle but making it less about his own hands.

Make sure you check your oil this week.

He drags his hand over his face, catching himself immediately. If he sends that, he’s just barking orders at a customer who already admitted she doesn’t know a thing about cars. It sounds bossy, too gruff, and leaves you nothing to say except a flat agreement. 

"What the fuck am I doing?" 

He clears the text box again and tosses the phone face down onto the cushion beside him, ready to bang his head on the wall.

Monday night is the worst. The silence of the last few days feels like a personal insult. Standing by his kitchen window, looking out at the dark street, he’s completely fed up with his own uncharacteristic hesitation. He’s Sukuna. He doesn’t sit around overthinking a three-line message like some awkward kid. Enough. He’ll just give it to you straight, no games or professional excuses. He snatches the phone off the counter and types, fingers jabbing at the screen.

I'm heading to the diner by my shop for lunch tomorrow. Come with me.

He stares at the message, breathing heavier as his thumb hovers over the blue arrow. For a split second, he almost hits it. But then your reaction flashes through his mind—opening your phone and seeing a blunt lunch demand from the mechanic who fixed your car last week, suddenly wondering whether the man who seemed so put-together had been working an angle the whole time.

"No. That's fucking creepy."

He’s completely trapped by his own respect for you, stuck suffering the consequences of having zero organic reason to reach out. He can rebuild a transmission blindfolded, but figuring out how to move a text thread from professional advice to I want to see your face again without being an asshole? That breaks his brain entirely.

A low, bitter curse slips out as he clears the message. He throws the phone onto the kitchen table, furious that one person has managed to jam his gears so completely without even lifting a finger.

“Pathetic,” he mutters, rubbing the bridge of his nose.

By Tuesday afternoon, the frustration has cooled into a quiet, stubborn determination. Leaning against the workbench during a lull in the shop, he stares at your name in his contacts. One more try to find a middle ground that feels natural but actually gives him an opening.

Found another complaint about that shop online. Thought you’d wanna see it.

Sukuna deletes it before he even finishes the sentence, dragging his hand down his face. Thought you’d wanna see it. He sounds like he’s trying way too hard to find an excuse to talk to you. It’s not a lie, but he’d rather die than let you catch on.

"For fuck's sake."

By Wednesday afternoon, Sukuna’s completely done with himself, and he’s become absolutely insufferable to be around. Leaning against the tool board, he glares at the calendar pinned crookedly to the office wall, his thumb drumming a relentless rhythm against his thigh.

Every scenario he plays out in his head ends with him looking like an idiot. If he’s going to make a move, it has to be on his own terms, in his own space, where he actually knows what the hell he’s doing. Turning back to his tools, he forces himself not to spiral into another round of pointless drafts. Finally, his mind clears—he doesn’t need a smooth pickup line. He just needs a real, professional reason to get you back in the garage. Maintenance. That’s it.

I’m closing up the shop tomorrow around 6. If you wanna swing by, I can show you how to check your fluids and oil so you aren’t just guessing. No worries if you’re busy.

He stares at the message for a moment. There. Completely professional. Nobody in their right mind could mistake that for flirting. Another second passes. Perfectly reasonable text to send a customer.

With that, his thumb slams the send button, heart thudding stupidly against his ribs. The phone disappears deep into his pocket as he turns back to his tools, pulse racing, completely irritated by his own anticipation and already hooked on the slow, torturous wait for your reply.

Meanwhile, you’re at home, finally sinking into the couch after a long day, when your phone buzzes against the coffee table. His name flashes across the screen, and your heart gives a small, unexpected flutter. You read his invitation twice, and a soft smile tugs at your lips. Fingers hovering over the keyboard, you tap out your reply, keeping it light and trying to match his tone.

[You]: I'd love to! Need me to bring anything? (I promise I'll actually remember the plates this time if there's food involved!)

Down in the garage, Sukuna’s been organizing the same shelf of oil filters for the last four minutes, trying to distract himself, when his pocket finally vibrates. He freezes mid-reach. He deliberately finishes placing the last filter on the rack, forcing himself to move at a normal pace, refusing to look like a lunatic even to his own reflection. Only then does he step back, dig out his phone, and unlock the screen.

Reading your text, the tight, stubborn knot in his chest unravels all at once. Relief hits so fast it’s almost dizzying, and a rush of heat crawls up his neck. You didn't say no. You didn't find an excuse, you didn't think it was weird, and you explicitly said you'd love to come back. And that little joke about the plates instantly crumbles the remaining walls of his stubborn frustration.

A massive, genuinely victorious smirk spreads across his face, eyes crinkling at the corners as a low, rough chuckle rumbles out of his chest. Energy surges through him, ridiculous and electric, like he’s just rebuilt a blown engine in record time.

Then his gaze snags on that last sentence, and his thumb freezes over the keyboard.

Food. You’re asking about bringing food.

For you, it’s testing the waters for a little more time together. But to him, it's enough to send his thoughts careening straight off the rails of the maintenance lesson and into a chaotic spiral of logistics. Does he buy something? Does he tell you to bring something? If he says no, does that mean you’ll just learn how to check a dipstick and drive away immediately after? He doesn't want you to leave. He wants you back on that metal stool, right where he can see you.

Pacing a short line next to the workbench, he types out a response, frowning as he slams straight into a wall of overthinking that’s completely foreign to him: I’ll grab some burgers. No, that’s too much like a date. Don't worry about food. No, that sounds like he doesn't want to eat with you at all. Or worse, you’ll eat before you come, and he’ll miss his chance entirely.

Frustrated with his own hesitation, he deletes the drafts, grunts, and decides to handle it the only way he knows how: blunt and completely practical.

[Sukuna]: Just bring the car. I’ll order a pizza. Pepperoni alright?

He hits send, tossing the phone back onto the bench with a sharp exhale. The message is demanding, a little aggressive, and leaves zero room for negotiation. Still, it guarantees you're staying for dinner.

A wide grin splits his face as he spins around and surveys his empty shop, eyes scanning the bays with sudden, critical focus. Twenty-four hours. That’s all he’s got to make sure his office looks halfway respectable before you walk through the door.

—

Rolling into the gravel driveway with five minutes to spare, you idle near the entrance just as the side door swings open and Sukuna steps out into the cool evening air. He’s in a plain black tee stretched across his broad shoulders and dark grey sweatpants. The change catches your eye immediately because he looks ridiculously good out of his coveralls. You can’t help but wonder if the wardrobe swap was just a coincidence, or if he actually cared about making a good impression tonight.

He walks over to the front of your car, waving his hand to guide you forward. "Bring it straight into the second bay," he calls out.

Following his gesture, you shift into drive and ease the car forward into the bay. The engine clicks softly when you shut it off, and as you step out, Sukuna’s already at the front bumper, nodding at you.

“You’ve made it," he rumbles, stepping up to pop the latch and lift your hood into place with a practiced, heavy thud.

"Told you I would," you say, glancing over the open engine bay with curiosity. "So, where are we starting? Am I going to get entirely covered in grime?"

Sukuna lets out a low, amused huff, a ghost of a smile playing on his lips, and pivots toward the rolling tool cabinet. "Not if I can help it."

He reaches into a cardboard box on top of the cart and pulls out a pair of thin, black single-use gloves. His size is impossible to ignore when he steps in close, suddenly crowding the space, and hands them over.

"Put these on first," he instructs, his gaze locking onto yours for a heartbeat. "The alternator's fresh, but everything else under that hood isn’t. No reason for you to ruin your hands."

You take the gloves, smoothing the black rubber over your wrists before looking up at him with a playful smile, tilting your head. "Very thoughtful. I didn't think a tough mechanic like you cared about a little dirt."

"I don't care about it on me," Sukuna mutters. His eyes linger on your hands for a second before he jerks his gaze back down at the engine bay, clears his throat, and points into the tangled mess of metal and hoses. "Alright, come here. We’re skipping the basic fluid check—you’re smart enough to know how to read a dipstick. I want to show you more interesting stuff."

Stepping in close, you slide the gloves over your hands, your shoulder brushing his for just a second. It's barely a touch, but enough to make both of you hyper-aware of the space you share.

"See this belt right here?" Sukuna asks, leaning over the grille. His deep voice drops into a steady, confident cadence as he gets into his element. "This is your serpentine belt. In case someone tells you it’s about to snap, I'll show you how to check the tension yourself, and how to spot actual dry rot versus regular wear."

He tugs on his own gloves, then reaches down. He navigates the cramped space around the engine block with ease, and you find yourself briefly distracted by the contrast between the size of his hands, the precision of the movements, and how gentle they look as he grips the heavy rubber belt. Then, with a twist, he exposes the underside to the light.

"Get your hand in right here," he says, glancing sideways at you, his eyes dark and intense in the low light. "Feel the edge of the rubber. Tell me what you notice."

For the next hour, Sukuna guides you through a standard oil change, patiently talking you through each step. He doesn't do the work for you; he has you reach beneath the chassis with a socket wrench to feel the exact point of resistance on the oil pan drain plug, his hand covering yours to adjust the angle, explaining the difference between a secure seal and stripped threads.

When he shows you a spark plug, he holds the tiny ceramic piece beneath the shop light, pointing out the faint color differences that separate a healthy engine from one that's burning fuel too rich.

All the while, Sukuna stays at your shoulder, keeping you grounded. Each time your gloved fingers falter over a stubborn clamp or an unfamiliar valve, his hand is there, nudging your wrist or guiding it with a confidence that makes it impossible to feel foolish. He answers every question thoroughly without a hint of impatience, pleased with your curiosity. By the time you peel the gloves from your hands, the machinery that once felt so intimidating is just a puzzle you’ve learned how to solve, and the satisfaction settles deep in your chest.

A sudden chime of the office bell cuts through the quiet, shattering the spell. Sukuna pulls his hand back from the engine block, his head snapping toward the front door.

"Pizza's here,” he rasps.

He strips off the gloves, tossing them in the trash before heading to the glass door to pay the delivery guy. You follow suit, peeling yours off and grabbing the plates you stashed in your trunk earlier. Stepping into the dim office, you find Sukuna already setting the steaming pizza box dead center on his desk.

"Look at that," you tease softly, sliding the plates onto the desk. "Real plates this time."

Sukuna glances down at them, and a faint, genuinely amused smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth.

"Fancy," he mutters, eyes flicking up to catch yours for a split second before his hand moves to the cardboard lid. “Bringing the good stuff to a garage."

The moment he flips the lid open, the rich, savory scent of hot cheese and pepperoni floods the room, instantly smothering the stubborn trace of motor oil that still clings to the air. He slides a massive, steaming slice onto your plate before grabbing one for himself. "Eat up before it gets cold."

For the first twenty minutes, conversation just flows easily, and to his immense relief, not a single word about car parts comes up. You ask about the shop, how long he’s been running it, and whether he always wanted to be a mechanic. He tells you how he likes working with his hands, how machines make sense in a way people never do, because if something’s broken, there’s always a reason, and always a fix.

After a while, Sukuna starts tossing questions your way. One answer leads to another, and before long you're deep in a story about that trainwreck project at work and the latest chaos your friends managed to stir up over the weekend. He doesn’t interrupt, his crimson eyes fixed on your face, watching your eyes crinkle with laughter, how your hands sketch wild shapes in the air, and the tiny smile that sneaks out when you mention your friends.

Some part of him is convinced this should be awkward. Or, at the very least, harder than this. But it feels completely natural, and before he knows it, he’s talking more than he ever does. And that’s exactly when the invisible trap closes right back around his throat.

Ask her, his mind orders, the thought landing in his chest with a sudden, heavy thud. Eight words. Do you want to go out with me? Just say the damn words.

You finish your slice and lean back a little on your stool, thumb brushing a stray crumb from your lower lip without thinking.

Do it now. She's sitting right here. She likes talking to you. Just open your stupid mouth and ask for a real date.

Sukuna shifts his weight on the metal stool as his large hand tightens around his napkin.

Don't be a coward. It's a question, not a marriage proposal.

He opens his mouth, but his throat locks up tight. He isn't actually afraid of hearing the word no—he has plenty of pride, but a rejection wouldn't break him. What paralyzes him is the fiercely protective boundary he’s drawn around you in his own head.

And then what? She realizes the mechanic who helped her has been working an angle the whole time?

He’s desperately trying not to abuse the trust he’s built with you. The sheer weight of wanting to keep this clean and respectable for your sake completely jams his gears.

"Hey," he blurts out anyway, his voice a little rough, cutting right through the middle of whatever you were saying.

You pause, blinking at him with curious eyes. "Hm?"

Sukuna freezes as his brain goes completely blank again under your direct gaze. His eyes drop to your mouth, staring at the soft curve of your lips in the dim light of the desk lamp, his mind scrambling for any kind of escape hatch.

For fuck's sake, Sukuna. You've started already. Just finish it.

Instead, his throat stays bone dry, jaw clenching so hard a muscle jumps in his cheek. The words just refuse to come, and the surge of internal fury that follows nearly knocks him sideways.

“Never mind.”

You study him for a long moment, and a small, knowing look flickers in your eyes as you set your crust down on the plate.

"Well," you say softly, with a playful little tilt to your head. "I guess I officially know enough about drive belts now. At this rate, I won't have an excuse to bother you anymore."

The words hit like a bucket of ice water. The thought of you just fading back into the real world, never showing up at his garage again, triggers a raw, defensive panic that steamrolls right over his hesitation.

"You don't need car trouble to stop by," he quickly says.

It comes out too blunt, his voice rough and a little too sharp in the quiet room. He winces inside, bracing for you to pull away, but you just look at him, a soft, slow smile spreading across your face.

"You know," you murmur, your voice dropping into a gentle, teasing tone as you lean just a hair closer over the edge of the desk. "Most people just ask for a date."

Sukuna goes utterly still. The words hang in the air, and the silence that follows is so thick you can hear the faint, steady hum of the fluorescent bulb overhead. He doesn’t answer right away—he can’t. The gears in his brain lock up as he stares at you, completely stunned that you’ve just outmaneuvered him without even trying.

But then the sheer absurdity of it all hits him, and the tension in his chest snaps like a rubber band.

A low, rough chuckle shakes his chest, half frustration, half pure captivation. He drops the crumpled napkin onto the desk, and suddenly his eyes are burning with that hyper-confident heat he’s been holding back all week. The cautious, hesitant mechanic is gone in a blink.

"Yeah?" he rumbles, his voice dropping an octave.

Before you can blink, he closes the distance between the stools. That massive hand of his finds the back of your neck, thick fingers curling gently, thumb pressing into the warm skin along your jaw. His sheer size blocks out the rest of the office, casting you in his shadow as he leans down, tilting your face up to meet his gaze.

His eyes drop to your mouth, and the intensity of his stare makes your breath catch.

"Been trying real hard to be polite all week," he mutters with a wicked smirk right against your lips, tracing a slow line along your jaw with his thumb. "But you're entirely right. I'm taking you out tomorrow night."

He pauses, giving you one last chance to pull away if you want to. When you don't move, matching his smirk with one of your own, he closes the last bit of space without a single shred of hesitation.

The moment his lips meet yours, a ragged breath escapes him, a sound so raw it sends a shiver tearing down your spine. He’s been starving for this all week, and the force of it knocks the air from both your lungs.

Sweet vanilla and tobacco from his perfume flood your senses, drowning out everything else. Sukuna tastes exactly like he smells: warm, intense, and utterly intoxicating. Any coherent thought vanishes beneath the rush of it. Your hands find the soft cotton of his shirt, fingers twisting the fabric at his chest and bunching it tight in your fists as you pull him closer. Every bit of hunger he pours into the kiss, you give right back.

Feeling you lean in and your hands on him, a low, gravelly groan rumbles from deep in his chest. His grip at the nape of your neck tightens, thick fingers slipping higher into your hair until they're tangled in the strands at the base of your skull, leaving no room for doubt about how badly he's wanted this. His other hand leaves the desk, sliding up to cup your face, calloused thumb sweeping hard over your cheekbone as he tilts your head back, searching for a better angle.

Slow, insistent pressure parts your lips, and his mouth moves over yours in a rhythm that makes your head spin. The heat pouring off him is overwhelming, swallowing up the entire office until there's nothing left but his lips and the rough drag of his hands against your skin.

Sukuna pulls back just a fraction, barely a breath of space between you, so you can both drag in ragged breaths. Eyes closed, his forehead drops against yours while his chest heaves. But staying away isn’t an option. He leans right back in, catching your lower lip between his, sucking on it with a slow pull that rips a quiet gasp from your throat.

That deep drag is followed by a series of quick, hot pecks—one to the corner of your mouth, another firm press at the center of your lips, and finally a lingering kiss that seals your mouths together all over again.

Every tiny, breathless break just makes him hungrier. He presses in deeper, tongue tracing the shape of your lips, completely taking over the pace. Your heart hammers stupidly against your ribs, your body turning to liquid on the metal stool, kept upright only by the iron grip of his hands. He’s kissing you like he wants to leave a permanent mark, making up for an entire week spent talking himself out of this.

Even when he finally tears his mouth away, he refuses to let you go. His breath comes in short, heavy rasps that tangle with your own, crimson eyes fluttering open to find you—dark, hooded, and completely blown wide as he stares at your swollen lips. His thumb sweeps over your lower lip, wiping the dampness away with a slow, heavy pressure that makes your chest ache.

For a moment, neither of you says a word. The office is silent except for the sound of both of you trying to catch your breath. His chest rises and falls close to yours, and you can feel the lingering warmth of him, the tension that hasn’t left either of your bodies.

A smirk slowly tugs at the corner of his mouth. He savors the silence every bit as much as the kiss itself.

“Text me your address,” he rumbles, his voice incredibly low and rough. His hand is still tangled in your hair, fingers threaded deep enough that when you instinctively try to lean back and get a better look at him, his grip tightens just enough to stop you. It isn’t rough, but it’s firm, keeping you exactly where he wants you as his fingers shift slightly against your scalp. “And be ready at seven.”

Blinking up at him through the haze of the kiss, you tilt your head as much as his grip allows, brows lifting as you study him. The corner of your mouth twitches, caught somewhere between amusement and disbelief.

"Pretty sure that wasn't a question, Sukuna."

His smirk deepens as he looks down at you, completely unfazed by your tone. That arrogant confidence in his eyes is impossible to miss now, and somehow it only makes your stomach flip harder.

"Neither was taking you out tomorrow night," he murmurs.

You don’t bother answering. Instead, your fingers curl tighter into his shirt as you drag him down, crushing your lips into his. He chuckles deeply into the kiss as his hands slide from your face to your waist. Before you can think about what he's doing, he's pulling you off the stool and into his lap. Deepening the kiss, you bury your fingers in his hair, drawing a low groan from him that sends a shiver racing down your spine and straight between your legs.

notes:

> sukuna: somebody has been scamming this woman > sukuna: she baked me a pie > sukuna 5 minutes later: i need her phone number or i'm going to lose my fucking mind

Whatever Etsy witch he paid to ruin your life would have been hunted during the Salem witch trials because you never find peace following the breakup. You find out he’d been cheating on you with a plethora of girls, you find out the lady living in the apartment next to yours is moving out, and worst of all, you find out the free elective course you enrolled in specifically to take it easy gives you an assignment on love.

ARTS505: Screen Media Practice Assessment 1: Observational Short Film — “Love” Weighting: 30% Due: Friday, 11:59 p.m. Length: 3–5 minutes For this assessment, students are required to produce a short observational film responding to the theme of love.

Go fuck yourself.

The day your neighbour next door moves out, you tear up at the news and let her believe it’s because you’ll miss her and not because you’re terrified her replacement won’t be nearly as forgiving.

Because she smiles when you run into her at the bottom of the staircase and gives you small containers of food, nagging you in the way old women do about eating healthy and sleeping early. To her sweet, unassuming face, you tell her you will though you won’t, and she’ll nod like she believes you and tells you she’ll try to keep it down, kindly avoiding the fact that she can hear you wail at atrocious hours in the night when you’ve assumed everyone has already fallen asleep.

She understood the highs and lows of being a newly single woman in this current social environment. But whoever moves in next? You’re not so sure will.

Okay, so maybe you do miss her.

Because you find out someone new has moved in from the heavy thumping of feet crossing the floor, the thuds of boxes dropped onto the floorboards, the vibrations seeping into your own floors. It seems Naoya’s Etsy witch still has their grip on you because your new neighbour is horrible. They play loud music in the morning, the afternoon, late at night, usually right when you have convinced yourself that this night you will finally get eight uninterrupted hours of blissful sleep. Thuds, banging, thumping, any onomatopoeia, your neighbour has done it.

Sometimes, they leave a pair of sneakers outside their door for two whole days, directly in your path to the stairs, so you have to step around them every morning. Their moving boxes sit in the hallway for so long they might as well be furniture, and you’ve started dumping your tote on the tower of them whenever you dig around for your keys. Packages get delivered to your door instead of theirs. They seem to always be ordering DoorDash, too, the scent of something sugary-sweet seeping under your door until you start craving DoorDash yourself. 

It’s even worse today. You’d come home with groceries instead of takeout, washed your bedsheets for the first time in a long while, lit a candle called Midnight Sunset, and sat down at your desk with the firm intention of brainstorming your film assignment.  Then, from the other side of your bedroom wall, your neighbour starts assembling what can only be a large, flat-packed piece of furniture. For forty minutes, there is nothing but the intermittent scrape of wood, the clattering of metal parts, occasional low murmured curses, and one very loud crash that caused the floorboards to tremble, along with all the tiny screws that rattled in an echo. By the time the banging finally stops, your candle has burned unevenly, your tea has long gone cold, and the only thing written under love film ideas is: ‘kill him’.

shoko: utahime and i are heading to the library to lock in we’re inviting you so you can’t say shit like there’s always a duo in a trio but don’t actually come we’re probably gonna js make out

you: ?

utahime: she’s joking we’re going to study

shoko: booo u whore you’re a cockblock y/n

you: i literally didn’t do anything if anything utahime is cockblocking you but i’ll come if ygs are actually studying i need a fucking break

shoko: we aren’t

utahime: we are shut the fuck up shoko oh my god

shoko: whats with u y/n u sound grouchy

you: im going to kill my new neighbour hes playing shit music through the wall like i miss the old lady so bad

shoko: you really gotta complain to the landlord or smth

you: hell no im not a snitch

utahime: ure weirdly compassionate abt the wrong things hows the assignment going?

shoko: teacher teacher! im snitching!

you: ? do u want me to snitch or not and its not going good at all how can i think about love when theres someone playing phonk in my ear at 6pm on a random tuesday afternoon?

shoko: have u even seen this person?? go up and give them a piece of ur mind or smth also come lib

you: give me a sec i might ive never seen them though theyre usually out at weird times and doesnt really sleep in their own room ?? but what if its a 40 yo gymrat and i get bodied

utahime: yeah thats actually scary write a note or something

shoko: and then come library

you: give me fifteen minutes

Perhaps Shoko’s insistence on going to the library is contagious because you’re suddenly eager to rip out a piece of paper to spill just how much you appreciate phonk in your ears to your neighbour. Or maybe you really just want to tell your neighbour to die.

It starts off innocently enough, the last of your patience allowing kinder words and a light reminder that your neighbour isn’t the only one living in this creaky, ancient building. But then it gets to you, the music, the thudding, the inability to remove laundry from the laundry machine appropriately, and you find you’re pressing the lead of your pencil deep into the paper until it almost leaves a mark on the table beneath.

You heave out a breath of pure catharsis and read it over, giving it an approving nod. This will certainly do.

Then, with your heart much lighter and a perk in your step, you sling your tote over your shoulder and head for the door. Instead of walking to the elevator after you’ve locked up, you make a small detour to your neighbours door and bend down to slide the letter under their door.

There, problem fixed.

With a smile, you turn and walk to the library, oddly lighter for it.

Shoko and Utahime thankfully do not make out the entire time you’re at the library. Unfortunately, they’re still Shoko and Utahime and the three of you waste time gossiping about the high school dead horse that just broke up again instead of doing anything productive. Your document for planning your films remains as empty as ever, only now it’s been shared to two email addresses so they can witness your writer’s block unfold in real time.

By the time you drag yourself back from the library, night has already settled in and you have to use your phone’s flashlight to illuminate the path to your building. The hallway is hushed in that apartment building kind of way, distant television laughter, pipes clinking somewhere behind the walls, the hum of someone’s microwave. You’re fishing for your keys when you notice it, a torn corner of lined paper stuck to your door with blutack.

You blink, too tired to make the connection straight away, brain still slogging through the haze of a caffeine crash. But then you peel it free, turn it over, and squint at the scrawny handwriting on the back.

are you twelve? what’s with the note passing come talk to me if you have an issue also i told the landlord btw lol have fun with that —4b

You crumple the note in your hand.

That fucking asshole.

The landlord does, in fact, show up at your door the next morning wearing a stern expression and with even sterner words. You apologise with a tight smile, offering up the half-truth that you’ve been under a lot of stress lately and didn’t mean it. And then, because two can play at that game, you finally snitch on 4B too, feeling a sharp jolt of triumph when the landlord sighs and assures you that’ll be having a word with the resident next door.

You incorrectly assume that’s the last of it. Because when you come home at the end of another long day of classes, there’s a sticky note taped to your door.

snitch

A disbelieving huff slips out of you as you let yourself into your apartment, your tote sliding off your shoulder with a dull thump, hands too busy flattening the wrinkled paper to catch it. Five minutes ago, all you wanted was to collapse face-first into bed and sleep through the rest of the day. Now, irritation blazes through you so quickly it feels like caffeine, sharp and immediate, and before you can talk yourself out of it, you’re fishing a pen from your bag and scrawling a reply across the back.

you literally snitched first asshole. maybe if you weren’t playing anime music at 7pm in the evening i wouldn’t have to snitch on u at all

You stick it to his door on your way back from taking out the trash, pressing your palm against the paper just to make sure it stays there. When you leave the next morning for your usual nine a.m., another note is waiting.

you literally told me to die im not a masochist i wasn’t gonna let that slide ps. ntm on the digimon opening theme that’s something special to me

You write a reply during class, sticking it to his door when you come home.

and u’ve been loud as fuck ever since u moved in here yk the apartment has thin walls right? also what the hell is digimon

It doesn’t take long this time. You’re still boiling water for a coffee when there’s a faint tap at your door. When you open it, there’s a new note stuck smack in the middle, scrawled in hurried letters. You glance up and down the hallway and see no one, and smile as you step back inside.

then just walk those five steps to my door and tell me next time? and ofc someone as unfun as u has never experienced the highs and lows of digimon in ur childhood it all makes sense now

You sip your coffee as you pen your reply.

i swear i’ve knocked in the morning and u didn’t open the door so r u gonna keep edging me or r u gonna tell me what digimon is

It’s only after you’ve already closed your door that you realise you didn’t respond to his second comment so you quickly take a pen and walk back to his door, pursing your lips in effort as you try to add another line against the door. Maybe you’re imagining it but you swear you hear footsteps pause on the other side of the door.

also i just searched it up and i can’t believe my next door neighbour is 12 years old watching cartoons

You quickly scurry back to your apartment just in time, hearing their door open after yours just as you closed yours. A couple seconds later, there’s a knock.

digimon is NOT just for kids

You stare at the note for a second, oddly thrown by the concession considering it had seemed too easy. You’d expected another argument, maybe some smug reply, maybe an insult in even messier handwriting. But instead, he had simply folded.

For some reason, it feels less like a victory and more like a sudden end to something you hadn’t realised you were enjoying. Your other neighbours probably didn’t feel the same considering they had to listen to you and 4B open and close your doors consecutively for the past few minutes.

Still, you tell yourself as you peel the note off the door, a win is a win.

The next morning, you check your door out of habit and is immediately rewarded by a piece of a4 paper stuck to the front.

hey 4a, first of all i want to say that i’ve been very good and very quiet recently which i hope pleases you. please acknowledge my growth — 4b

Because you’re lazy, you flip the paper over and write.

4b, sure ur growth has been noted (?) i feel like there’s more to this do u need something — 4a

You slide it under his door before you can overthink it. By the time you come home that afternoon, there is another note waiting.

4a, thank you for acknowledging my progress but i fear i have received your criticism and decided not to grow from it. maybe head out for the evening also important question do u own a screwdriver ?? thanks, 4b

You frown then write back:

why?

Five minutes later, his reply slides under your door and you watch as the paper slips through completely before standing and reaching for it.

i give u a yes or no question and u still manage to dodge do u own one or not? please. — 4b

The next time you tape a note to his door, you also leave a screwdriver on the ground beneath.

u better give this back

You’re halfway to backing your things for the library when his reply slides under your door. You pick it up while locking your apartment and read as you walk, catching the tail ends of some heavy thudding and hammering from the door beside yours.

people assume just because im a man i must have five screwdriver variants in my drawers or smth anyway im making furniture for my friend and its ikea :( wish me luck 

You snort despite yourself, tucking the note into your pocket as another dull bang sounds behind his door. 

“Good luck,” you think as you walk by, and then, less generously, “and good luck to all the other people living in this building.” 

The library turns out to be the right choice. You spend three hours pretending to work, two hours ranting to the group chat about Naoya’s latest monthly photo dump, and fifteen minutes with your fingers tapping away at your keyboard which is still fifteen minutes more of productivity that you wouldn’t have achieved at your apartment so you’d call that a success.

When you come home, you brace yourself before reaching your floor. 

Surprisingly, there’s a lack of any noise at all. No thudding, no  scrapping, no IKEA-related violence. Your screwdriver sits neatly outside your door, wrapped in a sticky note. 

returned in one piece like i promised! im hoping u took my advice and left the building otherwise can u write your complaint in five words or less? im sleepy zzz

You look at his door, a reluctant smile on your face. For the first time since he moved in, you wonder if maybe the problem was never that he was impossible to live beside. Maybe the walls were thin, and he was loud, and you were miserable, and neither of you had known how to be people around each other yet. 

Maybe, if you both communicated like normal neighbours, this could actually work. 

If you assumed life would look up following this revelation, then you’re sorely underestimating the evil forces (read: Naoya’s Etsy witch) conspiring against your happiness. 

Because the next morning, it isn’t some upbeat anime opening that wakes you up. Instead, it’s the mucus trapped in your airways and the pounding at your temples, dragging you from the dead only to make you feel worse for it. You throw your duvet over your head and pray that when you resurface, your cold will have miraculously disappeared. It doesn’t work, to no surprise, though that thought irritates you too. Then again, maybe that’s just the built up annoyance from having your nose blocked. Miserable and stuffy, you close your eyes and remind yourself to take in a deep breath through your nose when you’ve healed, just to not take it for granted. 

It’s times like this when you miss your good-for-nothing ex, times like this when you remember there used to be someone you could text without thinking, someone you could badger for some chicken noodle soup and maybe a hug and a kiss on your forehead. 

Your own weakness pisses you off.

With great effort, you drag yourself upright and shuffle into your kitchen, pawing through empty pantries. Any plans of heading to that early morning tutorial this morning immediately leaves your mind at your pathetic show of strength. 

You’re halfway through grabbing cereal, any other breakfast option simply too tedious, when a loud voice cuts through the haze. 

“Yeah, she just didn’t get it. And when you have to explain a joke, it’s already over. No dude, obviously it’s her fault for not being with it and not because I’m unfunny, don’t even kid.”

You frown slightly, munching on another chip, thumb scrolling past a video you’re not even sure you watched. Who the hell says ‘with it’?

“If you don’t fuck with with it, then you’re one of the people who aren’t with it. You’re without it.” He continues.

You make a small noise of consideration, vaguely thinking that you might get along with his friend as they seemingly voice your own thoughts.

Your neighbour continues, undeterred from his friend’s unenthusiastic responses. “There’s no chance I’m seeing her again. She did text me but I’m just going to leave her on delivered. Is it cruel or is it saving myself from someone who called my Agumon keychain the deformed twin Charmander consumed in the womb?”

You laugh, sound muffled when your neighbour’s voice peaks.

“He doesn’t, Charmander is from a completely different franchise! And I’ll have you know that keychain was from an artist at Anime Con so when you’re picking on my little guy, you’re making fun of a small business.”

A pause. You scrunch your nose.

“Yeah, I didn’t mean to call it my little guy. If it helps, I gave my dick she/her pronouns like how a truck guy calls his truck a real beauty so she’s not my little guy.”

You snort, crunching down on a chip. You wonder if that sweet salesman next door is as enthralled in 4B’s love life as you were.

“Don’t make such a disgusted sound, she’ll take offence.”

There’s shuffling from above as your neighbour supposedly shifts to a different position, now closer to you such that you could faintly make out the voice of his friend.

“Is liking Agumon such a big deal breaker for you?” his friend says, voice smoother than the whiny tilt in 4B’s.

“Honestly, no. Agumon is my favourite character and I’m not really comfortable sharing him with others because he means a lot to me. But then when I started talking about Digimon she asked me why I didn’t just get a Pikachu keychain instead since everyone at least knew Pikachu and it’ll save me from the questions. Pikachu. The mainstream corporate mouse.”

“Okay,” his friend sighs, “but to be fair, most people know more about Pokemon than Digimon. At least she was trying?”

“That’s the problem!” your neighbour fires back and the image of him in your head changes around his enthusiasm about digital monsters. “No one gives Digimon the respect that it deserves. People act like it’s Pokemon’s weird cousin when really it’s more like Pokemon’s smarter, cooler, better-dressed older sibling who went overseas to continue pursuing their education.”

“And did you tell her that?”

“Yeah, right there in the restaurant."

“You’re never getting a second date.”

He snorts, apparently offended. “Please, like I wanted one.”

Despite yourself you laugh though the silence that follows is enough to rid you of all your amusement. Awkwardly, you trail off by clearing your throat, feeling somewhat like a creep for letting your eavesdropping be known. All this talk about knowing to stay quiet and yet you catch yourself slipping.

You listen as 4B says a quick goodbye to his friend. There’s a rustle, a soft thud, and then his voice comes again, closer this time, like he’s leaned right up against the wall between your apartments.

“Hello? Is someone there?”

For one fleeting second, you think that if this were a horror movie, he would absolutely be the first to die. Not that you’d fare much better, considering you answer him.

“Hi.”

There’s a small pause, then, “No way. 4A? What the hell, I thought you already left for class.”

Your heart skips, thudding against your ribs. For a second, you consider staying quiet and let the walls swallow the moment whole. Pretend it wasn’t you, pretend like the two of you haven’t been trading insults like you were passing notes in class.

There had been a fragile understanding between the two of you to never reach out. And yet, in this moment, you can’t bring yourself to remember why.

You clear your throat, thick with the tail end of your cold. “Well it looks like you guessed wrong. Do I need to send you another death threat for you to keep it down?”

You hear him wince, a quiet sound muffled by the walls. “Maybe we should go back to writing notes to each other. I didn’t know you’d sound like a 40 year old smoker.”

“I’m sick, jackass.”

He hums, unconvinced. There’s a beat of silence as he thinks of what to say. Then, “So, you’re a girl?”

Your eyes roll to your ceiling as you sigh, whatever you were expecting immediately thrown away. “What exactly is that supposed to mean?”

He huffs out a small chuckle like he can hear the exasperation in your voice and finds it amusing. “I’m just surprised. I mean, you’re so mean to me. Girls usually love me, you know, I’m kind of a ladies’ man.”

That pulls a laugh out of you, rough on your sore throat but impossible to stop. “You? With that personality? Consider me the one surprised.”

“I’m serious. I’m kind of a campus celebrity. Girls flock to me.”

You hoist yourself up onto the kitchen counter, angling your back against the wall where his voice comes through clearest. “You don’t have to lie to impress me.”

There’s a pause and you wonder if your playful insults had gone a little too far in your sick state.

“Oh, I might be into this.”

“What?”

“Nothing.” There’s the faint sound of movement on the other side before your mysterious neighbour talks again. “I meant, what type of person do you think I am then?”

“Considering you fumbled a first date because of a cartoon, I think you have your answer,” you coo with faux sympathy. “You should be nicer to her since I’m sure your cooldown for the next date might take a while.”

“First of all,” he says, apparently offended. “It’s not a cartoon. Second, she fumbled the date on her end. It was a necessary culling for me.”

You snort. “You got dumped over Digimon, let’s settle down.”

“You didn’t even know what Digimon was until I put you on a few days ago.”

You shrug, despite the fact that he can’t see the gesture. “And now that I know it’s even more pathetic. Agumon is the weird orange dinosaur thing, right?”

His whine comes through the wall, only cementing the fact that whoever is on the other side might be the biggest nerd you know. You wonder if he lied about not being a masochist considering he’s taking your insults pretty well. “Hey, come on. He’s just a cute little guy.”

“Right,” you draw out, unimpressed. “Don’t glaze him when he might be the reason you’re a social shut in.”

“That’s a new one. I am now, am I?”

“Please,” you start, warming up to the idea as she speak it into existence. “If women are all over you like you claim they are, why haven’t I heard anyone come over? You and I both know just how thin the walls in this place is.”

“Exactly,” he shoots back. “So why would I bring them back here? Unless you want to be kept awake all night.”

That makes you laugh, the idea of this voice you’re hearing now having any experience at all extremely humourous, much less with the ability to go all night long. You can almost imagine the state of his room, littered with anime posters and plushies making sex feel like a group activity. If you looked up past his figure over you, you’d probably see neon light up stars on his ceilings.

“If you can talk so much about my love life,” he trails off, voice deceptively casual and airy, “do you have a boyfriend?”

That makes you freeze. Something hard and spiky settles in your stomach and you shift on the countertop, searching for a spot that’s comfortable because for some reason, it feels like you’ve lost it. “No.”

The voice doesn’t say anything for a while. “My bad. Touchy subject?”

You shrug despite the fact that he can’t see the gesture and pull your legs to your chest. “It’s fine. It’s been, like, half a year. He was a douche anyway.”

“Okay, six months, not bad.”

Hearing the slight mumble from the other side of the wall but unable to understand it coherently, you frown and press your ear closer. “What was that?”

4B clears his throat. “I’m just saying maybe don’t talk shit when I haven’t heard you bring anyone over either.”

You roll your eyes, forcing your shoulders to relax and somewhat grateful at his deflection. “At least I don’t claim to be a microcelebrity. I keep my circle small and that works.”

“Is there room for one more?”

A laugh escapes you, genuine and surprised. “Why? Asking for a friend or yourself?”

You can hear the smile in his voice when he says, “You diagnosed me as a social shut in, remember? I’m clearing asking for myself.”

“We’ll see, 4B,” you say, though you’re matching his tone with a smile. It doesn’t, however, stop your voice from sounding croakier than intended and you have to painfully make an awkward gargling sound to clear your throat a number of times.

4B winces sympathetically, and he lets you get the worst of it out before speaking again. “Sounds like you might need some water and then a nap.”

“Trust me, that was the plan.”

You start to wiggle down from your counter and grab something to drink, wrongly assuming the conversation ends here.

“Are we going to talk again?” he asks in a rush, and you huff as your feet touch the ground.

“We live next to each other, genius. I don’t think I could avoid you even if I tried.”

“And would you try?”

You sip from your glass, ignoring him.

“Okay, that’s fine. I’ll win you over, just wait.” There’s no doubt in your mind that he’s grinning, you can hear it in the peaks of his voice. “I’ll try to keep it down for you. And then maybe you’ll be less grouchy when you wake up?”

“Go fuck yourself, 4B.”

You roll your eyes, glad that there’s a wall between you to prevent him from seeing your smile. “Goodnight, 4A.”

Gojo Satoru isn’t a man who lacks. 

He’s got the grades (barely, but they’re there), the genes (obviously), the height (something even Suguru finds unfair), the charm (obnoxious), and a reputation on campus that both precedes and betrays him. He walks into a room and people notice. Professors sigh, girls nudge each other, guys scowl though it’ll be his friends that’ll roll their eyes at his presence first. 

He is used to winning. More importantly, he is used to having almost everything in a way that requires very little effort on his part. 

So what the hell is he doing, lying on his bedroom floor where the voice of a stranger still lingers, staring at his wall like it might crack open and offer him answers? She hadn’t even said much, not enough to leave this big of an impression. 

Maybe it was the shock that the person leaving at ungodly hours in the morning beneath him was a girl. He doesn’t know why he’d assumed otherwise. Maybe because the notes had always read so dry, so flat, so quick to snap back at him that somewhere along the way he’d started hearing them in Suguru’s voice. 

Except the voice through the wall had been unmistakably feminine, and now Gojo was having the deeply inconvenient realisation that he might, in fact, be into that. 

It wasn’t even what she said more so how she said it, offhanded and easy as if talking to him was nothing, like he was nothing. and curse his enormous ego, he was Gojo Satoru, for god’s sake. He’s got at least three people in his dms right now asking what he’s up to tonight and it would be as easy as typing back “nothing” to have any one of them. 

But none of them had left a note that told him to get his shit together. None of them made him laugh when ten seconds prior he was so ready to implode, none of them had him craning to his floor like some desperate victorian man listening to the ghostly whispers through the thin plaster. 

Gojo drags a hand down his face, then turns his head again to look at it.

The wall. Plain, off-white, slightly cracked near the skirting board, absolutely identical to every other wall in this terrible building and yet suddenly the most compelling thing in his apartment because now, you’re behind it. Separated from him by a few layers of plaster and paint and bad insulation, close enough that he can hear your laugh if the room is quiet, close enough that he can picture you leaning back against the other side without ever having seen it happen.

Gojo runs a hand through his hair, frowning. 

“This is bad,” he mutters for the second time that day as he explores the foreign feeling in his chest. 

The urge to hear from her again beats like a second heart in his chest, and the distinction between hear and see is important because now it feels less about appearances and more about something else, something he doesn’t have a smug enough name for yet.

Gojo reaches for his laptop, then drops it back onto the floor a second later when even pretending to do work feels stupid when he’s one bad decision away from knocking on the wall just to see if you answer.

Because Gojo doesn’t lack. 

Yet tonight, as he sits on his cold carpet, phone face-down beside him and no urge to answer any of his unread messages, he realises he might be wanting. 

The next time you wake, your fever has left you in an uncomfortable puddle of your own sweat, damp sheets sticking to your skin. A reluctant glance at your alarm clock confirms the worst: it’s 7 a.m. the next day, and you have a 9 a.m. lecture to attend. Somehow, you’d managed to sleep through a near-complete twenty-four-hour cycle, vaguely only remembering how you had stumbled out of bed for the bathroom or small bites of whatever you could find. 

When you open your door to make a hasty exit, jammed toast between your teeth and the delirious hope that you’ll run into a handsome guy around the corner of your block, you almost trip over something that ends your hopes (and almost your life). Thankfully, you catch yourself on your hands and glare down at the perpetrator. 

A sports drink looks back up at you, adorned with a yellow sticky note stuck to its side. After looking left and right down the empty corridor, you pick up the bottle and read the note. 

im not a fan of sick neighbour asmr —4b

You snort despite yourself, heading for the stairs. On the way, you flip the note around and pen a short reply, sticking it to 4B’s door before heading out. 

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Somehow, despite being sick, Shoko shows up to your tutorial later than you. You wave as she dumps her tote under the table and flops unceremoniously into the seat beside you. 

“Are you still sick?” she asks in lieu of a greeting. “You shouldn’t come to class if you’re not feeling well.” 

“What makes you think I’m still sick?” you ask in a voice that can only be attributed to years of smoking or recovering from sickness. 

She gives you a look. “Right. So the eyebags are just your usual go to?”

“It would be fucked up if i always looked like this and you just called me ugly.” You cover your face with your hands. “But it’s not that bad, is it? I still have a reputation I care about.” 

“I’m genuinely afraid of telling you the truth because it might push you over the edge. So yes, girl you look gorgeous.” 

You roll your eyes, slumping to rest your cheek against your arms, looking at her from the side. Her phone vibrates and you hear it loud with your ear pressed against the desk, flinching slightly until she picks it up. 

“What is it?” 

Shoko lets out an unamused huff and shows you the screen. 

gojo (DO NOT ANSWER): wanna hit me up with the pre lab questions? 

It would be a mission to go through university without hearing the name ‘Gojo Satoru’ whether in secretive whispers or muffled in laughter. For one, he’s sport captain for some sport you’ve never paid enough attention to remember. He’s stupidly charming in a way that makes people sigh even when they’re rolling their eyes with an accompanying begrudged smile. Half the girls in your course claim he’s flirted with them whilst the other half say they’d punch him given the chance, before pausing and muttering something like, “but he’s kind of funny, I guess.” 

The only other piece of information you know about him is that he’s loud, annoyingly so which places you in that category of girls that would more likely punch him in the stomach than kiss him. 

You wonder how on earth Shoko could be friends with someone her complete opposite. 

You look up and raise an eyebrow at her. “Well? Are you going to?”

“Do you read with your eyes closed? I clearly saved his contact as ‘do not answer’. If Gojo wants pre-lab questions that badly, he can go flirt them out of one of his fifty fans.”

You snort.“Glad to know you’re a bad friend to everyone and not just me.”

She shrugs. “He thinks I owe him a huge favour for something he did for me a while ago when that is not true at all. I’m sure there’s other people he can hit up for answers. You know how he is, there’s always someone trailing after him like a lost puppy.” 

“Considering I don’t know the guy, no not really,” you say, nudging your cheek more firmly into your folded arms, locking in for a storytime. “Tell me about him.”

Shoko narrows her eyes at you. “You want to know about him?”

“Girl,” you huff, “like gossip. I promise I’m not a groupie. I don’t think I’ve ever actually had a conversation with him so don’t look at me like that.”

“That makes sense. He’s usually only on lower campus so there’s little chance of him showing up randomly, anyway.” 

“Sounds like you don’t like him,” you say, intelligently. 

“I’ve been stuck with him and Geto since high school,” she starts and you actually feel bad for her. “God forbid I don’t want to see him in my formative years, too.” 

You laugh because misfortune is always better on others than yourself. “Now you have to tell me. What did he do to you?”

Shoko doesn’t seem amused. She looks you up and down, eyes narrowing at the smile on your face. “You know, I’m actually an incredible friend and as a friend who cares about you deeply, let me tell you this. You do not want to hook up with him.”

You splutter, lifting your head. “What the fuck? I just wanted to know about the guy! Can we start with being friends first, damn?”

“Let’s just say I know him,” your best friend continues, unfazed. “He wouldn’t be able to stay as just friends with someone like you.”

“Okay, and what the fuck does that even mean?”

“Look,” she says, and you open your mouth to cut her off because the telltale signs that she’s about to change the topic are there. “He’s also in Sig Kap.” The words hit like cold water. Whatever fragile lightness had been carrying you through the morning dims all at once. Shoko notices immediately, of course she does, and some of the bite leaves her expression.

“I just thought you should know.”

You slump back into your chair, crossing your arms and looking down at your table, contemplating if you should start banging your head against the hard surface and end your suffering. “What a mood killer. Did you really have to bring that up?”

“I’m just saying, if you start seeing Gojo around, the chances of also seeing your ex is very high. Sure, they’re not in the same frat but they’re both still in that same group of guys. You know, inter-fraternity relations.” 

“There’s a lot of assuming going on right now, like the fact that I would even see Gojo in the first place, but I’ll let it slide because I suddenly feel the urge to shoot myself in the head.” 

“I thought you were over your ex?”

You don’t say anything for a while, trying to muse out the complex ball of feelings in your gut. 

You had been falling out of love with Naoya for months before the breakup. Maybe even longer, if you’re being honest. It wasn’t like it happened all at once, and there wasn’t one dramatic collapse, no one, big, awful fight, just a slow and steady erosion. A hundred small disappointments, a hundred moments of realising he was more interested in having a girlfriend than being a boyfriend. He forgets the things you tell him, interrupts you to tell your own stories better, talks all pretty to your girl friends and then simultaneously talks shit to you about them when you ask him to stop requesting them on Instagram. 

So if you do miss him, then you might have a masochist streak in you. 

What you miss, maybe, is who you were before all of that. The version of you that believed romance was something soft and mutual and worth fighting for, instead of something performative that slowly hollows itself out while you stand there insisting it’s still alive.

“Y/N?”

You blink and realise Shoko is watching you. “Oh, uh. I am over him. I just wish I could have the pre-Naoya me back, that’s all.”

Shoko makes a disgusted sound on your behalf. “Do not say his name. I gagged.”

“Right?” You shake your head and dismiss whatever useless thoughts still linger, forcing yourself to relax back into something a little more light-hearted. “But it’s whatever. I’ve learnt my lesson now, frat boys are not to be trusted and dating one is like draining all the whimsy out of your body. I honestly don’t care about him anymore and I wouldn’t even think about him at all if I didn’t have that film to make.”

That makes your best friend giggle. “The one about love.”

“Is this funny to you?” you ask with a huff, but you’re grateful that she doesn't force you to say any more than you’re ready for.

“Extremely.” She nods, then dodges when you reach over to try and playfully hit her. “Look, I’m sure inspiration will hit you soon. Love always arrives when you least expect it, and all that.”

You give her a long look, face unmoving. “I don’t want the girl with the girlfriend of three years to say that. Get out of my face.”

Shoko laughs loudly, and you both trail off as the lecture starts. 

The rest of class passes in the usual blur of half-listening and half-heartedly playing minesweeper on the google chrome extension open on your laptop. By the time you make it back to the sketchy, wilted building you unfortunately call home, winter evening has settled in for real, the kind that turns everything blue-grey and has you squinting down the street every few minutes just to make sure the shape in the distance is a person and not a fire hydrant. You had to use your phone’s flashlight for this, and in the last few steps up to your apartment, it betrays you by dying. 

Thankfully, you still manage to make it to your place in one piece. 

You peel the note off your door on your way in, flick on the lights, and let your tote bag drop to the floor with a tired thud.

feeling better?

A soft smile tugs at your mouth before it fades just as quickly, replaced by a small furrow in your brow. Weird.

You’re halfway to the kitchen to find the stack of sticky notes you left on the island in a rush this morning when the world abruptly cuts out.

“The fuck—”

“Ow!” In the sudden darkness, you misjudge the turn around the counter and slam straight into the corner of it.

From the other side of the wall, 4B’s voice comes a little louder. “4A? You okay?”

You suck in a sharp breath, one hand nursing your hip as you try to steady yourself. “Yeah. Just walked straight into my counter corner. What the fuck happened?”

There’s the sound of faint footsteps, then the creak of something shifting as he leans against the wall in his kitchen. “I think this is what they call a power outage. Correct me if I’m wrong.”

“I know that, smartass,” you mutter, though not so quietly where he can’t hear. “But how did that happen? It’s not even storming or anything.”

“What’s wrong? Scared of the dark?”

You scoff, already dreading the upcoming conversation. Despite this, you fumble to where that familiar countertop sits against the connecting wall between your apartments and hoist yourself up easily, leaning back so his voice is clearer when he speaks. “No. We pay rent for this place, of course I want to know what’s happening when the lights all suddenly cut.”

“I can text the landlord. If it happened to both of us then it’s probably a building wide thing so it’ll be their responsibility. But all we can do is wait.”

You sigh, long and full of suffering. “This sucks. Couldn’t the power go off at midnight or something?”

“I’ll let the landlord know your availability.” 

You roll your eyes and make yourself comfortable, relenting to stay for however long it’ll take for there to be light again. You mourn the death of your phone then, holding the power button for some kind of miracle and get reminded that, once again, your life sucks and is only full of betrayal and tragedy. 

For a short moment, silence settles between you, and suddenly you’re struck by the irritating realisation that beyond his notes, his terrible taste in alarms, and his frankly irresponsible attachment to Digimon, you know almost nothing about the stranger on the other side of the wall.

“So,” you start.

“Yeah?”

“What were you up to? You know, before the power went out and everything.”

“Curious, hm?” your neighbour replies, that irritating teasing tilt in his tone. “I was just about to lock in for an assignment so I can focus on the midterms coming up in a week.” 

You hum. “What course are you doing?” 

“Physics. And I know what you’re going to say—”

You snort. “Nerd.” 

“You know, some people find intelligence attractive.”

“Do those people also happen to be the same imaginary campus-wide fanbase you keep bringing up?” 

He laughs and you immediately lock onto the pleasant sound, not because you particularly care, but when your vision is knocked out, everything you hear seems amplified. Including the pretty tilt in his tone, the richness in his laugh, and the fact that his voice sits somewhere deeper than you expected from his petulant notes.

“Well, what about you, then? If I’m the resident physics nerd, what are you?” 

You glance out into your dark apartment, the outline of your living room barely there in what little evening light still makes it through the windows. Your camera sits somewhere on the table, your laptop buried inside your tote, your assignment still waiting to be done. 

“Film,” you say at last. “Well, not film-film. I’m just doing one elective this semester to boost my grades but if I could go back in time I would have picked that social media class everyone else does as a GPA booster.”

Your neighbour makes a sound of recognition. “Oh, that! Yeah, I took that in my first year. Our midterm was to write a report on the significance of ‘get ready with me’s’. I’m so serious.” 

You groan, dropping your head onto your knees. “I know, my friend was telling me how she did that class too.”

“Who’s your friend? Wouldn’t it be so funny if your friend was actually in my class that year?”

You roll your eyes. Shoko would have definitely told you about someone like him. “I doubt it. We do the same course and none of our classes are ever near the physics buildings.” 

He hums. “You never know. I get around.” 

That makes you laugh. “Sure, 4B. Let’s stick to hypothetical equations instead of your hypothetical maladaptive daydreams, okay?” 

“You pick on me too much,” he whines. “Give me something to work with, I’m starting to really feel this power imbalance. What’s your film assignment about?”

You let out a long breath through your nose, already hearing his voice in your head and every possible jab he can make. “It’s a film on love.”

He snorts. “Right, because when I talk to you I’m just overwhelmed by the love seeping out of you.”

You sigh. “Kill yourself.”

“See, this is what I mean.”

“All you know about me is my voice,” you shoot back, not necessarily offended so much as annoyed. “I’ve been told that I’m a very benevolent and kind person.”

He hums. “Maybe not when you’re so grouchy then.”

“I’m not being grouchy.”

“At least try and make your point come across.”

“My point is that I’m a delight,” you say flatly. “A warm presence, a gentle soul. Campus-wide rumours actually say I’m beloved by all who meet me.”

“Now who has the imaginary campus-wide fanbase?” he laughs, and even though you roll your eyes, it’s harder to hold onto your irritation when he sounds that pleased with himself.

The dark presses in around your apartment, turning everything into vague shapes and corners, but his voice keeps coming through the wall like a little light you cannot see.

“Okay, then,” he says after his laughing fit. “Prove it.”

You frown, even though he can’t see you. “Prove what?”

“That you’re not grouchy. That you’re a person full of fun and whimsy. If your film is about love, then tell me one thing you love.”

You make a face. “That sounds like world’s worst icebreaker.”

“Someone’s getting defensive,” he sings, sounding far too amused. “Come on, 4A. one thing. It doesn’t have to be deep. Actually, please don’t make it deep, I’m not emotionally prepared for that. Just something stupid that makes you happy. That’s still love, you know?”

You open your mouth with another complaint ready, but nothing comes out. Which is annoying, because it should be easy. Before Naoya, before the breakup, before the awful assignment and the worse timing, you had liked plenty of things without needing to justify them. You liked when orange and pink bleeds across the sky on the walk back from a long day of classes, you liked smiling at dogs when they crossed your paths on the streets, you liked the warmth of a delicious heated drink in your hands on a cold, winter morning. You liked watching people reunite at train stations, you liked filming light moving across your bedroom wall because, at the time, it had seemed like something worth keeping.

Now, asked to name that something out loud, your mind offers you nothing but static.

“Jesus, okay,” he says after a beat. “The silence is very telling.”

There is a soft scrape on his side of the wall, like he is sliding down to sit more comfortably. “Okay, I’ll go first since clearly you need a role model. I love when vending machines actually drop the thing you paid for instead of holding it hostage behind the glass. I love when you think a package is coming next week and then it arrives today like a tiny miracle.”

Despite yourself, you huff. “Sounds like you just love consumerism.”

“I also love when a dog on the street looks like it has somewhere important to be. Like, where are you going? Do you have a meeting? Are you late? Should I call ahead?”

Fuck, that was on your list too. 

“Fine,” you say, shifting on the counter until your socked foot bumps against one of the cabinet handles. “I love when you’re walking past a bakery and they’re making bread, but you’re not hungry, so you just get to enjoy the smell without spending money.” 

“How very financially responsible of you. You’re like the opposite of me. Anti-consumerism.” You can hear the grin in his voice. “Okay, next. We’re making a list now. That’s how brainstorming works, right?” 

You sigh like this is a burden, like you are not already turning the question over in your hands. “I love when the train comes right as you get to the platform.” 

“Really? That sounds stressful.” 

“I love when someone in front of you in line is ordering something complicated and you get annoyed, but then they’re actually really nice to the worker, so you forgive them.” 

“Because is it ever that serious?” 

You roll your eyes, but your mouth betrays you by pulling into a smile. It feels strange on your face, like trying on an old jacket you had forgotten in the back of your closet, something that had once been yours. It’s not a terrible feeling, you decide, perhaps just a little unfamiliar. 

“Okay, my turn again,” 4B says. “I love when you see someone running for the bus and the bus driver waits for them.” 

“That’s rare, some people have that sadistic bone in their body that wants to only see others suffer.” 

“Which is why it makes those off chance moments better. Rarity increases market value.” 

“There’s that consumerism bleeding through again.” 

A thought arrives quietly, not quite the decision you were hoping for in the library, but it’s a small, familiar itch of wanting to keep something before it passes.

“I love when someone laughs so hard they make the other person start laughing even if they don’t know what’s funny,” he continues.

Your eyes have gone to the table again. There isn’t a clean, decisive moment to it, certainly no sudden burst of artistic purpose that you might call inspiration. You simply slide off the counter while he keeps talking, careful not to knock your hip into the corner again and feel your way through the dim apartment toward your camera.

“Also,” he continues, completely unaware. “I love finishing a book or movie and getting so into it that you look it up on Twitter for everyone else’s take.”

“Sounds like you just struggle to form an original thought on your own.”

“I’m superseding my opinion.”

“Oh, what a big word! Good job, 4B.”

You finally find your dust camera hidden by more important things, and take it back to the kitchen.

The room is too dark for the lens to catch anything properly. For a second, you nearly give up, but then your gaze lands on the candle sitting untouched on your dining table, the one you bought months ago because it smelled like vanilla and cedarwood and you had convinced yourself buying one candle would somehow turn your apartment into a Pinterest board’s dream. You’ve never lit it.

But for some reason, the desire to make a mark in the wax comes to front and you set it on the windowsill without any more thinking.

The lighter takes three tries to catch.

“What’s that clicking sound?”

“What clicking sound?” you mumble, brows burrowed as the fire dies again.

“Am I going crazy? Just warning you but I have crazy keen hearing. And now with my sight gone, I’m even more locked in. Sounds like… are you lighting a birthday cake? Is it your birthday?”

“That’s what you think of first when you hear a light?” You don’t know whether to laugh or coo at his innocence in your dorky neighbour. “I’m just lighting a candle because it’s dark.”

The candle flame shivers to life, small and uneven. Throwing a weak gold light over the window ledge and the lower half of the glass. It’s frankly a terrible light source, dim but somehow managing to catch the smudge of your fingerprints on the window and turns the kitchen sink into a dark, warped shape in the reflection. When you prop the camera up against your water jug, lifted by two stacked coasters, the frame tilts slightly to the left.

You hit record.

“Okay, your turn,” he says.

You blink at the red dot on the camera screen. “What?”

“It’s your turn again. Don’t think I didn’t notice you going quiet there. Just because I can’t see you doesn’t mean you can get away with not contributing your part to this list.”

“As if you’re keeping track of everything.” You settle back against the counter, close enough to the camera that your voice will catch. “Okay, here’s one. I love it when people apologise to furniture after walking into it. Oh, and, when someone saves you a seat.”

He hums, turning the thought over in his head. “That’s a good one. Could even be your thesis statement for your film, honestly. Something pretentious. Like how love is making room.”

You giggle. “Love is setting aside a space for someone.” 

“Love as chair politics,” he says smartly. 

“Love is an empty seat: an interdisciplinary exploration into effort-based decision-making.” 

“Okay, you made this not fun by actually sounding smart. What the hell is effort-based decision-making?” 

“Google is free.”

You hear the grin in his voice as he bounces off your words. “So is a tree, hang from it.” 

The laugh leaves you before you can stop it. It is sharp and ugly, startled out of you in a way that makes you clap a hand over your mouth too late. The sound echoes faintly in your dark kitchen, caught by the camera, your shadow probably distorted by the terrible angle and the water jug propping it upright. 

There is a beat of silence on the other side of the wall. Then, quietly, delightedly, “Oh, you thought that was funny. You think I’m funny?” 

“Please, it was a fluke.” 

“That was the healthiest you’ve sounded all day.”

You make an offended noise and reach blindly toward the counter until your hand lands on a tea towel. You throw it at the wall and it hits with a soft, deeply unsatisfying slap before flopping onto the floor. 

He gasps. “Did you just throw something at me?” 

“Consider it a formal complaint.” 

“I’m snitching to the landlord.” 

“Tell them to fix the power while you’re there.” 

“Fine. But I’m adding attempted murder on top of that previous violent note.” 

You shake your head to yourself, still smiling. If you were sane, you might take the time to wonder what the fuck you were doing, sitting on your kitchen counter, arguing with a man you’ve yet to seen, smiling like an idiot at your own wall. And yet, you hesitate to move. 

For a moment, neither of you say anything and a silence that isn’t quite awkward settles over you both. 

Then, with a sudden electric hum, the fridge kicks back on and the ceiling light blinks once, twice, and then floods the kitchen in a harsh yellow that makes you squint, and makes your neighbour curse in surprise. 

“Oh!” 

From the other side of the wall, he lets out a sigh. “Boo.” 

You laugh again, leaning over to check your camera. “Boo?”

“I was having fun,” he says, almost accusingly. “The dark was doing wonders for our dynamic. You were less mean when you couldn’t see.”

“You mean when I was visually impaired and vulnerable?”

“Exactly. It was bringing out your softer side. Or maybe it was all me.”

Looking at the camera, you see that the little red dot is glowing steadily on the screen, and only then remember what you were meant to be doing in the first place. Most of the clip is probably just your kitchen window, your voice too close to the mic and his voice muffled through the plaster, the two of you listing stupid things that barely count as anything. 

Still, your fingers hesitates over the stop button. 

On the other side of the wall, he shifts and the wall groans. “You alive over there? The light didn’t evaporate you when they turned back on, did they?” 

You press stop. “Now how does that make any sense?” 

You pick up the camera, thumb hovering over the saved clip. The thumbnail is dark and grainy, almost useless at first glance, but when you play the first second back, your own laugh cracks through the tiny speaker before you panic and mute it. 

Your face warms. 

Stupid. 

So, so stupid. But you don’t delete it. Instead, you set the camera carefully on the counter and blow out your candle still burning against the window. 

“Anyway, since the lights are back, I’m going to pretend to do my assignment now. Keyword pretend because I like to keep my goals realistic,” 4B says and the strange mood lifts and dissipates with the candle’s smoke. 

“Good luck with that.”

“Good luck with your love thing.”

You look down at the camera again.

“Yeah,” you say, picking it up before you can change your mind. “Thanks.”

“For what?”

You pause. Then you tuck the camera against your chest and head out of the kitchen. “Nothing.”

Behind the wall, 4B laughs like he does not believe you at all, and you leave before he can ask.

You don’t remember when but sometime along the semester, you begin to enjoy waking up. You hadn’t grown a newfound appreciation for your alarm, no that was still a work in progress, but something about opening your eyes to start a new day no longer evoked a groan. Your next door neighbour did that for you instead.

One morning you were waking up to a quiet early morning and the next, you hear an alarm ring parallel to yours.

You hear it again this morning as you rub the sleep from your eyes as some anime opening plays, muffled by the distance. When you step into your kitchen, it’s louder, and you hear the soft padding of feet against floorboards as 4B wakes.

“Morning,” he’ll mumble, voice rough from sleep, just as he did now.

“Good morning,” you’ll say back and hope he doesn’t hear the smile in your voice.

He’ll grunt in acknowledgement, heading for his bathroom which you’ve come to realise shares a wall with your bedroom. You’ll get started on packing a lunch to take to campus while he takes his sweet time getting ready. You wake far too early for him, after all.

You’ll pause on your way out, just as you did now, tilting your head slightly to listen. If he hears your door open, he’ll call out, “Good luck with your classes!” and if he doesn’t, water too loud or too immersed in something else, you’ll say, “See you later!”

It’s a routine you’ve come to love.

Sometimes when he hears you sigh coming back from campus, you’ll hear him close his fridge and fall into his couch. “Grey's Anatomy?” he’ll ask loudly and you’ll laugh softly, hand already reaching to grab your remote despite your drowsiness.

You tell yourself it isn’t a big deal. Plenty of people have neighbours and plenty of people talk to said neighbours. Plenty of people probably know the exact sound of their neighbour’s footsteps in the morning, the difference between their sleepy voice and their smug voice, the exact pause before they say something annoying just to get you to react. 

Probably. 

Still, the thought follows you out of your apartment and all the way to campus, sitting somewhere uncomfortable behind your ribs. It’s there when you catch yourself slowing down near the front steps because someone ahead of you laughs a little too loud and, for one stupid second, you think it might be him. It is there when you buy coffee and almost order an extra pastry because 4B once mentioned he loves sugary things first thing in the morning and frankly any other time of the day. 

It is there when you realise, with a kind of quiet horror, that you might actually like him. 

Recognising the telltale signs that you’re about to spiral, you decide to at least try and prevent it by taking a walk and touching grass. Unfortunately, you forget that there are evil forces against you because when you step into the main courtyard on campus on your way out, you immediately find yourself in hell. 

Like, actual hell. Like there’s a frat car wash happening in the middle of the campus kind of hell.

A row of cars lines the curb beside the courtyard, soapy water running down the pavement in bright, bubbly streams. Someone has set up a folding table with a cardboard sign that reads SIG KAP CHARITY CAR WASH in marker thick enough to be seen from across the street. A group of people have already crowded around the main attraction snapping away and laughing, the men scattered around yelling over each other as they try and organise the mess. There’s a JBL speaker playing Cbat and other such EDM trap that has you wondering if you’ve walked yourself into a rave. 

And standing in the middle of it all, shirtless and holding a sponge as flexes for his groupies, is Gojo Satoru. 

He’s hot. There’s really no polite way around it. His hair is damp from the spray of the hose, white strands pushed messily off his forehead and curling slightly at the ends. Water runs in thin lines down his throat, over the sharp cut of his collarbones, then lower and lower, disappearing along the hard planes of his stomach and tapering down into droplets that catch the sun on his abs. 

Your eyes follow a line of water that continues further down which is definitely a mistake. 

A deeply human mistake, but still a mistake nonetheless because it means you get an unwillingly thorough look at the narrow dip of his waist, the low-slung band of his shorts, the way his abdomen tightens when he twists the sponge out over the hood of a car. 

You shake your head, rattling any more indecent thoughts from your head. Sure, fine, he’s hot as fuck. But who is genuinely stupid enough to get seduced into donating money because some guy with abs and wet hair smiles at them whilst simultaneously wiping bird shit off a windscreen?

A group passes by the table and drops a note into the donation jar. 

You stare. Okay, nevermind. Apparently some people really will. Still, it has absolutely nothing to do with you. You don’t have a car, you don’t carry cash on you, and you don’t want to entertain a bunch of frat guys especially after all you’ve learnt this year. So, you adjust the strap of your tote higher on your shoulder and keep walking. 

“Hey, you in the band shirt!” 

Your foot catches slightly on the uneven pavement, and you make an embarrassing gesture getting back on two feet. Blind panic and something warmer, something more traitorous, jolts through you like a beam of lightning. 

No. 

No, because that voice—

You’ve barely rationalised anything before your head is whipping so fast over your shoulder you think you’ve given yourself a cramp. It’s instinctive more than anything, a kind of desperate hope for something indescribable, heart leaping up to your throat at the thought that a voice behind a wall has suddenly become attached to a body. 

And what a body. 

Gojo jogs toward you, shirtless and damp and unfairly attractive under the sun, towel bouncing against his neck with each step. There is soap clinging to his hands, water sliding down the firm line of his chest, one hand running through his hair as he shakes it of loose droplets. 

He comes to a stop in front of you, grin already loaded. You don’t even flinch when he flicks water onto your face accidentally. 

“Band shirt! Running away already?” he asks. “I didn’t even pitch you yet.” 

Gojo Satoru just spoke with 4B’s voice.

Your 4B. Except he’s no longer a faceless voice in the dark. He is Gojo Satoru. He is shirtless in front of you. He is looking at you like he’s waiting for an answer. 

“You cryin’? he asks, head tilting slightly as he glances at the droplets on your cheek. “Is the sun getting to you? We have buckets of water back there if you want to dunk yourself. Or maybe you want to dunk me and live vicariously through that? I noticed you staring.”

You force your mouth to move. “I don’t have a car.” 

Unfortunately, the voice that comes out is wrong. It’s too high like you’ve swallowed your own throat and replaced it with someone doing customer service over the phone. 

Gojo blinks. 

You clear your throat. “I mean, I don’t have a car,” you repeat, lower this time. 

Great, now you sound like you’re about to rob him. 

His smile twitches, one eyebrow raising slowly as he regards you. 

“Right,” he says, slowly. “No car. I think I got it the first time. What about a bike? We can wipe down the seat or something.”

You shake your head. 

“Scooter? Skateboard?” 

“No.”

“How do you get around?” 

“Feet.”

He looks down and you suddenly feel self-conscious of your shoe choice. 

“We don’t typically offer pedicures but I could make an exception for you,” Gojo says with a wide grin. “Or we could give your shoes a good scrub.”

“I don’t have anything for you to wash.” 

“What? Don’t tell me you’re attached to that layer of grime you have on them.” 

You’re so offended you temporarily blink of your stupor to splutter. “They’re not that dirty! They’re just well-loved!” 

“They’re clearly crying out for some divine intervention. Lucky for you, I might as well be the second coming of Jesus.” 

You scoff. “No way. Maybe I like them ugly, okay?” 

Gojo’s grin widens. “So you admit they’re ugly.”

You hate that he catches it so quickly. You hate even more that your heart picks up like a trapped hummingbird beneath your skin. 

Behind him, someone whistles. “Satoru, stop flirting and actually help!” 

“I’m not flirting,” he calls back without looking away from you. “I’m recruiting customers!”

He lowers his voice so it’s just for you. “You are planning on being a customer, aren’t you?”

You scoff. “Is this what the whole pitch is? Bullying people’s shoes until they donate?”

“No, that was just tailored marketing.” He leans slightly closer, lowering his voice like he’s about to reveal a conspiracy. “The real pitch is much more moving.”

“Okay,” you say, because apparently you’ve lost the will to survive. “Go on then.”

Gojo flashes you another smile, or maybe he hasn’t stopped smiling not even once throughout this entire encounter, and steps back, pressing one wet hand dramatically to his bare chest. He adopts a pitiful expression as he gazes at you. “Every year, hundreds of cars on this campus are forced to suffer through bird shit, pollen, and the mysterious sticky stuff that appears under trees for reasons science refuses to explain.”

You grimace.

He continues, undeterred. “For just five dollars, you can help one of these poor vehicles experience dignity again.”

“I don’t have five dollars.”

“For just three dollars—”

“No cash.”

“For one encouraging word—”

“Not happening.”

“—you can support a hardworking student athlete in his fight against grime,” he finishes calmly. 

“I think you just want to be shirtless,” you say what’s been on your mind the entire time, letting yourself steal another glimpse of his chest. Is it just your imagination but did he just flex his pecs at you?

He looks down at himself like he has only just remembered the state he is in. “This? It’s a uniform. Works wonders for pulling in interest.” He gestures vaguely over his shoulder where another person has just dropped money into the donation jar without taking her eyes off his back. “See? The system works.” 

“How are you so blatantly shameless?”

He shrugs. “Shame only slows you down.” 

Gojo steps slightly to the side when someone passes behind him with a bucket, and the movement brings him just close enough for you to catch the clean, cozy smell of soap and sunscreen underneath the damp heat of him. The towel around his neck drips onto his chest and a bead of water slips from his collarbone, trailing lower. 

Your eyes follow it again. Good lord. When you force your gaze back up, he’s watching you smugly. 

“So,” he says, voice dropping a little, “should I put you down as morally opposed to charity, or just immune to my charm?” 

“Those are the only options?” 

“Hey, I’m open to feedback. If you have a complaint, I’m all ears.” 

“Add a financially unavailable option.” 

“Okay.” He nods gravely. “Morally opposed, charm-resistant, and broke.” 

“I didn’t say broke.” You cut yourself off when you realise you’ve spent too long arguing with him when you had been so determined to walk away moments before. “Forget it, I’m walking away.” 

Gojo laughs and steps directly into your path, head tilting as he studies you like he’s trying to place a song from the first few seconds.

“You have quite the mouth on you,” he says, and something foreboding settles in your gut. “What’s your name, band shirt?”

Something about his voice tricks you into almost answering, perhaps because 4B has spent weeks training a response out of you. He says something stupid, you respond with something worse, and you fall into conversation that way. But while they sound the same you force yourself to remember this isn’t 4B through the wall. 

You have only one goal here: get out before he starts connecting ‘band shirt’ to ‘familiar voice’ that becomes ‘girl through the wall’ because then you’ll have to move apartments and potentially countries. So, you straighten your shoulders, lift your chin, and speak in the blandest tone you can manage. 

“No,” you say. “Short for none of your business.”

“That’s a terrible name,” Gojo says, nose scrunching up. “What did you do to your parents to deserve that? It’s going to look quite hurtful on the donation receipt.” 

“I’m not donating,” you say, already looking for the cleanest route around him. “So thankfully, your admin concerns are none of my concern. Now, if you’ll excuse me.” 

“You won’t donate, you won’t volunteer, and you won’t give me your name,” he says, still watching you too closely. “But you’ll stand here and argue with me.”

“That’s because you seem like the type who needs things explained slowly,” you quip back. “And besides, you’re in my way.”

His gaze flicks briefly to the open space beside him. You both look at it.

Then he looks back at you, smile unbearably smug. “Am I?”

You hate him because he is right, and because the longer you stand here, the more his voice settles into place with his face, and the more impossible it becomes to separate Gojo Satoru from 4B. You can feel it happening in real time, the two versions of him overlapping until the faceless boy through the wall starts becoming this shirtless jerk with wet hair and water dripping down his chest. 

“You’re very intense about names,” you say, forcing your voice into that same bland, too-flat register. “Maybe work on that before the next person you corner.” 

“Relax,” he says, voice dipping into something smoother. “I’m just saying, if a girl insults me this much, I feel like I should at least know what to call her.” 

“Band shirt is working fine for you. And if it’s not going on a donation receipt then I don’t see why you really need it.”

“Can I guess?” he asks instead, already leaning forward like the idea has thrilled him. 

“Absolutely not.” You take a step to the side, causing him to promptly mirror you. “Dude, quit it.” 

“Sorry, sorry,” he says, immediately stepping back with both hands raised to showcase his harmlessness though it’s ruined by his smile. “Got excited. You’re so nonchalant and mysterious it just draws me in, you know? Come on, I’ll leave you alone if you just give me a name, your real name.”

“No.” 

“Okay, not a real one,” he concedes far too quickly. “Just so I have something to call you in my head when you’re already running through it so much.” 

“I’m not giving you a fake name either.” 

“That’s so much worse,” he says, sounding wounded. “Now you’re not even trusting me with a lie? I’m shirtless for charity, band shirt, I’m vulnerable.”

“Vulnerably harassing a stranger for her name in the middle of campus?” 

“Stranger feels harsh.” His smile shifts a little, still playful yes, but the focus underneath it becomes visible. “You don’t exactly feel like a stranger.” 

You need to get out here right now. 

You tighten your hold on your tote bag and start walking, not caring where your dirty shoes led you, not caring if it even led you back to that God forsaken carwash. Gojo doesn’t give up, trailing after you and eating up the distance you try to place with his long legs, body facing yours even as you speed walk. 

“Do I know you?” 

“No,” you say. “We don’t know each other.”

“But it feels like we know each other.”

“We? There’s no we. Maybe you’ve seen me in passing but it’s not something to obsess over. Okay, bye.” 

“Possible,” he says, nodding solemnly. “I do have a wide reach. I’m trying to expand it, actually, which is why I need your name.”

You pass the front of the carwash table once more and someone at the front turns, practically jumping on the spot upon seeing Gojo. He ignores them, still drilling holes into the side of your face. 

“First initial?”

“N. For No.”

“Last initial?” 

“O.”

“Does it have an A in it?” 

“Do you know when to quit?” 

“Is that a yes?”

“No.”

“No, it doesn’t or no, you won’t tell me? Or secret third option, No as in No your name.” He clicks his tongue like you’re the one being difficult. “See, this is getting really confusing. You could solve this entire problem by telling me your real name.”

You keep walking for a few more steps but it’s getting harder to pretend you don’t have a golden retriever trailing after your every step, and word, especially when he’s shirtless and a microcelebrity on campus. 

“Look,” you say, stopping and turning to give him a piece of your mind. “I don’t know you, you don’t know me, so this has been deeply unnecessary. Let’s just leave it at that okay?”

His smile softens as he also stops, looking at you. “Then tell me your name and we can fix that.”

For one stupid, horrifying second, you almost do. His voice dips around his words, warm and familiar, and your brain gives you 4B through the wall saying morning, 4A, soft with sleep, and suddenly your name feels like something dangerously close to being handed over.

His hand lifts, reaching for your wrist at your hesitation but hovers short of actually touching, eyes holding yours for permission. 

Then someone calls, “Satoru!”

His face twists, mouth opening like he is ready to spit out another excuse, when a towel hits him square in the back of his head.

He jolts, hand leaving the space between you to grab at the towel before it falls. “What the fuck?” 

You both look over in the direction of the carwash. 

Sukuna stands by the donation table with another towel hanging from one hand, looking like he would rather be dragged behind one of the cars than be there voluntarily. He is also shirtless, because can you even see a guy with his shirt on in a fifty metre radius around you? Water drips from the ends of his pink hair, sliding down the hard line of his neck and over his chest, his skin still shining from whatever girl had convinced him to stand under the hose for a photo. 

“Oi,” Sukuna calls, lifting the towel like he might throw it again. “Are you done begging, or should we put a bowl out for you too?” 

Gojo’s expression immediately collapses into offence. “I’m not begging. I told you I was networking! You’re really cramping my style.” 

“Whatever you want to call it.” Sukuna jerks his chin toward the cars. “Get back here. Some girl paid ten dollars because you promised to write her name in soap on the windshield.” 

Gojo ruffles a hand through his hair and you catch a glimpse of his undercut before he groans, ducking his head. “Shit! I forgot I said that. Can’t you take one for the team, Sukuna?”

“She asked for you.”

The imaginary campus-wide fanbase turns out to be true, you think mournfully. 

A few people around the table laugh, and Gojo turns just enough to argue back, towel clutched in one hand, wet hair sticking messily to the back of his neck. You take the sight of his back muscles as a sign to leave. So before he can turn back around, you step away. 

Then another step. Then several more, fast enough that your tote bumps against your hip and your grimy shoes slap loudly against the wet pavement. It’s not running, because running would imply guilt, and you are innocent of everything except being cursed. 

“Band shirt,” Gojo calls behind you and because it’s not your name, you don’t turn around. 

You especially don’t turn around when Gojo’s half-groan, half-laugh follows you across the courtyard, short yet familiar enough to make your stomach twist. 

4B is Gojo Satoru.

Gojo Satoru is 4B.

Someone needs to take down the Etsy website.

You never do wear that band shirt again. 

Not that it mattered much because you also don’t really go outside for a week, not if you could help it. You want to call it locking in because the midterms are coming up but in the brief moments when you allow yourself the truth, you admit it’s because you’re preventing any chance of running into Gojo again. 

It’s difficult to do that when he’s your neighbour. Or, well, when 4B is your neighbour. 

That distinction becomes very important to you. Gojo Satoru is someone you saw shirtless in the middle of campus using charity as an excuse to flex obscenely at the general public moving through their day. Gojo Satoru has wet hair, a stupid grin, and is highly dangerous because he has a face and a body and a set of eyes that pins you down, 

4B is a voice through the wall. 4B is his alarm going off too loudly in the morning, all groans and curses as he heaves himself from the warmth of his bed. 4B is ranting about the latest anime he’s watched, whispering through plaster when it gets late, knocking twice against the wall when he wants your attention but isn’t sure if you’re in.

So you let yourself have it. You avoid Gojo, and you keep talking to 4B.

After a while, there aren’t many problems with having Gojo as your next door neighbour. Sure, he can get loud during phone calls with his friends but you quickly forgive him when he gives sheepish apologies and dials down his volume. And sure, his alarm is loud but after that initial morning when you grilled him on the cheerful tune, he had changed it to something more appropriate.

The way he laughs is loud, the way he sings as he cooks is loud, the way he says your unit number is loud, all bright like he’s been waiting to catch you the moment you step into your apartment.

It seems Gojo can’t help but be loud. In every aspect.

You wonder if you should bring it up.

It really was unfortunate that your bedroom and his bathroom shared a wall. Whoever constructed this building many, many years ago must not have planned it out too well and simply settled for fitting rooms of different apartments together like tetris. And because of this, his bathroom ends up right next to your head when you sleep. 

You also gather that his shower is pressed against the said wall that you share with him, if his groans are any indication. 

You should probably bring it up. 

But how does one even bring up such a conversation? Hey neighbour! Not that I’ve been listening but I can hear you jerk off in the shower. Could you stop? 

In his defence, you relent, rolling over and pressing your pillow against your ears, he was trying to be subtle about it. You appreciate that he wasn’t doing it in his room since that would certainly turn you off from whatever you’re eating in your kitchen next to him. But if he believes the rush of water is enough to muffle his moans, he’s sorely mistaken. 

You roll onto your other side, shuffling when even this position isn’t comfortable. Your thin sheets are tangled around your legs and you’re desperately trying to focus on the book you’re reading on your phone. But who are you kidding, your thumb has been frozen on the same paragraph for the past five minutes, mind a million miles away. 

There’s a thud of something being placed down on the tiled floor, a slight rustle. And then, a low, breathy groan—so faint you could almost convince yourself you imagined it. 

But you definitely did not. 

You breath catches as you place your phone down and stare at the ceiling as if that will make the sounds stop. It never works. You tell yourself to just roll over again, put in your airpods and drown it out. You’ve done it before, you can do it again. 

But your hand is already drifting down, sliding over your stomach, fingers brushing the waistband of your shorts. 

The first stroke is unintentional, a simple slow press through cotton just to feel something. But then you hear him again, a sharper exhale, a whispered word you can’t quite make out, and your hips shift, pressing your palm harder against your cunt. 

Fuck. 

You close your eyes and instead of the dark of your room, you see steam. A shower, his shower, the one right on the other side of this wall. 

You don’t want to think about Gojo like this so you settle instead on your 4B. All you know is the sound of his footsteps in the hallway, the messy scrawl of his handwriting, the sound of his door opening and closing, the low rumble of his laugh when he teases you. It’s deep and a little rough around the edges. You’ve built a version of him from the sound alone, and right now, that’s more than enough. 

Fingers tracing the outline of your clit through the fabric, circles so light they’re barely there, you let your mind wander. 

You imagine stepping into that shower. The air is thick and wet, fogging up the glass. He’s already under the spray, back to you, water streaming down his shoulders. You don;t want to see his face, but you can see the way his muscles shift as he turns his head ever so slightly, giving you the slightest glimpse of his side profile before the steam whisks it away. 

It would be foolish to hesitate. You slide your hands around his waist from behind, palms flat against his stomach, and he laughs, the vibrations meeting your chest. 

“Fuck,” he breathes, voice deeper, lower with him so close to you. “Look at you, giving me a helping hand, hm?”

“Shut up,” you’d probably mumble against his shoulder blade, fingers already trailing lower, through the thatch of hair at the base of his cock. “You’re always so loud.”

He’d be hard already, and you can feel the heat of him, the slight twitch as your fingertips brush the underside of his shaft. 

“No, I don’t think that’s right,” he says. “Because you’ve been listening, haven’t you? All those nights wrapped up all pretty in your blankets, thinking you can get away with using me to feel good, thinking you’re an angel for trying not to listen. But you know exactly what I sound like when I’m close, don’t you?”

Your breath hitches as you wrap your hand around him, and he groans, deep and guttural, exactly the sound that’s coming through the wall right now. Your hand moves in time with the fantasy, slow strokes, thumb pressing into the slick tip, and he leans back into you, letting his head fall against your shoulder. 

“That’s it,” he murmurs, his voice a low rumble against your ear. “Such a good girl. You have no idea how long I’ve wanted you to touch me. Wanted to feel your hand on my cock for so fucking long, angel.” 

“Since when?” 

You stroke him faster, twisting your wrist the way you imagine he does, and his breathing turns ragged. 

“Since the moment you opened that pretty mouth and told me off. Fuck—faster, angel. Just like that, don’t stop. Your hand feels so perfect.”

Your own fingers press harder against your clit through your shorts, and you let out a tiny whimper you hope he can’t hear through the wall. Maybe he can, maybe he really does know exactly what you’ve been doing. That thought makes you even wetter, a choked gasp escaping. 

In the fantasy, his body tenses. His hand comes up to cover yours, pressing your grip tighter around him. 

“I’m gonna cum,” he says, voice strained. “I’m gonna paint the tiles with it, and you’re gonna watch. You’re gonna listen to me fall apart because of you. And then—fuck—then I’m gonna fuck you.” 

His hips jerk forward, and you feel the hot pulse of his release against your hand, the way he shudders and moans your name (which he doesn’t know, but you give it to him anyway, a whispered invention). His cum slicks the inside of your fingers, and you keep stroking until he pushes your hand away with an overstimulated whimper that might be your own. 

He turns around. 

You still don’t see his face, just the broad outline of his chest you saw during the carwash incident, the water catching in the hollow of his collarbone. He pushes you back against the cool tile with one hand braced beside your head, the other sliding down your stomach, between your legs.

“My turn,” he purrs. “I’m gonna fuck you right here, in my shower, where you can hear every sound I make. And you’re gonna take it, aren’t you? Gonna be an angel for me and let me use this pussy like I’ve been dreaming about.”

You nod, mouth open, and he sinks two fingers into you without warning.

The gasp that escapes your lips is real. “Gojo—!”

“Nuh uh, pretty,” he coos in your ear. “Call me Satoru. C’mon, say my name, angel.” 

You shake your head against your pillow, back arching. “That’s—that would be weird.” 

He slows down, taking his time with you, dragging his fingers against your gummy walls before sliding over that spot that makes you see stars, chuckling when you gasp. “I’m making you feel this good and you’re still talking back? Gonna need to fuck that attitude out of you.” 

You bite your lip hard. “Satoru…”

He stills, before he presses down hard. “Hm? What was that?”

“Satoru!”

His voice is a rough, airy thing in your ear. “That’s it, pretty, you’re doing so good for me.”

Your own fingers mimic the motion, pushing inside yourself while your thumb circles your clit. You can hear him through the wall—a wet, rhythmic sound, faster now, and a string of words you catch in fragments. “Yeah… that’s it… take it…”

You imagine his cock,thick, already half-hard again from the feel of you, sliding between your thighs. He lifts your leg, hooks it over his arm, and presses the head against your entrance.

“Look at me,” he says, and you try, but his face is a blur of heat and water, just shadows and the gleam of wet skin. “Look at me while I fuck you. I want you to remember this.”

He pushes in slow, and you feel the stretch in your fantasy and in your own body as your fingers sink deeper. You bite your lip to keep from moaning out loud.

“Shit, you’re so tight,” he groans, his forehead pressing against yours. “You feel that? That’s my cock filling you up. That’s what you get for listening in, for touching yourself to the sound of me cumming.”

He sets a hard rhythm, the slapping of wet skin echoing off the shower walls. Your fantasy-self clings to him, nails digging into his back, and he keeps talking, his voice ragged and dirty, exactly what you need.

“That’s it, it feels so fucking good, huh? Bet you love this, love that you didn’t know what I looked like but you know the sound of my balls slapping against your ass. You’re such a fucking slut for it. Is it hotter now that you know who I am? Open your mouth and tell me, Y/N.”

You whimper, hand curling into the sheets. “I—I can’t. You’ll hear.”

“I know, I know, you’re trying so hard to be quiet for me,” he mumbles, so soft and understanding even as he drives into you. “But I’m going to need to hear you, okay? Need to hear how much you want this.” 

Your fingers move faster, matching the pace in your head. Your breathing is ragged now, little moans falling from your lips that you can’t hold back. You don’t care if he hears, and maybe if you’re slightly truthful, you hope he does. “Oh god, Satoru, it feels so good!”

In the fantasy, he’s close again. You can feel it in the way his thrusts lose rhythm, in the way his grip tightens on your hip.

“I’m gonna cum inside you,” he growls, and it’s a question and a statement all at once. “You want that? Want to feel my cum dripping down your thigh?”

“Yes,” you whisper out loud, into your empty room.

He buries himself deep, and the fantasy explodes in a rush of heat and words: “Fuckfuckfuck—take it—take my cum, you dirty little thing—gonna fill you up so full—”

You climax with a gasp, your back arching off the mattress, your fingers pressing hard against your clit as waves of pleasure roll through you. You hear yourself moan, a high, broken sound, and you don’t care.

The sounds from his side of the wall change.

There’s a final, shuddering groan and the squeak of a hand against tile. And then silence, broken only by the rush of water from a showerhead.

You lie there, panting, hand still between your legs, your skin flushed and damp. You can almost smell the steam, almost feel the ghost of his fantasy-body pressed against yours.

The shower turns off and you climb out of bed, running away to the living room. 

You’re not a freak. You can’t be. 

You’re a kind, virtuous person who knows no sin, who is gracious and angelic and trustworthy and not someone who listens in on her neighbour jerking it in his shower. That’s simply not who you are and not something you’d ever do. 

Despite this obvious fact, your brain tells you otherwise. And when you are at war with yourself, what else is there to do but consult your friends?

You find Shoko outside the campus cafe, sitting at one of the metal tables with an iced coffee and her laptop open, clacking away with a frown. The chair opposite her is empty though not welcomingly. It’s buried under her tote bag, a packet of cigarettes jutting out that would have her girlfriend at her throat if she saw. 

You walk over, tuck the box further into her bag and under her jumper, before putting her bag on the ground. “You’re smoking again?” 

“Hi,” Shoko says, looking up briefly before slumping down over her laptop. “Just to get the edge off. Midterms are coming around and I’m already feeling the effects.”

You nod, stealing her drink and taking a long sip. She looks at you again, squinting. 

“You don’t look as bad as I thought you would.” 

“What does that mean?” 

“Isn’t that film of yours due next Friday? Where’s the panic and stress? Also, that’s my coffee you whore.” 

You take one last long sip and slide it back over. “I have bigger fish to fry. But shit, Shoko, you look completely under it already. We can call off girls’ talk for another day, I promise it’s not that serious.”

“Not that serious?” Shoko scoffs, hitting enter before closing her laptop. “You triple-texted last night at 3 a.m. not making any sense at all. What happened? Did Naoya text you again? You didn’t unblock him, did you?” 

“What? No! It’s…” you groan, covering your face. “It’s worse. It’s so much worse. I think I’m at the edge of the abyss staring down. Like whatever I do here on out will either make or break me.”

“Okay,” she replies slowly, clearly not expecting your response. “And who is this about exactly?” 

You wonder if you can tell her the truth. Hey Shoko, you might decide to start with, I’ve been crushing on the voice of my neighbour for the last month who I just found out is Satoru, you know your friend? Also, I’ve been listening to him jerk it for a while now and I have an inkling that he knows.

Instead of any of this, you whisper, “Satoru.” 

She flinches as if you’ve slapped her. “What?”

Your finger comes up to point before you stop yourself, realising it was impolite to point, but your gaze is far too telling. She hesitates, taking in your horrified expression before looking over her shoulder to find Gojo stepping into sight, head turning about as if searching for something. 

You almost delude yourself into thinking that when his gaze stops at your table, his eyes light up because he’s looking at you. You almost delude yourself into thinking that he’s making his way to your table. You almost delude yourself into thinking the smile he wears is for you. 

Only one of these things is true because the moment you see him, you’ve pulled your hoodie up until it’s almost flopping back over your eyes, leaning back and tucking your chin in.

Gojo saunters up to your table and stops just beside Shoko. Your friend groans, dropping her head into her hands. 

“He’s right behind me, isn’t he?” 

Not wanting to speak, you only shrug uselessly. Gojo doesn’t even spare you a glance, whining as he tugs on her sleeve to grab her attention. 

“Come on, Shoko, I’ve been trying to text you for hours now. Ignoring me isn’t going to make me disappear, you know.” 

“I know now,” she mumbles before yanking her arm away from his touch. “Okay, out with it, Gojo. I refuse to be seen in public with you so let’s get this over with.” 

“I need your help with something.” When Shoko only stares, unimpressed and not surprised, he presses on. “It’ll be quick, I swear! And it isn’t about the pre lab questions this time, I promise. I’m cashing in that one favour you owe me from last year.” 

“What favour?”

“Me hosting a party that got you and Utahime together.”

Shoko shoots him a withering look. “That wasn’t a favour, we just happened to meet at your party. You didn’t even know her back then.”

Gojo grins, and for a moment, you get lost in it. It would be so easy to tell him now and have that smile directed at you with recognition instead of casual politeness. You don’t think he’s doing it on purpose, but you feel yourself getting smaller as he keeps talking to Shoko and only Shoko, sitting there silently as if being quiet and sipping at Shoko’s coffee might excuse your lack of presence. 

Shoko rolls her eyes, turning to look at you. “Sorry, Y/N. We’ll talk after I’m done dealing with this kid.”

You wave her off stiffly and she narrows her eyes at you, sensing something off when you don’t say anything. Gojo seems to notice you then, looking over at you briefly. He tilts his head at you before Shoko’s voice pulls him back. 

“So? What do you want?”

“I need help finding someone.” 

You choke on your drink, hastily wiping at your chin when they both turn to look at you, a range of concern across both their faces. You wave them off dismissively, making small sounds to clear your throat as they continue. 

“For revenge or…?”

He hums, seriously considering her quip. “Maybe the opposite?” 

She narrows her eyes at that. “I don’t know everyone on campus. How are you so confident you can come to me for this?” 

“Because you’re doing the same degree as her and you’re a girl and so is the person I’m trying to find.”

There's still liquid in your throat and it’s getting harder for Gojo to pretend like his friend’s friend isn’t slowly dying from across the table. He lifts his eyes to study you, taking in the way you’re clearing your throat, struggling to keep quiet, and he sighs. 

“Hey, breathe through your nose.” 

You finally look up at him, the hood obscuring most of your vision though you still try to shoot him a look as if to say, oh no, really? and he smirks at that.

“I'm serious, just breathe for a second. Through your nose, come on. It’ll get rid of that coughing fit.” 

You close your mouth with effort and take a deep, shaky breath in. It goes in smoothly though the urge to cough still persists and you have to concentrate to not relapse. 

Gojo pushes your iced coffee closer to you, wiping his wet hand on Shoko’s sleeve after despite her protest. You take it gratefully, taking in a few sips before clearing your throat. 

Realising you couldn’t get out of this without speaking at least once, you lower your voice as much as you can and mumble, “Thanks.”

Gojo hums, accepting it easily, but his eyes linger on you for half a second too long before he turns back to Shoko. “She's someone in your course doing cardiovascular physiology. She has a lab on Tuesday and morning tutorials on Friday." 

You don’t miss the way Shoko has been staring bullets into you though her eyes flicker over to Gojo every once in a while. “A lab on Tuesday, you say.” And there’s something in her tone that has you looking up frantically. 

Gojo doesn’t seem to notice, nodding instead. “She usually comes back late, at around 5:20? Which means her classes end around 5 p.m.”

“5 p.m,” she repeats, her eyes never straying. 

You try to shake your head as subtly as possible. 

“She has the prettiest voice you’ve ever heard and the softest laugh when she finds something amusing. But then when she finds something funny, like really funny, her laugh is super loud and bright and it’s honestly cool the way she doesn’t seem to care.”

You kick Shoko’s foot under the table and she barely winces, realisation or something similar dawning on her. 

“I don’t need to know any of that, that won’t help.” Her lips quirk upwards slightly. “And why are we looking for this girl, Gojo?” 

He pouts at her words. “I’m looking for my neighbour.”

Shoko makes a gesture as if to ask if he’s serious. “Just go knock on her door? You literally know where she lives. That’s probably more than I could ever tell you.” 

“You don’t get it,” he says, tutting, wagging his fingers even. “We have this thing going on and I don’t want to ruin her trust by camping outside her door, for example. So instead, I’ll just conveniently come across her on campus because somehow our timetables seem to line up.”

 Shoko stares at him blankly. “So stalking.”

“Don’t be so crude, Shoko. It’s not stalking if I’m being emotionally considerate about it.” He leans forward slightly, hands on the table, and for a moment his voice loses some of its usual shine. “I don’t want to scare her off, okay? I know where she lives, but that feels like cheating. If you know her, ask her first. Ask if she’s okay with me knowing, or if she wants me to stay clueless and suffer with dignity.” 

Shoko’s expression barely changes. “You don’t do anything with dignity.” 

“I could start for her,” he says, then seems to realise what he’s admitted because he looks away with a small, helpless laugh. “Look, I know it sounds stupid, but I like talking to her. I like not knowing too much. I like that she can hang up on me by walking away from the wall whenever she wants. If I just knock on her door, then I’ve taken that choice from her.” 

For once, Shoko doesn’t interrupt. 

Gojo rubs at the back of his neck, grin returning but weaker this time, more embarrassed than smug. “But also, I’m going a little crazy. Call me pathetic, but sometimes she says something and I forget what my own point was. She’s mean in this really specific way, and funny, and then every now and then she’ll be nice like she didn’t mean to, and it fully ruins me. So yeah, I want to know who she is. I just don’t want to find out in a way that makes her regret talking to me.” 

You kick her foot again. 

“And what happens if you do find her?” she asks, rubbing the toe of her shoe against the floor like you have injured her beyond repair. “You’re going to walk up and say, hi, I’ve been listening to you through the wall for weeks and I reverse-engineered your timetable?”

Gojo makes a face. “No, obviously not. I have charm. I’ll make her fall for me first.”

You stand with a start, slamming your hands on the table, knocking your empty cup over. You hastily pick it up, shooting Shoko as many SOS signals as it’ll take for her to follow your lead. She lets out a slight laugh, especially after seeing Gojo’s bewildered face, and stands, albeit slowly. 

“I think I have an idea of who you’re looking for.”

“You do?” Gojo says, eyes wide and smile hopeful. 

“I have a feeling.” Her eyes leave yours after a pause, moving to shove her laptop into her bag. “But I’m going to need to confirm it before I tell you. Wouldn’t want to drag an innocent into your life.” 

He nods quickly and you mournfully think that he looks like a puppy. You didn’t need that imagery, especially not right now. You tune out the rest of their conversation though it mainly consisted of Gojo demanding more details and Shoko shooting him down firmly. When you have your tote over your shoulder, Shoko tilts her head towards the door. 

You all but run out. Vaguely, you hear Gojo ask, “What’s up with her?”

“Boy problems,” Shoko says before she catches up to you and the two of you walk out. 

“Where are we going?” 

You look over your shoulder, heart only settling when you don’t catch any glimpse of white hair. “Away.”

“Oh, so now you feel like talking.”

“Please, Shoko. Please.”

She laughs, loose and unrestrained. “Want to tell me what that was all about? Gojo looking for some Cinderella and you looking like you’re about to choke to death?”

You spin around, hands coming up to hold her still by the shoulders. “Whatever you’re thinking, it’s exactly that. Shoko, stop looking at me like that, I’m going to freak out.” 

“Okay, okay.” Her hands come up to wrap loosely around your wrists, not pushing you off, just holding you there. “Take a breath. He doesn’t know.” 

“He almost knows.”

“I’m pretty sure he only suspects something,” she corrects. “Those are two very different things. And if you really don’t want him to know then I’ll tell him that. He might seem a little clueless in areas such as personal space, but he’s not a complete jerk. He’ll respect that.”

You let go of her shoulders slowly, though your hands stay half-raised between you like you might need to grab her again if she starts looking too entertained. “He was describing me.”

“He was describing his neighbour,” Shoko says, softer now. “You are only panicking because you know that’s you.”

“That does not make me feel better.”

“It should a little.” She tilts her head, cigarette-less and serious in a way you rarely get from her before noon. “Look, if he wanted to corner you, he could’ve knocked on your door. He literally knows where you live. But he didn’t. He came to me because, in his own stupid Gojo way, he’s trying not to scare you.”

“That’s the complete issue,” you sigh, folding your arms tighter across your chest. “The issue is that he’s Gojo, the exact kind of guy I said I was done with. I know what these kinds of guys are like, hell, I dated the textbook example of one.”

Shoko’s expression softens and in the silence, something bubbles up. 

“4B wasn’t that,” you say, voice smaller than you mean for it to be. “4B was just mine.” 

The second it leaves your mouth, your face warms. Mercifully, Shoko doesn’t pounce on it and instead nods slowly, looking away from you. 

“I get that,” she says and when you glance at her, she repeats herself. “I do, you’re not crazy. But Gojo being in a frat doesn’t automatically make him Naoya variant 2.0.”

“I know that,” you grumble. 

“Do you?” Shoko bumps her shoulder against yours. “You don’t have to trust him just because he’s 4B. You also don’t have to punish him just because he looks like the kind of guy who would have ruined your life last semester.” 

“So what am I supposed to do?” you ask. 

“For now? Nothing. You don’t have to suddenly jump out and introduce yourself, but you also don’t have to shut up and ghost him forever. See for yourself what kind of guy Gojo really is now that you know both sides to him.”

Sometimes, Shoko’s rationality surprises you and you find yourself nodding along to her words, a small, dawning hope struggling out of its shell inside your heart. Just as you’re about to thank her profusely for her wise words, she opens her mouth and says, “You should come to Utahime’s this weekend.” 

“Uh.” You blink. “What?”

“It’s a small party, like actually small,” she says before you can look horrified. “Not a frat thing. It’ll just be a few of Utahime’s close friends, some drinks and food, you know. I haven’t seen you come out of your apartment for an entire week, Y/N, it’s setting off alarm bells. You’re hot. Funny. Maybe you’ll meet someone there that doesn’t remind you of Gojo or Naoya.” 

“Oh my God,” you say slowly, disgusted. “Why are those two people my only options right now? You’re right, I need to go out.” 

“I’m sure you didn’t mean it,” Shoko says with sympathy before groaning. “Can I say ‘I told you so’ yet or are you still spiralling? Because I told you so, I told you to stay away from Gojo but lookie here, who’s scouring the campus for even a whiff of you?” 

You glare at her. “Not helping, Shoko.” 

Shoko bumps her shoulder against yours. “You can tell him when you’re ready. Or let him figure it out slowly if you want to be annoying about it.”

You shove her shoulder back in return, and she laughs, and for a few steps, it almost feels like a normal afternoon. Like you are just two girls walking across campus, talking about weekend plans, not one girl trying to outrun the consequences of accidentally falling for her neighbour through a wall. 

Then Shoko tilts her head toward the bus stop. “So. Do you want to go back to your apartment or not?” 

You think of the wall, of 4B’s—Gojo’s—voice slipping through it, probably asking why you were so quiet this morning, probably making some stupid comment about your sleep schedule, probably having no idea that your whole life has just rearranged itself around his face. 

You sigh. 

“Unfortuntely,” you say. “I live there.”

Gojo wonders if he has an addictive personality. 

Or maybe it’s just you. 

But when it’s just him alone in his mind, hands running through his hair to try and catch every last runaway thought about you, he allows himself the truth. It’s probably just you. 

And the kicker is that he was only 90% certain you even existed. Suguru was the one who planted the idea in his head, that the physics had finally fucked him over and he was hallucinating the voice of a sweet, snarky girl, If he hadn’t collected your sticky notes over the last few months, that statistic might have even fallen to a good 38% and even then he wouldn’t be too sure if it was the twisted humour of his friends or if he genuinely had his own Wattpad neighbours-to-lovers arc. 

He sighs and leans back into his chair, feeling it give way under the motion with a creak. He wonders, as he so often does these days, if you heard it. His body stills and he waits for an indication that you might be home, a soft chuckle, an exasperated sigh, or his favourite, that soft way you say his name (read: unit number). 

When it doesn’t come, he slumps. 

Fuck, he was so far gone. 

It’s not like this is new to him, the wanting. Gojo wants things all the time. He wants the last pudding cup from the convenience store, wants Suguru to stop pretending he’s above gossip when he’s the nosiest person alive, wants Shoko to stop stealing his lighters despite the fact that he doesn’t smoke because he needs them to light up his birthday candles. He wants good grades with minimal effort and attention when he enters a room and for his hair to sit right without having to do anything about it. 

He also wants you. 

Gojo’s phone buzzes against his desk and he only looks at it because he’s desperate from his own thoughts. Though he immediately regrets this when Utahime’s name lights up on his screen. 

utahime: party this weekend

show up or dont 

idc

He snorts. 

gojo: woww dont get too excited inviting me im basically suffocating in ur enthusiasm 

its chill though if u dont want me there

i wont go ive got plans anyway 

Another notification drops down after he hits send. 

shoko: do NOT come to utahime’s this weekend 

that was a mistake 

DO NOT COME 

Gojo freezes, eyes blinking at the message. He taps it, opening up his chat history with her that consists of many, many time stamps and read receipts, and very slowly, something that critical thinking sparks behind his blue eyes. 

Do not come, said so blunt and immediate and so suspiciously timed right after Utahime’s invitation as if Shoko had decided his presence would cause a problem. 

A problem for who? 

Gojo’s mouth parts. Then, slowly, his grin spreads. His thumb quickly swipes out to re enter the chat with Utahime and glides across the keyboard. 

gojo: actually ykw 

wouldn’t miss it for the world <3

utahime: wait im uninviting u 

gojo? 

i said u cant come

dont leave me on read you dick 

Gojo laughs, turning off his phone. 

He turns his head toward the wall, still grinning like an idiot, thriving off the single crumb he’s been graciously fed after days of searching for you. 

“You going to Utahime’s this weekend, 4A?” he asks softly, knowing you are not there to answer.

The wall says nothing but Gojo’s grin doesn’t fade.

“That’s okay,” he murmurs, phone warm in his hand. “I’ll find out.”

There are two possible explanations for your current situation. Either Shoko is a liar (completely and utterly plausible) or her girlfriend has around 50 close friends. You don’t put it past Utahime either but at least Utahime did you a favour and made sure not to invite anyone from TDP so you settle for shooting Shoko a withering glare.

Music thrums through the floorboards, bass rattling the soles of your shoes as you tap your feet subconsciously against the beat. It’s loud, too loud for talking unless you enjoy shouting directly into someone’s ear, though no one seems to mind. Certainly not Shoko as she leans close to Utahime, mouth brushing against her ear, eyes half lidded as she practically has her on her lap.

You roll your eyes, feeling slightly sour.

Shoko notices your bitter look and acknowledges it with a slight chuckle, taking your cup of orange juice and switching it with hers. “Loosen up!” She yells over the music.

Without many other options, you take the drink and cup your hand around your ear as if you can’t hear her, just to piss her off.

Utahime snickers when your friend swats you away, her hand comfortably wrapped around Shoko’s. The sight of a happy couple sickens you and when Shoko yells for you to “go find someone to make out with!” you do decide to stand up and leave, though not because of her words, obviously. 

You’re just getting air, maybe a refill. And maybe putting at least one wall between yourself and Shoko’s terrible, smug, in-love face. 

The rest of the apartment is no better. Utahime’s place is bigger than yours, of course, because some people get exposed brick and large windows while others get mysterious ceiling stains and a neighbour loud enough to seep into your own personal life. 

Bodies crowd every available inch of space. Someone is sitting on the arm of the couch with a drink in one hand and someone else sprawled across their lap, fingers pushed into their hair. A group by the kitchen is screaming the lyrics to the song currently playing and there’s two girls taking photos in the hallway mirror, swaying together, cheek to cheek. 

You’re halfway through to the kitchen when you see him. For a second, your brain doesn’t even attach a name to the sight. It only registers white hair, too tall, black shirt, one hand loose around a red cup as he leans against the wall near the hallway. 

Then your stomach drops. 

Gojo. 

The thought arrives with immediate, unreasonable betrayal. 

What the fuck? Didn’t Utahime promise you she wouldn’t invite any frat guys? 

Not that you care. You absolutely do not. Gojo Satoru could attend every party in the city and you would remain unaffected, obviously. It is just the principle of the thing. You had been promised a Gojo-free environment, and there he is, laughing at something one of the girls around him says, head tilted down so he can hear her better over the music.

There are three that you see, maybe four. It’s hard to count when they keep shifting, hair shining under the cheap coloured lights, shoulders angled toward him like flowers reaching for the sun. 

It would be easier to be angry, to roll your eyes and hate him in the clean, uncomplicated way you usually do. Instead, something dull and familiar settles under your ribs. 

You turn away before he can look your way. 

The drink in your hand is half-empty and you make it fully empty in one long swallow, grimacing only after it burns the way down and cursing Shoko’s name in your head. Someone near the kitchen cheers for no reason and you suddenly decide that if the universe wants to be annoying, if that stupid Etsy witch wants to fuck with you that bad, you might as well ruin yourself first. 

By the time Shoko finds you again, you have acquired another drink. And then another, and then even more. She squints at you with the vague concern of someone who knows your limits better than you do but you’re already being dragged toward the cleared space in the living room by one of Utahime’s pretty friends, and the music there is cathartic. 

So you stop thinking. For the first time all night, you let yourself move without checking who is watching. Your drink is gone, your cheeks are warm, and the room is soft and bright, all coloured light and laughing mouths and hands in the air. There is no assignment, no terrible apartment, no faceless neighbour slipping into your life through the poor insulation, no Gojo leaning against a wall with half the party orbiting him. The houseparty is bumping, the ladies look good, the alcohol is flowing. There is much pain in the world, but not in this room. 

Then an arm slides around your waist. It’s muscled, warm, steady in the way it wraps around you, the scent of something masculine and fresh entering your peripherals. 

For one stupid, glittering second, you let yourself hope. It’s only the alcohol, probably. The music, even, the heat of the room or the betrayal of coloured lights making everyone look better than they are. 

But the arm is firm around you, and the body behind you is tall, and when he leans in, his breath skims close to your ear. 

Maybe. 

The thought is so sweet it makes you dizzy and you almost lean into the hope. 

“Having fun?” 

Your stomach drops so fast the whole room seems to go with it. You turn, and Naoya’s ugly face is looking down at you. What the fuck is he doing here? Oh, you are so having a word with Utahime about this. 

And okay, Naoya isn’t actually ugly, not in a way that has anything to do with his features. What’s really ugly is his expression, the entitlement in his smile and the slow drag of his eyes over you like he’s appraising something he believes is his. 

His mouth curls and all at once, the music goes thin and static-y. 

You shove him away and stumble a few steps at your own strength. “Don’t touch me.” 

Naoya lets his hand fall, but not before making a show of it, palms lifting like you are the unreasonable one. “Relax. I was just saying hi.” 

“Okay, well you’ve said your hi. Now leave.” 

He laughs, eyes dropping to your mouth, then back up again. “You’re still so dramatic. I forgot how much effort it takes to talk to you when you’re like this.” 

You step back, but the floor tilts slightly beneath you. Fuck, too much alcohol, too much heat. There’s too many bodies pressing around the living room, none of them paying enough attention as you try to place distance between you and your ex. Your shoulder knocks against someone behind you and you mumble a sorry without taking your eyes off Naoya. 

He notices the stumble and his grin sharpens. “You’re drunk. Haven’t learnt how to control yourself in this kind of places yet, have you? It’s cute.” 

He leans closer, voice lowering as if the two of you are sharing something intimate. “Did you dress up for someone tonight?” 

Your face twists. “As if it’s any of your fucking business anymore, Zenin.” 

“No, I’m serious.” HIs eyes flick over you again, slower this time, and your skin crawls. “Don’t tell me you’re still pissed about being blacklisted. Sometimes things happen to teach you a lesson, you know? Looks like you’ve learnt to finally put more effort into what you’re wearing again. You should be thanking me.”

“I am not doing this with you.” You try to sound confident but you both hear the pathetic slur to your words. 

“You’re not doing much of anything,” he says. “You’re just dancing around hoping some desperate fucker takes pity on you and notices.” 

“Fuck off, Naoya.”

His expression hardens, that little thread of irritation pulling tight because you did not blush, did not smile, did not give him even a crumb of the reaction he came looking for. “You know, this is exactly why people get so tired of you. You make everything so fucking difficult. I’m trying to be nice, and you’re acting like I cornered you in a damn alleyway.” 

“You put your hands on me!” 

“An arm, Y/N. I put my arm around you,” he corrects, like you’re the one being embarrassing. “Don’t make it sound so ugly.” 

“Well, it felt ugly.” 

For a moment, you think he might finally drop the act. But then his mouth curves again, albeit thinner and meaner at the edges. 

“Come on,” he says, taking a step closer and the crowd seems to bunch in to prevent you from leaving. “Don’t be like that. We know each other, don’t we? You don’t have to do the whole untouchable thing with me.” 

The alcohol is making everything lag a second behind. The music, the lights, the heat under your skin now sickening, the disgust rising sharp and sour in your throat. You know what he’s doing, you know it so clearly it almost sobers you. That glint in his eyes as he shamelessly trails his gaze down your face and between your tits, the way his hand is already lifting to grope you, how his voice has softened to be more convincing. 

You take another step back. 

“I said leave.” 

Naoya laughs. “You’re seriously going to act like you weren’t leaning back into me a second ago?”

“I thought you were someone else.” The words are out before you can catch them and shove them back down. 

His expression drops in a way that’s almost satisfying, if not for the fact that it twists into something worryingly familiar seconds later. You hate that your stomach sinks. You hate that, even now, some stupid trained part of you expects the punishment that comes after disappointing him. 

Naoya leans in again, close enough that you can smell the alcohol on his breath under whatever expensive cologne he sprayed on himself. “So what was the plan? Get drunk enough that you could pretend it was an accident when you went home with someone?” 

Your fingers curl into a fist by your sides. “You don’t get to talk to me like that.”

“Like what?” he asks, eyes wide with fake innocence. “I’m just saying, you’re the one dancing around like you want attention looking like that. You can’t get mad when someone gives it to you.”

“Move,” you hiss. 

He doesn’t. Instead, he says, “You always do shit like this. You act so above everything it’s a surprise you haven’t been humbled yet. Is that going to have to be my job now too?” 

“You don’t know anything about me anymore.” 

“Don’t get such a big head,” he sneers. “You’re still so easy to read. Still so fucking pathetic. Still need to feel someone’s attention on you, need to feel wanted, just so damn needy all the time.”

Your hand comes up so fast that you know the weight in which it’ll strike across Naoya’s face will give you the nicest, most satisfying crack. 

But before you can bring it down against his stupid fucking face, someone grabs your wrist and gently redirects it.  It takes you a moment to register what just happened. Someone had cut cleanly into the space Naoya had taken from you, still holding your wrist behind his back, and you blink at the grey shirt until you look up and see white hair. 

“Is there a problem?” Gojo’s voice is light enough that, for a strange second, it almost sounds like he’s walked into the wrong conversation. 

Something imperceptible flashes across Naoya’s face, something easily missed if you didn’t know his every tell. 

“Not your business, Gojo.” 

“Oh,” Gojo says, “don’t be like that. It looked fun over here. What were you guys talking about?” 

You don’t care for this passive aggressive approach of his. You yank at your arm. “I was about to slap him.”

Gojo glances back at you. 

You’re too drunk and too angry and too humiliated to care that his face is suddenly closer than expected, all pale hair and blue eyes and a mouth pressed into a thin line. You tug again, uselessly. 

“I’m serious,” you insist. “Let me slap him.” 

Naoya scoffs and takes a step back like he has other things on his agenda than to be publicly embarrassed. “This is insane. You’re both insane. Whatever, I’m done here anyway, what a fucking turn off.”

He turns to walk away, one hand running through his piss-coloured hair. 

Gojo’s other hand snaps out so fast you barely catch the motion. One second, Naoya is tilted to walk forward and the next, Gojo has his wrist caught in one hand, fingers locked around him with an ease that makes Naoya’s whole body jerk to a stop. 

Naoya suddenly hisses. There’s a thin red line where one of Gojo’s rings has bitten too hard into the skin. Despite this, Gojo does not give him the time of day. Instead, he looks at you. 

“Hm,” he says, tone casual, as if you have asked him whether he wants another drink. “I hear you, band shirt, but there’s an issue. If you slap him, you might get into trouble.” 

“I don’t care.” 

“He’s the president of—”

You squeeze his arm holding yours. “I don’t care. He’s never been slapped before in his life and it’s obvious. He needs to be slapped, Satoru, he deserves this.” 

Gojo pauses. Then, very seriously, he starts to nod slowly,  “I suppose that does make a lot of sense.”

Naoya jerks against his grip. “Are you fucking kidding me?”

Gojo’s hand only tightens, short nails digging into the skin, though he still doesn’t look away from you, not even when you whip your gaze over to your ex, wishing that looks could indeed kill. 

How did you ever date a guy like him? You stare at Naoya, at his ugly, furious, blotchy-red face, at the way he keeps looking around like there should be someone here to save him from the consequences of his own mouth. He keeps tugging and pulling but Gojo effortlessly keeps him there. 

“But it looks like you just got your nails done,” Gojo ponders. “And you could hurt yourself.” 

“It has to be me, Satoru.”

Gojo’s eyes soften at that and he finally smiles, voice going lower. “I know.” 

Then he shifts, letting go of your wrist. For a second, you think he’s going to tell you not to do it after all, that he is going to be sensible in ways that severely go against his reputation. Instead, he lifts his free hand between you, palm up. 

“Okay,” he says. “Then don’t hurt yourself doing it.” 

You blink. “What?” 

“If you’re going to do it, then do it properly,” he says, still speaking to you like Naoya is not standing there trying to pull free. “No weird wrist thing, And don’t throw your whole body into it just to put more force behind it. It’ll just make you fall over because you’re a little drunk and unsteady. You’ve gotta plant your feet.” 

Naoya laughs, no humour behind it. “Gojo, are you serious?” 

Gojo ignores him. “Also,” he adds, glancing at his own hand, “now that I think about it, rings might help.”

He holds your gaze for a little longer before offering you a kind smile and lowering his hand to you, fingers pointing towards you. 

“Are you sure?” you ask, gaze flickering up to his face then to his rings. “They might get bloody.”

“It’s okay, just take your pick. I can always clean them. This chance might not come again for you,” he tells you in a similarly soft tone. 

You reach out and take the one from his pinky finger because any other ring might be a size too big, and slide it onto your middle finger. 

Naoya’s face pales. 

“Don’t be fucking stupid,” he snaps, trying again to wrench his wrist free. “You’re going to let her hit me?” 

Gojo finally looks at him. The smile he gives Naoya is bright enough to be mistaken for friendly. “Hey, man, it’s none of my business.” 

The ring is still a little too loose, the metal heavy and cold against your skin, and your hand trembles once before you curl it into a fist and open it again. 

Gojo notices and his attention is back on you. His voice drops just enough for only you to catch it again. “You sure?” 

You look at him, then past him, at Naoya’s pale, furious face. “Yes.” 

Gojo studies you for half a second longer, something soft passing through his expression before it disappears beneath a bright, almost cheerful smile. 

“Okay!” he says. “Then first, plant those feet and let your shoulders relax a little. If you hit him like that, it’ll go through your wrist, and then you’ll be mad tomorrow because he got your hand and your mood.” 

You nod and adjust. 

Naoya jerks in grip. “No, wait—”

Gojo doesn’t look at him. “You don’t need a big wind-up. It’ll be painful even if you don’t hit hard so no pressure.” 

“Hey,” Naoya snaps, voice pitching higher. “Someone get him off me.” 

“But I want to hurt him,” you say to Gojo. 

“You will,” Gojo says, very simply. “But you don’t have to hurt yourself to do it. You’re doing this for you, remember? To get it off your chest.” 

Naoya tries to laugh. It comes out wrong. “Come on, man. I said I’m sorry. Tell her to stop being dramatic.” 

Gojo tilts his head at you, as if listening to a distant appliance hum. “Do you hear something?”

You stare at him, cocking your head in a mirror of his own gesture. “The music?”

“No.” He waves his question away. “Something annoying. Anyway. Hand open, shoulders down and feet on the ground. You’ve got this.” 

You do as he says and then turn to look at Naoya. 

For months, he had made you feel like every reaction you had was too much, too loud or too needy, too embarrassing, too difficult to love. He had taught you how to swallow anger until it sat heavy in your stomach and called that maturity. He had always walked away with his shoulders up because you were always the one trying not to make a scene. 

And now, you’re finally going to leave a mark on him. 

You slap him. 

The sound cracks across the room, sharp enough to split cleanly through the music. Naoya’s head snaps to the side at the force of it, mouth open, but finally, finally, nothing leaves it. 

Your palm burns immediately, a bright sting rushing up your arm and the ring presses back into your finger, cold against the heat of your skin. It hurts a little. But it hurts so good. 

Gojo lets go of Naoya at once. Your ex stumbles back, one hand flying to his cheek, eyes wide with shock. “You fucking—”

“Holy shit!” Gojo says loudly. “Is that Naoya from TDP? Dude, what are you doing here, do you even know Utahime?”

Naoya’s face drops slightly in confusion. “What?” 

Gojo’s voice carries easily over the music now. “No, seriously. Aren’t you the guy that one post was made about in the group chat? I wouldn’t have come to a party when you haven’t even said anything about the allegations.” 

The crowd surrounding you instantly starts murmuring amongst themselves, shooting Naoya dirty looks. 

Naoya grits his teeth, anger flooding his face all over again. “I didn’t—”

“It’s weird, I really don’t think Utahime would have invited you.”

“I was invited.”

“By who?”

Naoya opens his mouth but nothing comes out fast enough.

A girl by the couch scoffs. “Utahime would never invite him.”

“Yeah, didn’t she literally say not to let him in?”

“How did he get inside?”

Someone near you nods along to his words, and a girl wraps her arms around you, running her hand up and down your side. It could have so easily gone wrong, Naoya yelling something about being hurt and suddenly you became the problem. The drunk girl, the angry ex seeking vengeance. The one who slapped someone in the middle of the party. 

But now everyone is looking at him. And Naoya seems to realise this too because his eyes dart around the room, searching for sympathy and finding none. 

“Creep,” someone mutters.

“Get him out,” another voice says.

Naoya points toward Gojo, furious and scared in a way you have never seen before. “He’s lying. She’s drunk and she’s always been—” 

“Ugh, spare me, I know you were creeping around me too!” 

Gojo doesn’t stick around for the aftermath and you don’t either, his hand closing around your other hand to gently tug you through the growing crowd, his broad back guiding the way. 

It’s nice, you realise, which is a stupid thing to immediately think of next after slapping your ex-boyfriend in the middle of a party. Still, it is. 

The way he moves through the room without dragging you behind him, the way people part for him easily, but he keeps glancing back anyway, like he’s making sure you’re still there  and not swallowed by the music and body and the roaring awareness of what you’ve just done. His hand is warm around yours, loose enough that you could pull away if you wanted to, firm enough that you don’t have to think too hard about where you’re going. 

You let yourself follow. Past the kitchen, past the hallway mirror, past two girls whispering near the wall,  both of them looking over your shoulder toward where Naoya had disappeared, their expression twisted with disgust. 

The noise dulls a little near the back of the house. The music still reaches here, bass-heavy and insistent, but the air feels cooler, less packed with breath and perfume. Just before the back door, Gojo stops. 

You nearly bump into him and he chuckles, turning around.

“Careful.” He looks you up and down not unpleasantly. “How’s the hand?” 

“It’s fine,” you say automatically. Then you pause, looking down. 

His ring is still sitting crooked on your middle finger, too loose and faintly warm now from your skin. Your palm is red and your fingers tingle but the slap keeps replaying in your head in satisfying flashes: the crack of it, Naoya’s face turning, and any regret you might have felt dissipates. 

“Okay, it might sting a little.” 

Gojo’s expression softens. “Let me see it.” 

You lift your other hand not in his, and he reaches out to take it, a sharp thrill running up your arm when he makes contact. He turns your hand over carefully, fingers light and ticklish against your palm as he inspects it. For a moment, you wonder about this gentleness that he shows you, how sharply it contrasts with the way he had held Naoya hard enough to draw blood. His fingers move over your palm with careful attention, thumb brushing beneath the base of your fingers, moving down to the sensitive skin of your wrist and making you shiver. The hallway is too warm and too cold at once, music pulsing behind you in dull waves, but all you can really feel is the shape of his hand around yours and the ridiculous, traitorous flutter under your ribs. 

“You’ll live,” he says eventually, fingers splaying over your wrist and forearm before dropping. “And you’re staring.” 

You blink when you process that he’s looking right into your eyes, his lips quirked into a small smile as he watches you.  “Thanks for helping me slap my ex.”  He shrugs. “It’s no problem, band shirt. I think my ring did the bulk of everything.”  You look down at your hand and notice that he’s right. The silver sits crooked on your finger, too loose and too pretty, catching the hallway light like it has any right to look innocent after drawing blood across Naoya’s cheek. Thank you, pretty silver ring, for your service. May your efforts haunt him for at least a few business days. Gojo lowers his hand under yours again and for a second, you think that he’s going to ask for it back. Instead, he lifts your hand slowly such that you have the chance to pull away. His eyes stay on yours until the last moment, before he lowers his mouth and presses a soft kiss to the ring.  Technically, it’s his ring and not your hand he kissed. Still, the warmth of his breath brushes your skin, and something bright and winged breaks loose in your stomach. Your fingers twitch once in his hold as your breath catches. His lashes lower into the kiss, before he opens his eyes again and looks up at you through them.  He smiles at you cheekily.   “Can’t run away from me now, can you?” he asks, lowering your hand just enough to comfortably interlace his own fingers with yours. “I never did give you my name that one time before but it’s Gojo Satoru, though it looks like you already know. Come sit with me.” 

‘Me’ ends up being him, and also his friends. Which is not as awkward as you thought it would be, mostly because the second Gojo opens the back door, Utahime and Shoko both sit up from where they’ve been lounging together on an outdoor chair like two cats disturbed mid-nap. Their fingers point at you at the exact same time.  “You!” “With him?”  “Hi guys.” You drop your hand from his under the piercing gaze of your friends. “How’s the party?” Gojo doesn’t say anything, only stepping around you with that easy, unbothered smile of his, and joining a conversation with some guys standing around the bonfire. 

Utahime’s backyard has been transformed into something of a cozy hangout spot. Cheap fairylights hang crooked from the overhead roof, blinking out of sink, and a few mismatched outdoor chairs and beanbags sit in a loose circle around a low table cluttered with cups, jackets, and a neat stack of cards. There’s a small lit fire further out, but you drag your eyes away from its company to focus on the people you do know.  Shoko shuffles closer to her girlfriend, patting the space next to her which you gratefully take. “Hold on, so did you find someone to make out with after all? And was it…?”  You quickly look back at Gojo who is now talking quietly with someone you don’t know, the long-haired boy nodding in serious thought at whatever is leaving his mouth. His eyes slide to you and when they meet yours, you flinch, looking away. “No! That’s not—God, my head is killing me. I didn’t make out with anyone, okay? I’m not here to find someone to hook up with.”  “Why are you here then?”  “You threatened me to come.” You point out.  “Well, you weren’t going to not come, that’s not in the cards.” Shoko presses you another cup into your hands and, because you have yet to learn your lesson from earlier, you take a trusting sip.  You almost choke out the battery acid when it hits your tongue, covering your mouth with your arm as you glare at your friends. “Oh, ew, Shoko. Seriously? Can’t you make something good for once? Your jungle juice is always so ass.”  “That’s how you know it works. Tongue loosened up yet? Why did you just walk out with Gojo? What’s going on between you two? Does he know now?”  You lean back into the seat at Shoko’s interrogation, and take another deep chug of Shoko’s disgusting drink. “Before you grill me, I have to grill you. Want to tell me what Naoya is doing at your party, Utahime?”  Utahime blinks. “Naoya is at my party?” 

“Was,” you correct yourself. “I think he got the message after I slapped him that he shouldn’t be here.”  “You slapped him?” Utahime sits up with a bright smile. “Oh my God, tell me you got that on video! To clear my name though, I definitely did not invite him. He must have snuck in or something.”  “Well, basically everyone saw so I’m sure there’s a video on someone’s story by now.” You look back at Gojo now standing with just one other guy. “Satoru just happened to be there at the right place and time to help. That’s it.”  When your friends don’t immediately press for more questions, you turn back and find them whispering and giggling to each other. When they feel your suspicious gaze, Shoko looks up. “Sorry, yes, right. Gojo saved you.”

Utahime clears her throat suddenly. “Wait, shut up. Three o’clock.”  You stiffen when a weight presses against you, someone’s body dropping into the narrow gap between you and the armrest. 

You instinctively shuffle closer to Shoko to make room, though there is not enough room to make. Your thigh presses ages his, shoulder brushing against yours, and his arm slides along the back of the chair, not quite touching your neck, but close enough that your skin tingles.  Shoko mutters, “This chair is clearly only meant for three.”  “I’d hate to think you don’t want me here,” Gojo says cheerfully. “What are we talking about? Me?”  “Your head is so far up your ass you only ever think of yourself,” Utahime grumbles.  You freeze, unsure where your limbs should go when you’re pressed up to the person behind the faceless voice in your walls. Admittedly, this realisation comes a little late. You should have armed your walled defenses the moment Gojo had grabbed your wrist and pulled you behind him, should have simply walked away after slapping Naoya (that was a non-negotiable, canon event) instead of letting him drag you back where you’re now trapped. Because he doesn’t know you’re her. And right now when you’re drunk and unsteady on your feet and thoughts? This might be the worst possible time for him to find out.  “That over there is Suguru,” Gojo suddenly leans in to say, breath ghosting the shell of your ear. His voice sends shivers down your neck and along your spine, every sensation suddenly all too much. The fabric that isn’t your own grazing high on your thigh, his hair tickling your cheek, his feet nudging yours slightly so you can move over just a little bit more for him.  “That’s Kento, with the frown and beside him is Yuu, without the frown. And those, on the table, are my Digimon cards. Who the fuck brought them out here?”  Haibara laughs. “Geto did! We were playing truth or dare with them!”

“You’re lucky that’s my dupe deck or I’d end this friendship right here and now,” Gojo says, an easy grin on his face as if he wasn’t pressing up against you, his chest warm and hard against your side, your elbow awkwardly jutting into him.  Your hand flexes around the cup, and the ring shifts slightly on your finger. Gojo’s gaze drops to it for half a second, a private little smile cutting across his mouth before he looks back at the table.  “We heard about what happened inside,” Geto says. “Are you okay?”  Would it be too late to suddenly go mute? If you’re able to recognise Gojo by his voice, then the chances of him putting name to face with the girl next door and you is also very high. Though, considering the way he isn’t immediately pulling you aside to ask if you are indeed the voice in his walls, you want to believe that he has yet to figure out your identity.  So no, it isn’t too late to go mute.  You nod in response to Geto’s question and flash him a smile, hoping none of it comes off as rude.  Gojo hums beside you, the vibration travelling through your bodies. He leans down to speak into your ear, a conversation just for you. “Not much for words? What happened to all the snark earlier?” You stall for time by taking a long sip of Shoko’s concoction, the sting temporarily skyrocketing to the top of your concerns. This may or may not be a bad idea because now that you’re seated, all the previous drinks sloshing around in your stomach and this adding sip burning down your throat, you feel the world tip a little. You probably can’t deflect this question, not when he asks like this, so you settle for something else.  Clearing your throat, you try for a lower octave than usual. “I only talk to the people that deserve it,” you say, then let out a small huff at how ridiculous you sound.  The grin he shoots you is all confidence and self-assurance, leaning in a fraction closer. “How would you know if you’ve never given me a chance?”  “It’s pointless, I already know what you’re like.” Maybe it’s the bonfire or the drink in your hand but you are getting really warm. You take another long sip. 

“We talked for ten minutes max the other day, I highly doubt that,” he cocks his head at you. “Do I know you from somewhere else?”  You hum. “Maybe.” 

“I think I would remember someone like you.”  That causes you to raise an eyebrow, letting his casual flirt roll off you.  “Flattery,” you start, poking his chest. You let him catch your hand in his, holding it there against his heart, “won’t get you anywhere especially when it’s empty.” “Who said it was empty? Besides, I know I wouldn’t forget such a pretty girl.” “Oh, you would. You are.” You laugh again, finding the inside joke hilarious. “Try a little harder to remember, hm Satoru?”  The challenge makes his eyes glow just like you knew they would, always have known from the moment when a wall still separated the two of you and he had laughed at your provoking, all dark and not humourous at all.  “Maybe if you gave me a name.” You’re not quite ready to hear his name from your lips just yet so you only shake your head, wagging your finger at him playfully. “Where’s the fun in that?” “I’m usually a patient man and I’m all for the chase,” he starts, fingers inching closer, brushing hair from the back of your neck as he leans in, “but you’ve left me high and dry for so long.” His words go in one ear and out the other, your breath hitching at the slightest touch. Despite yourself, you gulp and taste the bitter alcohol in your mouth. You feel it too, warmth pooling in your gut and making your head spin.  “I’m not an easy person,” you whisper, eyes flickering down to his lips and you bite your own, the rush of all your fantasies suddenly overwhelming you. In all other them, you’ve never once imagined his lips on yours, not until now. And you don’t doubt that after this, you'll be thinking of them often.  “Trust me,” he chuckles. “You’re not easy, you’re stubborn as hell and you always give me a hard time.” As if sensing your temptation, Gojo’s eyes trace the way your teeth dig into your lip, watching the pull before you release it, red and slightly jutted out. It makes him want to sink his teeth into your bottom lip and lick the marks it leaves behind. 

Your breath hitches. He leans in slightly, looking up to search your face and wait to see if you’ll pull back. When you don’t, when he accepts whatever look is in eyes, he leans forward more. The anticipation builds and morphs into budding frustration when he continues to play this game of chicken, giving you countless moments to pull away if needed even when you’ve shown no sign of stopping.  Shoko clears her throat and you jump, accidentally crushing your solo cup. The liquid bursts up and flows down your wrist and into your lap.  “Shit!” you curse, immediately jumping up and pulling the fabric away from your skin.  Gojo quickly follows, one hand hovering on your lower back in case you tip back.  “Oh, fuck,” Shoko says. “You okay?”  “Yeah, it’s just super sticky.” You wince, accepting the tissues Nanami hands you though they do little good. “Ew, it’s, like, sticking to my skin.”  Utahime speaks up, watching you from over the rim of her cup. “There’s a bathroom down the corridor. Gojo knows where it is, he can show you.” “And maybe the two of you can make out there instead of right in front of us,” Geto says offhandedly, though his cup can’t completely hide his grin. The people around the table giggle at his words, Shoko probably the loudest.  You blush, immediately going to deny his accusations but Gojo beats you to it. “Shoko and Utahime are one second away from eating each other’s faces off but no one says anything about that!”

“That’s because this is my party, Gojo.”  “Yeah, well it was my party that got you two together,” Gojo shoots back childishly.  Everyone laughs again, chattering as they descend into the topic of other inside jokes, playing word association as they leap from memory to memory. There’s a sense of belonging that oozes from everyone as they lean into one another and talk and gossip. You might have appreciated this moment more, enjoyed the fact that they’re allowing you into this intimate moment, if not for the sudden blossoming warmth inside you. Before you can really think about it, you tug on Gojo’s shirt.  He immediately leans down, angling his ear to you. “Hm?” 

“Take me to the bathroom?”  Gojo stiffens, eyes flickering to your face then down your body. He bites his lip hard to focus, ignoring the temptation to let his mind wander at your innocent words. They had to be innocent, right? You, who was now looking up at him through your lashes with a pout playing on your lips, one hand tugging on the hem of his shirt, thumb rolling over the fabric slowly. You who was fidgeting ever so slightly, thighs rubbing together due to the cold. “Yeah,” he says suddenly, all humour gone. “Let’s go.”  Someone cheers behind you as Gojo helps you up and opens the back door for you, though neither of you seem to care. He doesn’t bother with answering greetings, only smiling shortly as you pass familiar people, something more impatient when he guides you than before.  He leads you down a corridor and into a dark room, closing the door behind you. Your heart leaps to your throat until he turns on the light, and you wince at the brightness.  “Sorry, pretty. Should’ve warned you,” Gojo says, only looking vaguely apologetic as he leans against the closed door, one hand still on the knob like he’s giving you a chance to back out.  He watches you carefully, tracing the line of your jaw, the slightest twitch of your brow and then, his favourite part, the flush climbing your cheeks. “The bathroom should be safer than a spare room. Who knows who is in there doing what.” You hesitate. “You didn’t have to follow me in.” 

“No?” He tilts his head, eyes roaming over you before settling smugly on your face. “You’re still holding onto my shirt. Maybe let go if you want to sound convincing.”  You shiver, letting go immediately and stepping back closer to the sink. You open your mouth to say something, a stupid excuse perhaps, but he beats you to it.  “You cold?”  “What?” “Earlier.” His eyes fall to your legs. “You were fidgeting. Thought maybe you were cold. Call me a desperate guy if you want, but don’t ask a guy to take you somewhere private while looking at me like that.”  “Like what?”  Gojo pushes off the door and you take a step back instinctively. “Like you wanted me to misunderstand you.”  You hesitate, looking around the bathroom. He seems to notice, and stops immediately, eyes softening. “Hey, I’m not going to do anything you don’t want. Just shove me away and I’ll go, I promise.”  “It’s not that,” you bite your lip.  “Then what is it, pretty?”  “You talk too much. You’re too loud,” you manage to say, warm despite the chill of the drink on you. “Always have been.”

The corner of his mouth lifts. “Yeah?”  “Yes.”  “Good.” He takes one step closer. “Then make me shut up.”  Your back meets the sink before you realise you have moved, the contrast of cold porcelain against your overheated skin making you gasp. He’s on you in an instant, hands roaming down your side until they’re gripping your hips hard enough to bruise.  “You’re so tense,” he murmurs against your neck. “You have no idea I’ve been watching you all night, do you? That little skirt? This tiny little top?”  He slaps your tits and you jolt, looking up at him in surprise to which he only grins down at you. You can’t seem to form a coherent thought, not when there’s alcohol swimming in your veins and turning your limbs to jelly, mind to fog. Still, you manage to say, “Did you just slap my boob?” “Don’t act like you didn’t like it. If I shove my hand down your skirt, am I going to find you wet, pretty?”  His knee nudges between your thighs, spreading them open as he steps closer.  “You are so gross—” you start, but he cuts you off with his mouth on yours.  The kiss is brutal and demanding all at once. His tongue slides against yours, tasting of expensive liquor and something sweet, or maybe that’s just your taste and he’s shoving it back against your mouth. One hand leaves your hip to fist in your hair, tilting your head back. 

He breaks the kiss only to trail his lips down your throat, sucking hard at the pulse point. “Don’t lie to me. I know you’ve wanted this since the first time I heard you. You have quite the perverted streak to you, don’t you?” Your breath hitches. His hand slides down, palm flat against your stomach, then lower. He doesn't bother with the fabric of your panties, just pushes them aside and drags his fingers through your slick folds. “Fuck,” he hisses. “You’re soaked. And you're gonna tell me you weren't dreaming about this? Getting yourself off to the thought of me touching you like this?”  His middle finger sinks into you without warning. You cry out, a sound that would be embarrassing if you had any sense left. But all you can feel is the stretch, the fullness, the way your body clenches around him desperately. “That's it,” he coos, tone shifting to something truly mocking. “You’re really feeling it now, aren’t you?”  He adds a second finger, fucking them into you with a rhythm that has your knees buckling. His thumb circles your clit in lazy, torturous circles. You're already so close, the buildup of tension from hours of dancing, of drinking, of watching him across the room, it all crashes toward a peak. “Please,” you whimper. “Please what? Use your words, pretty.” “Please fuck me,” you manage to gasp, fantasy and reality crashing together in a dizzying mess.  He pulls his fingers out abruptly, and you groan at the loss. But then you hear the sound of his belt unbuckling, the zipper of his pants, and your mouth waters. He takes himself in hand, strokes once, twice, and then the blunt head of his cock presses against your entrance. “Look at me,” he commands.

You force your eyes open. His are dark, pupils blown wide, a little furrow between his brows. 

“Are you with me?” he asks, brushing your hair out of your eyes.  You nod, rutting forward pathetically.  “Come on, pretty, I need to hear you say it.” “I’m here!” you choke out, gasping. “Please, I want this, I promise I—I want you. Satoru, please.” He groans, the tip of his cock pressing forward beyond that little ring of resistance, swearing at the involuntary thrust. “Okay, okay, I’ve got you.”  He noses into your temple, inhaling deeply, one thumb holding you open as he presses in and groans, filthy and depraved.  “Fuck—you’re so tight,” he gasps, cock stuttering through until he’s buried deep.  The sensation of being stretched wide open on his cock makes you tense, before a ragged, grateful cry escapes your swollen lips. You can barely breathe through your nose, head spinning with pleasure.  “Oh god, oh my god!” you cry out, head thrown back. 

“Shh,” he hisses against your ear, his breath hot and sweet. His cock rams into you—a thick, punishing rhythm he picks up easily—and every thrust pushes your back against the sink. “You gotta stay quiet, angel. We don't want anyone hearin’ how much of a slut you are, do we?” But of course, all good things have to come to an end because through the hazy pleasure, you hear a grating voice.  “Hey! Y/N! I know you're in there!” You can recognise Naoya’s voice anywhere even, it seems, when you’re being fucked for every inch of your life.  Gojo’s hand closes around your mouth as he looks at you, grunting softly with every thrust. He pulls out briefly and you whine until he turns you around and presses you up against the cold tiles, driving up into you like he never left. His rhythm doesn’t falter, if anything, he pounds harder.  “Mm-mm,” you try to say, shaking your head, panic rising. He doesn't stop. He slams into you and your body jolts, your forehead knocking against the tile. “I said I know you're in there!” Naoya's voice is slurred, angry. He kicks the door. “Open the fuck up! We need to talk!” Gojo’s hand slides off your mouth though not enough to leave completely. It’s just his palm moving, his fingers hooking into the corner of your lips, prying your mouth open. Two of them slip inside, salty with your own slick, and he pushes them back until you're gagging.

“Answer him,” Gojo whispers, his lips brushing your ear. “Go on. Tell him you’re busy.”

You can’t. His fingers are deep in your throat. You gag, tears springing to your eyes, and he just laughs, low and dark. “Oh, right. You can't talk with my fingers in your mouth, can you?” He pulls them out, slick and wet, and wraps them around your jaw, tilting your face toward the door. “Try again. Use your words.” “Naoya,” you choke out, your voice wrecked, breathless. “I’m—I’m fine. Just—” “Just what?” Gojo thrusts, hard, and your sentence crumbles into a gasp. His cock sinks so deep you feel it in your stomach. “Just getting fucked stupid? Tell him the truth.” There’s a beat of silence. You can picture Naoya on the other side of the door, his fists clenched, his jaw tight. When he speaks again, his voice is lower, certainly enraged. “You’re lying. I can hear you breathing. Open the fucking door.” Gojo’s hips slow. He pulls almost all the way out, leaving just the tip, and then drives forward in one smooth, devastating motion. You cry out, quickly muffled by your own hand. “Don't make me break this door down,” Naoya warns. Gojo chuckles, right in your ear. “He sounds mad. Poor guy. You really do know how to pick ‘em, don’t you?” He leans closer, his chest pressing against your back, his lips brushing the shell of your ear. “But you’re not his anymore, are you? You're mine. For tonight, anyway.” He fucks you slow now, deep and deliberate, his cock dragging along every inch of your walls. You feel every ridge, every vein and your legs tremble in the delicious drag.

“Tell him,” Gojo whispers, “that you’re busy. That you don’t have time for him anymore. ‘Cause he’s nothing to you now, right? Tell me he’s nothing to you.”  You swallow, wanting nothing more than to open your mouth and babble about how incredible it is to get railed in a bathroom, how brainless Gojo’s cock is making you but you have to be good, he’s waiting for you. So instead, you manage to say, “Naoya, leave me—ngh—alone!” Naoya growls at the closed door before him, even going so far as to stomp his feet like a petulant kid. “Fine! Fucking fine, Y/N! But I promise you, you’ll regret this! I’ll make sure you do!”

Sure, you think, eyes rolling back, as if your Etsy witch can touch me anymore when Gojo is fucking me. You slump forward, relief flooding you when you hear his footsteps retreating, but Gojo doesn’t let you rest. He grabs a fistful of your hair, yanking your head back, and resumes his brutal pace. “Good girl,” he purrs. His voice is different now, softer, honeyed and  almost affectionate. “Such a good fucking girl. You did so well. You listened. You obeyed.” He kisses your shoulder, open-mouthed, wet. “See? I knew you could be good for me.” The whiplash is dizzying and it only makes you arch more, something inevitable and delicious approaching in the far distance.  “That's right,” he murmurs, still fucking you deep and slow. “You took that so well. Pretended you weren’t getting your tight little cunt stuffed while your ex was right outside. That takes skill, pretty. You’re so fucking perfect for me.” His hand snakes around your front, fingers finding your clit. He rubs slow, tight circles, and your hips buck. “Bet you've been practicing, haven't you?” His voice is a low, knowing drawl. “All those nights you thought nobody was listening. Thought nobody could hear you moaning. But weren’t you the one to tell me? The walls are thin as shit, angel.” He’s ramming into you now, fast and rough again, his words spilling out between each thrust and all you can do is be a ragdoll in his hold.  “You'd lie in bed, late at night, fingers in your pussy, listening to me stroke my cock. I’d hear you. The wet sounds. The little ‘oh, yes’s. And I’d think... fuck, I need to have that. I need to feel that cunt clench around me.” You're dizzy, overwhelmed. His hand on your clit, his cock in your cunt, his words in your brain, it’s all too much. “Did you think I didn’t recognize you at the party tonight? The girl with the needy little moans?” He bites your earlobe, hard enough to sting. “I’ve been waiting for an excuse to corner you. And then you showed up drunk and sad, with that asshole on your heels, and I knew tonight was the night.” He’s watching you in the mirror and you catch his reflection. His eyes are dark, lips parted, face flushed. He’s absolutely beautiful.

“I'm gonna fill you up,” he growls. “Gonna pump my cum so deep inside you it leaks out for days. And when you walk past my door tomorrow, you're gonna know. You’re gonna remember this. You’re gonna touch yourself to the memory, and I’ll be right there, on the other side of the wall, stroking myself to the sound of you coming undone.” His hips slam into you. Once, twice, three times. You feel the pressure building, the coil in your belly tightening to the point of pain. “Satoru—” you gasp, hands fumbling for purchase on the wall.  “I know, angel, I know. Cum for me,” he demands. “Wanna finally feel you cum on my cock—fuck.” You shatter. Your orgasm crashes through you like a wave, your cunt clenching around him, your body shaking. You cry out his name—Satoru—and he follows a second later, buried to the hilt, his cum hot and thick inside you. He holds you there, both of you breathing hard, sweat-slick and sticky. Then he pulls out slowly, watching his cum drip down your thigh. “Good girl,” he says again, his voice a warm, approving caress. He turns you around, cups your face in his hands, and kisses you, soft, tender, unhurried. “You did so well, pretty. So, so good for me.” Your knees are weak and he notices, turning you and pressing you to his chest to keep you upright. He continues to whisper in your ear as your senses return to you, and when you finally lift a hand to gently push at his chest, he lets you, eyes immediately flickering down to your eyes.  “Still with me?”  You nod, before you fall forward into his arms. 

When your body breaks down alcohol, it converts the ethanol into acetate, a process that produces a lot of NADH from NAD⁺. The imbalance of the NADH⁺ ratio leads to the feelings of weakness and grogginess that come from a horrible night out.  You wake now, approximately ninety percent NADH and ten percent regret.  For a while, you refuse to move. You only stare at your ceiling, blinking slowly at the familiar crack in the paint above your head, the soft grey light pressing through the curtains, the horrible cotton-dry feeling your tongue against the top of your mouth.  How the fuck did you get home? Your own bed, in most cases, the preferred place to wake up after all. It’s safe, it’s familiar, and most importantly, it’s yours. But the last thing you remember is not collapsing into the warmth and security of your own bed. The last thing you recall comes in fragments: Utahime’s party, Gojo’s hands on your body, the bathroom light flickering too bright overhead, the sink cold behind you and his voice low in your ear.  And then nothing. You suppose there are brief pieces after that, blurry and soft around the edges. Glimpses of a car window, someone cursing under their breath, the sound of your keys jingling and the vague sensation of being carried. That one must have been a drunken hallucination because it’s humiliating and therefore cannot be the truth.  You fumble for your phone which is not beside your pillow where you usually place it after your nightly doomscroll before bed, but placed neatly on your bedside table. There’s a few texts from friends on your lock screen, but there’s only one person you want to text. 

shoko: alive?

actually don’t answer if you’re dead

if you’re alive though please drink some water and let me know that you’re ok 

You laugh softly. Why did you jump to conclusions so quick? Of course it was Shoko that took you home! Who knew her upper body strength was so good that she managed to carry you into your own bed after a night of drinking. 

you: im alive!!

thank u so much for taking me home btw 

i owe u :3

She quickly reacts to your message with a heart before the typing indicator appears. 

shoko: i didn’t take u home (?) 

gojo did obv

he WHAT? is probably what you’re thinking but please remember to breathe and drink some water before you crash out 

You are, in fact, thinking he what?And because Shoko accurately called you out on that, you decide to follow through on the rest of her advice. You turn your head and stop a sticky note stuck to the glass of water beside your head, bright yellow and neat as a warning label. 

water is important when you’re recovering from a hangover! — satoru

Then, a little to the left, attached to a packet of painkillers, 

because i know your head probably feels like shit rn — still me 

“Oh my god,” you whisper, unsure whether to laugh or to run away. 

You do neither because your head really does hurt like a motherfucker, and take the painkillers along with a generous gulping or two of water. The cool liquid does little against the parched nature of your throat, but when you wipe your mouth with the back of your hand, you feel alive enough to venture out of your bed.  There’s a sticky note on the ground next to a pair of slippers you swore you had separated, one in the kitchen one somewhere in the living room. 

the ground is cold! wear slippers! — forever urs :3

“Forever yours?” you repeat aloud, voice wrecked with sleep and dehydration even as you shove your toes in. 

There’s another note on the back of your bedroom door. 

no matter what u see in the mirror remember you’re beautiful! — shrek to ur fiona?

You open your bedroom door and make your slow, regretful way to the bathroom where you lay your tired eyes on your puffy face. You have definitely seen better days. There’s another note stuck to your mirror. 

face wash is on the left toothbrush is on the right if you use the face wash as toothpaste, that’s between you and god — not your doctor 

Huffing out a sound that might be amusement, you pick up your toothbrush and ensure you squeeze toothpaste onto its bristles. The toothpaste is minty and makes your eyes water slightly, but by the time you rinse your mouth, you feel one step closer to not feeling like the undead. 

There’s another note stuck to the towel rack. 

if ur eyes are puffy, put a cold compress over them! — still not a doctor

From the bathroom back to your room for a change of clothes and even on your way to the kitchen, you’re guided by a series of sticky notes. 

clean clothes! i didn’t look through your drawers dw — feminist 

welcome to the kitchen! huge milestone for you — ur biggest fan 

water already boiled in here so when you wake up to reboil it it’ll take less time — the kettle knower 

drink real water first before the coffee !! seriously don’t put coffee in me just yet — mug 

soup inside on the second shelf :3 not homemade so don’t get too excited i’m handsome, not magical i couldn’t have it both ways — :(

in the microwave for two minutes with lid half on! take it out when it’s boiling — the soup sipper 

You finally feel alive enough to laugh, embarrassingly loud in the quiet of your kitchen. You stand there in your slippers, teeth brushed, face washed, and dressed in clothes when any other time you might have still been under the covers. 

The apartment feels full of him. A note when you open your utensil drawer for a spoon, a note sitting on top of a coffee pod conveniently placed on your counter, a note against the body of a vase you’ve placed on your dining table to feel more homey. 

eat slowly, you get hiccups when you rush! 

The notes take you away from your drying rack when you’ve finished the store-bought soup and washed your spoon, taking you to your living room. Your camera sits on your coffee table, a sticky stuck on the surface that reads: “turn me on ><” You roll your eyes but do so, lifting it up and framing the sorry state of your living room before hitting the record button. The first shot captures just how many sticky notes litter the surface of almost every object, the words telling you a funny joke or reminding you to put something back. You take your time walking through all of them, his handwriting everywhere, his name everywhere (except when he decides to write down a silly nickname). 

Satoru.

Satoru.

Satoru.

Then, you find the last one on your front door. 

if you’re overwhelmed, you don’t have to open this today. if you’re angry at me, just yell at me through the wall :( if you’re okay, i’d like to see you — satoru

And then, before you can think it through, you reach forward and open your door.  Gojo stands in the hallway, a bouquet of flowers clutched in both hands like he’s praying. His eyes light up when you open your door and he moves forward instinctively. He’s so close that the toe of one sock is nearly edging over the threshold of your apartment.  You let out a short scream.  He startles just as badly, eyes going wide as he reaches forward on instinct to steady you, and your camera slips from your hand. “Oh—”  It hits the floor before either of you can grab it, bouncing once, then sliding sideways across the carpet until it knocks gently against the leg of your couch. The camera keeps recording from there, tilted on its side. It catches the lower half of your open door, Gojo’s socked feet in the hallway, your bare feet on the carpet, and the hem of your sweater falling over your shorts. “Are you okay?” he asks in a rush. 

“What are you doing standing right in front of my door, you creep?” you shoot back, one hand pressed to your chest. “Were you standing there the entire time?” 

“I was trying to be romantic.” He shoves the bouquet toward you, panic making his voice crack at the edges. “I literally got you flowers!”  You take them automatically, bewildered by the weight of roses in your hands. “Thank you? Is that why you’ve littered all over my apartment?”  His face falls. “Was that not cute?” 

You blink. “Cute?”  “Did you not think it was cute?” he asks, suddenly horrified. “Because I thought it was cute. I mean, not in a weird way. Well, maybe a little weird. But intentional weird. Charming weird.” 

“The sticky notes?” He groans, dragging a hand down his face. “Look, I’ve never done anything like this before, okay? This whole romance thing is seriously above me, I have no idea how I’m meant to ask you this without scaring you away.”  You stare at him for a long while before laughing. The sound pulls from your throat loud and bright that it almost hurts with an incoming headache, but it’s so funny you just can’t stop. “I knew you had no experience with women. I called it all along, didn’t I?” “Please, this and that are completely unrelated.” His shoulders seem to relax at your laugh, and he finally cracks a smile, running a hand through his hair. “You never were going to make it easy for me, were you?” 

“Easy? When you’ve just left forty sticky notes in my apartment and then lurked outside my door?” His smile trembles, trying to stay bright, but the nerves are still there beneath it. You can see them now that you know to look. The way his fingers flex at his side, the way his eyes keep flickering from your face to the threshold like he is measuring the exact line he is not allowed to cross.  “I wasn’t lurking,” he says, quieter. “I was waiting.”  Your fingers tighten around the bouquet.  Gojo looks down at it, then back at you. “I wanted to knock earlier, but I thought if you woke up and saw me before you were ready, you’d panic.” “Please, I wouldn’t have panicked.”  “You literally panicked ten seconds ago.” “Touche.” You look at him for a short while before glancing down at your slippered-feet. “I’m still scared, honestly. I think I’ve been cursed in every possible aspect of love. That’s why when I heard your voice all the way back during that carwash event, I didn’t want you to know it was me. It would break what we had going on through the wall and I liked that. It felt like something I could just keep to myself. And then I found out you were Satoru and it was obvious you weren’t just mine anymore.”  Gojo lets you talk, lets you call him Gojo again without saying a single word until you finish. Then he says, “Were you disappointed?”  “No,” you say immediately. “It wasn’t like that.” 

He smiles then, head tilting to the side. “Then I can be just Satoru. Just your Satoru, if that helps.”  It’s so stupidly cheesy that you have to scoff, even as your cheeks warm.  “I’m serious,” he chuckles along with you, stepping a little closer. “I liked being 4B. I liked that you knew me when I was just some guy through the wall that you liked talking to. I liked talking to you through blackouts and through shitty phone calls. I liked what we had too. Have, if you’ll let me.” “Are you asking me out?” He huffs, a weary smirk on his face. “Isn’t it obvious?”  Instead of answering him, you shove the bouquet of flowers back into his chest, watching as his brows furrow in confusion, before you’re reaching forward to cup his face and kiss him. In one suspended second, Gojo simply stands there doing absolutely nothing. He freezes so completely beneath your hands that, if you risked opening your eyes, you might find his bright blue ones staring back at you. His lips are still against yours, the rest of him gone rigid, roses crushed between his chest and yours, fingers locked around the stems not quite sure what else to do.  You almost pull back. 

But then, in a rush of movement, the bouquet is gone.  He throws it blindly into your apartment with a kind of urgent, graceless force that makes several roses scatter across your carpet. Before you can laugh, his arms are around you.  One arm wraps around your waist, pulling you close enough you half tread on his feet, other hand coming up to cradle the side of your face, warm and shaking just slightly. Nothing in the world has ever felt so right.  There’s too much smiling in the kiss, and your noses are pressed awkwardly for the kiss to be smooth but then he tilts his head and gets it right.  You kiss him until your lungs begin to object and then slowly, you pull away. Gojo follows you for half a second before he catches himself, eyes opening slowly. His pupils are blown wide, hair a mess, and his mouth is parted without anything clever coming out of it.  “So,” he licks his lips, eyes flickering down for a moment. “Is that a yes?”  From the floor, your camera continues recording from its crooked angle. It captures none of it neatly, not your face and not his, not the way his thumb brushes your cheek. It catches the fall of the roses, the way your bodies draw the other in in a rush, the stumbling as he walks you back into your apartment and you both disappear from the frame in a fit of giggles and whispered words.  “Yes, Satoru,” you laugh, letting him guide you further into your apartment. “It’s a yes.”  Later, when you edit the film, you leave the shot in. It isn’t as graceful as it could be nor will it win an Oscar in cinematography, but for your love assignment, you decide that this will do. 

you let satoru do as he pleases, threading your hands through his hair as his hand dips between your inner thighs. he hums into your neck when you scratch his scalp. “suguru,” you breathe, “how’d you two even get here? coach toji’s gonna kill you guys.”

“kiss,” satoru interrupts. you tilt your head towards him, eyes still on suguru as gojo presses his lips to yours.

suguru’s face twists in disgust, but he doesn’t comment. “satoru bribed him. paid him a couple hundreds to see you for five minutes.”

“right—” your voice strains when gojo gropes your ass once again. “and you followed him because?”

geto is already looking away. “he bribed me too.”

you snort, but it turns into a shiver as satoru sucks on your earlobe. he hums, pleased, when your fingers tighten in his hair.

“mmh… got an away match,” he kisses your jaw. “wanted to see my girl first.”

you’re not his girl, you know you’ll never be, but you still laugh when he squeezes your waist & presses hurried kisses to your cheek. you shove him away & his grin is cocky.

“gonna score for you,” he tugs you back, dipping his head to your ear. “and then you’ll treat me, yeah?”

you hum when his arms snake around your hips once again.

“only if you score the winning goal.”

2. POST MATCH SEXCAPADES !

satoru comes back too late.

you’re not sure exactly why—maybe overtime, maybe the team stopped somewhere to celebrate their win—but you don’t let the thought plague you. you’re more concerned about the fact that it’s nearly evening & you can hear a ball kicking against the gym walls. you’re still in your cheer uniform, tiny skirt & sheer top, standing at the metal doors as you watch gojo dribble on his own.

he stops dribbling to catch his breath, wiping sweat off his chin. and then he’s off to sit at the bleachers, letting water slide down his neck as he chugs from a bottle.

you take it as your cue.

you have your hands behind your back, padding all slow, steps soft as you make your way to him. gojo keeps his bottle pressed to his lips but he sees it. how your skirt clings to your thighs. how your breasts ripple under the thin material. he lets out a low hum as you sit yourself on his lap.

you loop your hands around his neck. “hi.”

his lip tugs. “hi,”

he squeezes your waist as you press yourself into him. your tits smush against his chest, nipples hardening, and his fingers are already tracing the hem of your skirt & gliding up your thigh.

“how was the match?” you mumble.

“was good,” he mutters, but his thumb has already found your panties underneath your skirt. he rubs a slow circle over the bud. “you miss me?”

“no,” you sass, but he presses his thumb into your clit & your hips stutter. satoru laughs.

“i know what you like now,” he hums, left hand gliding up your side as the other rubs slow circles over your panties. “know it only takes a little.”

his thumb finds your nipple through your thin shirt. he rubs a circle over the pebbled peak, slow, but then he raises a brow. “no bra?”

you can’t respond. your breath hitches as your head falls into his shoulder.

“so cute,” he murmurs softly. he lets you press against him, leaving your panties to grope your heavy tits in his palm. he squeezes and fondles, pressing light kisses to your cheek as you make pretty noises in his ear. your hips buck into him.

“needy,” he scoffs, but his hands come up to guide your hips as you rut against him. he’s already hard and your panties are soaked thin and you let the material cling between your folds as your clit rubs against him. he flips up your skirt to find you drenched & slobbering. he bites his cheek.

“fuck, baby,” he rasps, sliding your panties over your aching cunt. you’re still humping him. “why’s your pussy so fucking wet?”

you only whimper as he presses his thumb to your sticky clit, rubbing hard circles over the bud. his other hand gropes your hip, guiding you faster over him. your breathing shudders as his thumb circles your clit faster and harder, until your hips are stuttering & he’s cupping your pussy so you cum in his palm.

you whimper, tears pricking at your lashes as you come down from your high. satoru kisses your cheek slow. “mmh, good job, baby.”

he’s still rubbing his palm over your pussy, massaging your warmth all slow & lazy. your eyes drop to his bulge, his cock practically twitching in his shorts. you reach a hand to glide over it, palming him so his hips twitch. he inhales sharply, “fuck—”

“not in my uniform,” he steals your hand, kissing your jaw. “gonna be a nightmare to clean.”

you glare at him through your lashes. “it’s already dirty, idiot.”

he laughs at your pretty face glaring up at him. your cheeks are still flushed, lashes wet, and your lips are in a frown but satoru swears you’re the prettiest thing he’s ever seen. he folds his hand over yours and dips his head to kiss you warm & slow. you gasp as his tongue pushes in, a soft moan leaving your lips as his tongue grazes yours.

“another time,” he murmurs against your lips. “no pouting, yeah?”

you pout anyways, and satoru kisses it off.

3. NOT YOUR GIRLFRIEND !

satoru is driving too fast.

his jaw is tight, knuckles white against the steering as you clutch your seatbelt beside him. your heart hammers against your ribs but the engine soon slows, his foot easing down on the breaks as the car comes to a stop at a traffic light.

today’s match went bad, really bad, so bad to the point that afterwards you’d tried to console him and he’d simply walked past. you try not to let it get to you. you know how men are when it comes to losing in sports.

but satoru’s breathing settles beside you, so you try once more.

“you played good today.”

silence.

"i know you're upset," you continue, voice soft. "but it's just one game, and you'll get them next time.”

silence again. his jaw only ticks, face illuminated by the traffic light’s red glow. the seconds seem to stretch into minutes, and you fumble with your skirt.

“you did your best,” you turn to him. “that’s all that matters—“

“can you stop?”

you freeze.

satoru doesn’t look at you. his fingers tap against the steering as he lowers his foot to the gas pedal. he’s not speeding anymore, but the silence stretches & you can feel a lump clawing at your throat.

you bite your lip. and satoru’s mad, yes, but he’s got no right to talk to you like that or take his anger out on you. so you suck in a breath, try to correct him. “i was only trying to help. you don’t have to take it out on me—“

“do you ever get tired of talking?”

“what?”

but satoru continues. “you always have something to say, don’t you? you’re not my fucking girlfriend. and i don’t need your fucking comfort.”

you blink. the words don’t register at first, but soon your throat is closing up, and you’re nodding obediently before you can think any better of it. your skirt bunches in your hands as you try to keep your breathing steady. god forbid you give him a reason to snap at you once again.

“you’re right,” you try for sass but it fails. “and i won’t act like it again.”

but satoru sees you through the rearview mirror. your eyes are on your lap, like you’re still trying to process what just happened, your thumbs fiddling with the hem of your skirt. satoru only swallows, glances away. if he ignores you long enough, you’ll be just fine, right?

your breath hitches beside him and he crumbles immediately.

he’s already pulling over, unbuckling his belt to reach over the console. “no baby, i’m sorry,” he pleads, and maybe he shouldn’t because it only makes tears fall from your eyes. “shh baby don’t cry, i’m sorry, i’m so fucking sorry.”

he smushes your face into his chest, carding his fingers through your hair. you try to push him away but he takes your hand and presses it to his chest.

“didn’t mean to snap at you,” his breathing is ragged as he cups your face. “don’t cry baby, you know i hate it when you cry.”

you sniffle as he swipes a thumb over your wet lashes. “then what are we?”

satoru doesn’t answer. instead he presses his lips to yours, slow and warm, head tilting to deepen the kiss. “you’re my girl,” kiss. “my baby,” kiss. “my everything,” kiss.

he doesn’t say my girlfriend. but he doesn’t need to, right?

footballer!gojo doesn’t do relationships. and cheerleaders like you don’t make good girlfriends anyway. so you swallow the lump growing in your throat & let him part open your thighs.

SCORE, end

"Anything that your mind tricks you into thinking is fake," Satoru's firm voice comes, tone mellow, serious. He gets this way any time he shares things with you about his profession, any time he attempts to bridge that gap between you and the sorcerer-world. You purse your lips and glare hard, at the dark windows reflecting moonlight, around the blue double doors signifying an entrance and exit. "Any shadows. Any feelings of dread, or sadness. Just an unknown presence."

"An unknown presence," you repeat slowly, (e/c) eyes skittering across the area. "So it'll look like a shadow?"

"No. It'll look more like some kind of monster. You'll know it when you see it. When you feel it."

Something unsettling sits in the pit of your stomach as you furrow your brows. "Okay," you murmur uncertainly. Satoru notes the subtle shift in you, the displacement and unease, and his hands hold you tighter.

"I got you. Don't worry," he assures. You nod, swallow hard, and focus.

Despite how firmly Satoru stands his ground for you, and the confidence he very clearly withholds regarding the foreign things he introduces to you, the ivory haired man shields his anxieties regarding your wellbeing deep within, locking them away to be uncovered in the privacy of his loneliness, when he's separated from you, far off in a territory that you can not fathom. That you do not know.

Months of puppy love have passed, of Satoru sneaking off to see you every second he can, of him juggling his students and responsibilities with the love that is blooming in his soul, and that has been from the very moment his eyes first lay on you. Months of carefully feeding you information in increments, of him unveiling truths and secrets to your virgin eyes and ears that have your head reeling at the insanity. And he hasn't even told you who he is yet. Not really. Not fully.

Satoru tries his very best not to overwhelm you. He started with little tricks, like his teleportation and his infinity when it takes the form of a shield around his body. Gradually, notions of cursed energy, cursed techniques, and weapons floated into conversation. And even that was a lot for you to grasp. And hell, the sapphire eyed man does not blame you.

Life with you has been refreshing, yet so odd. He has never spent such a prolonged amount of time with someone who does not know who he is off the bat, with someone who has never heard of the horror that he is, that he deals with day in and day out. You're completely ordinary in that aspect. No cursed energy. No untapped technique. You're just you, just a human being. And yet, that is one of the most extraordinary things that Satoru has come to find about you.

Because you are just a human. You're independent. You're kind. You're emotional, you're passionate. You're motivated. You're strong, like very physically strong - one time you kneed Satoru in the gut accidentally while he straddled over you and attacked you in a fit of tickles. The very action knocked the wind out of him and sent him toppling onto the other side of the bed from the shock, his hands clutching his gut. He at least knows that he does not have to protect you from human dangers, though he absolutely still plans to.

You're everything that Gojo never knew he wanted in a partner. Loyal, opinionated, outspoken, gentle, nurturing, sweet, and you are one of the greatest beings he has ever known. But you aren't a sorcerer. And while he finds that he loves that about you, that he can breathe and let himself simply be in your presence without the burden of having to keep appearances or adhere to the name that nations beg sanctity from, you have absolutely no way of confronting the supernatural evil that lurks if it ever faces you.

It terrifies Satoru more than anything else in this world, and Satoru Gojo has never experienced such fear before in his life. He's never really had reason to be afraid of anything before meeting you.

And if basic concepts and principles of sorcery overwhelm you, then how could he ever begin to tell you who he is? The weight of his presence in any room? What it really means for you to be with him, and how he frets every day for your safety solely because he cares so deeply for you?

You don't know that you're dating the strongest sorcerer of the modern age. You don't know that you have the honored one, feared and esteemed by the whole of Jujutsu Sorcery, wrapped around your perfectly manicured finger, as you go to work every day to fulfill your duty while Satoru fulfills his. Your ignorance to the weight of the situation is one of the only ways Satoru really knows how to keep you and himself sane, for if you knew what he could do. If you saw what he could see. If you heard the things that monsters and demons say about him... you'd certainly go running for the hills. He swears you would, and you'd have every right.

He wants to tell you enough to keep you safe, to bring your guard up in case a threat imposes itself on you, but he wants to hide you away from enough to maintain the peace of your own stressful life. Because even if Satoru did tell you that he is the greatest sorcerer of all time, the infinite layers that come with such a title would be too much to throw at you, too much for you to bear. It already is for him, for his students, for his coworkers, so he couldn't imagine what it would do to you... how your opinions would change, the light you would begin to see him in.

It's all so tricky. A very slippery slope. But Satoru's very life has been constructed around the protection of the weak and vulnerable, therefore to prioritize you feels like something of his birthright. The whole of humanity is one thing, but what would he be if he could not protect the one human being who actually, truly, deeply means something to him?

Satoru thinks of Suguru more and more each day as he falls deeper and deeper into your entrancement. He thinks of what he would say. How he would respond. The disgust with which those hazel eyes would look upon him. The pity he'd hear in that voice.

You just couldn't help it, could you?

And he would have been right. Satoru couldn't help it. He couldn't help but to fall for you, and perhaps his love for humanity will be the very thing to end him one day, but the ivory haired sorcerer doesn't care. Suguru chose hatred and bigotry. Satoru chooses love. In every single universe. Every single time.

And it's aching all over his body. It's making his mind spin, his stomach churn, his fears rise and rise and rise. The thoughts of someone discovering you, someone stealing you away, someone using your weakness to their advantage to get a rise out of him haunt the blue eyed twenty eight year old to no end.

He can't sleep when he's not around you. When he can't see you. When he can't physically feel you breathing against him.

He pops into your life without warning every day, teleporting mid mission to your office or your room, swooping in to dot kisses on your stunned lips and to check in and make sure you're still breathing. That your doors are locked and your blinds are closed. That no curses have clung to your body in his absence. That no unwarranted eyes are surveying you outside of his.

Like he told Shoko that one day a few months back, he's in too deep. And now that he's unveiled his truth to you, he's in much, much deeper. So deep, that he feels he couldn't exist if something were to happen to you, that he must be near you at least twice a day or else panic will settle in, and the fears concerning your safety will wreck his erratic brain.

So, he's decided to try to further push you, to test just exactly how estranged you are from curses and jujutsu. What you can sense and what you can't, to get a better grasp on how imperative it is for you to be mindful of your surroundings.

And you are, but what you look for aren't curses. You look for strange men, weapons, robbers, the typical ailments of everyday life for everyday people. But you need to look beyond those, to look for the entities inspiring such behavior, to seek safety beyond human reason.

Hence, why he's dragged you out of the coziness of your bed in the middle of the night to an elementary school he frequents, one where he knows a number of curses linger about the space. To see how much protection you need. To measure the circumstances.

He waits as patiently as he can, rising back to stand upright, keeping you safe within his hold where no vermin could even think about inching toward you. He admits, his presence alone is likely enough to send all the lingering curses running into the opposite direction, but he senses the presence of a few. They aren't very strong, but they are strong enough for you to pick up on. For you to be mildly impacted.

But can you see them? Can you sense them?

"Uh," your voice finally speaks up after a prolonged period of silence, and Satoru looks down at you, alert, eager to know if there is something there that he has to work with.

"What is it?" he asks lowly. "What do you see?"

Your lips twist, your head angling slightly. Satoru feels your shoulders tense up a bit. "I don't... I don't see anything," you admit. "But I feel really, like, sad all of a sudden. Like heavy."

Satoru surveys you, releasing your shoulders to angle your body slightly toward him, his hand clasping gently around your arm. Your eyes snap up to him as you let him look over you, then you look back over your shoulder at the school, visibly troubled.

"I see," he says. "And... that's all you feel? You sure you didn't look over anything?"

"I'm pretty sure, Toru. We've been standing and staring at this place for fifteen minutes. If something were there, I would've seen it by now," you rub your forearm awkwardly.

Satoru fights the way his heart plummets. He fights the disappointment and further fear that grips him. He fights anxiety that wages behind a wall of feigned calmness.

He releases you gradually, placing a hand on his hip and one scratching the back of his neck. He turns to look back up at the array of curses that wiggle around the school's entrance, peaking out from cracks and crevices and bushes, and he exhales. "Alright..." he mumbles.

Your lips purse as you look between him and the school with sudden shame. "Sorry," you apologize.

This snaps Satoru out of his thoughts as he looks at you. "Hm? For what?"

You shrug, looking down. "It seems like I was supposed to see something that I just can't," you frown. "I'm sorry. I don't mean to stress you out."

"You're not stressing me out, baby," Satoru says, his tone shifting from that steady seriousness to something comforting and sweet. "It's not you. You don't have to apologize for something that isn't your fault. You didn't ask for the world to be like this."

"Yeah, I know, but..." you hesitate as Satoru's arms fall and he turns back to you completely. "it's bad that I can't see those things, isn't it? Doesn't that just make everything harder for you?"

"There's only one thing that's hard for me, (Y/n), and that's being away from you." His arm slips around your waist, bringing you closer to him. In his attempt to make you crack a smile, you stare up at him with lips curved downward and doubt creeping over your pretty face.

"I'm being serious. You always downplay everything you have going on."

"And you worry about me too much."

"You try having a sorcerer for a boyfriend and see how you feel," you roll your eyes. Satoru chuckles away the layers that could be lying within your words and tucks you against his side, pressing a kiss to the crown of your head. "And you worry about me way more. Clearly. So I'm asking you, does this make things harder?"

Satoru sighs, resting his head against yours. "It adds extra steps to my plan," he elects to say instead.

"What plan?"

"My plan to keep you safe," he says. "But it doesn't make anything harder. Nothing with you is harder."

You lean back to look at him, and he lifts his head. "I feel like you're lying."

He smiles. "How many times do I have to tell you? I'm not a liar."

"I know, but -" you stop yourself and shake your head, leaning back into his side. "Nevermind."

Your boyfriend leans his head forward slightly to get a better look at you. "Hey. Don't beat yourself up about it, pretty girl. It's not a big deal. I promise."

"I don't know. It seems that way, though."

"Maybe it would be if there weren't other ways for you to see curses, but there are."

You perk up, meeting his gaze hopefully. "Yeah?"

He hums, a smile growing at the sight of your hope. He starts to turn the two of you around, guiding you away from the haunted school so that you won't have to be within the vicinity of such negativity anymore. "Remember those cursed tools I told you about?" he asks, and you nod, your own arm raising to wrap around his long torso as the two of you walk together. "Well, they come in all shapes and sizes. And there's glasses you can wear if you can't detect curses or cursed energy on your own that can help you see everything."

Your brows raise, your other hand coming to press against his chest. "You mean I could see everything that you see?"

Satoru grins. "That's right."

You gasp. "How do I get them?"

"I'm ten steps ahead of you. Let's call it a night, and I'll run out to bring you some tomorrow morning, okay?"

"Okay. Okay, cool," you nod, solidified in a newfound relief that you wouldn't be a complete basket case after all. "That's good. Thank you."

"Anything for you,” he beams. “But when you get them, you're gonna have to sit with me so I can go over a few things, okay? I'll need you to listen carefully."

You click your tongue. "I always do."

"Yeah. You do," he pecks the side of your head again. "We can make it like roleplay. Professor Gojo and his really hot, over qualified college student. What will she do for extra credit if she can't understand how cursed tools work?" he purrs suggestively, and you roll your eyes with a laugh. Satoru swells with pride, happy to make you smile again.

"Stop being such a freak."

"Baby, how can I when I've got you?"

The next morning, Satoru makes good on his promise. After some private conversations with Shoko and Maki and a few errands, he's able to get his hands on a pair of frames for you. He is purposely discreet, as the only people who know about you in depth are Yaga and Shoko. Back when the two of you started dating, he bragged, but after he unveiled the Jujutsu World to you, he decided to tell everyone that you dumped him. And that Shoko saw it with her own eyes - and, technically, she did. She was at least able to vouch for him.

He can't risk news of you getting back to the Higher Ups, especially now that they've been on his case more and more lately. He knows they suspect something is afoot, but he'd like to keep those thoughts as speculations and nothing more.

Though it is currently the slot that Satoru is meant to be teaching, he teleports back to your room for what he thinks will be a quick drop off until his time is freed up.

But the second his feet land on the carpet of your floor, the stench of an intruder reeks throughout your space, and pools of cursed energy drag across the floors and walls. When he looks, there's remnants across your bed as well.

Something cold washes over Satoru's bones as your glasses drop from his grasp and onto the ground with little commotion. He freezes, taking in the space, six eyes capturing every single detail out of place. Your window is broken, shards of glass littering the floor. Your sheets are rumpled as if you picked yourself up from them in a hurry. Your phone is left open on your nightstand, and facing the ceiling is the text thread between you and him. You were about to text him.

He doesn't feel you anywhere. He can't sense you within this space, nor within five miles of your apartment.

Your room is still as the breeze wafts into it, like it was frozen in time the moment you left. There's clutter that dropped from your stand beside your bedside, and god, that smell. It smells nothing like you. It smells like a fucking plague.

Satoru's blood runs icy. His pupils are small behind his blindfold, his voice stolen from his throat.

At first glance, things are off. Your broken window, your messy bed. He knows. He fucking knows someone was here, that some curse user was rummaging through your things, breathing your air, existing within your well kept environment.

He does not need to search the house to know that you aren't here, to feed the denial that is attempting to combat what he knows and sees and feels in his gut, with all six of his senses. But he instinctively does anyway.

He teleports downstairs, to your living space, and finds the same remnants of cursed energy tracked across your floors. When he turns to look, the forced entry is evident by your front door thrown ajar. He moves to the kitchen, to your bathroom, to the small patch of green out back that you always try to swear up and down is a backyard. This fucker was everywhere. 

And when he turns and looks out front, your car is still parked next to the sidewalk.

No. No way.

Satoru's hands twitch at his side, and his entire body begins to tremble. His nose flares, his breathing escalates, and Suguru's voice pops up in his head again, yammering away.

You knew this would happen. She's a human after all.

There are no words for the feeling that overcomes Satoru's body and mind, that completely encapsulates him as he teleports back to your room and picks up your phone with gracious, wobbling fingers. In the text box he reads an interrupted sentence. “I think someone- “

Then nothing.

There's nothing. You've left nothing behind but your scent dominated by someone else's, and the strongest sorcerer of the modern age sees red. Crimson drips into his vision, seeps the world in its tint, and an anger like no other births itself in his core and makes every nerve in his system vibrate.

His head wails with all the things he can't verbalize, as anger chokes the words in his throat. He knew it. He knew something would happen to you. How could he let something happen to you? Why wasn't he there? He always promised to be there. Where did you go? Who took you? Why? Why didn't you-

Satoru rips his wild eyes back over to your new glasses on the ground, and a lump builds in his throat. There was nothing you could have done. Nothing you could have fought with to protect yourself. You probably didn't even know something or someone was pursuing or stalking you.

You're a human who can’t see curses. How could you have known anything?

Someone knew this. Someone stole you away because you're weak. Because Satoru wasn't around. His worst fear, the very thing that keeps him awake at night, that makes him lose increments of his sanity every day, has come to life.

You're gone. Someone has you.

When Satoru's blurry gaze turns back to your nightstand, to the space where your phone that he clutches in his hand once lay, he sees it. Specks of blood freckled on the wooden surface.

Gone is the savior. Gone is the providor. Gone is the friend, the humor, the happiness, and what remains in the vessel of Satoru Gojo is not mortal. It isn't merciful, or accepting, or understanding. It’s vengeance.

The white hot urge to kill takes over, to smush whoever did this to you between the concrete and the bottom of his foot. To stomp upon the fucking idiot who mustered up the courage and stupidity to take you away, to make you bleed, to use your human-ness - your unapologetic, beautiful humanity - to their advantage.

What your abductor wants and who they could possibly be to Satoru, he doesn't know. And he doesn't care.

What he cares about is finding you. Bringing you home. And giving your abuser hell to pay.

A weapon remains, rigid and unfeeling. That is what Satoru is. That is what he becomes in your absence.

Satoru tucks your phone into his pocket and rips down his blindfold, strays of snowy hair fluttering about the frame of his face, and crystal eyes pierce the air like a nocturnal beast seeking prey through the darkness of the night.

Where the hell are you?

You feel weak.

Your head rolls to the side, the room spinning on an axis through a blurry haze. You see three visions before you before your sight eventually focuses, and the pain comes quickly, shooting up through your back and into your head. Your legs, bound to the legs of the chair that you sit upon, ache from thrashing and kicking for survival. Your arms are strung behind you, wrists bound tightly, and all you can hear is a piercing ring through your ears.

You don't know what happened. One second, you were waking up from your sleep, then the next, the sound of your front door slamming open startled you up and out of bed. Something unseen barged in with the whip of your head upward. Hands gripped, something smacked across your face, and you could hardly see, but you thrashed, kicked, clawed. There was a struggle, the glass of your window shattering with the collision of your bodies. You were slammed onto the bed, then your head was knocked against the corner of your nightstand, and everything went black.

The course of events makes no sense when you mull over them. It was as though a ghost had appeared and ripped you away. As if a magical force had seized you.

You thought it was a man. The grunts that transpired behind your ear when you kicked were a man’s. The hands that groped and pulled at you felt like a man’s. But you couldn’t sense anything. It was as though he was invisible, as though the very thing that took you didn’t even exist.

You breathe in shakily, a dribble of blood spilling from your nose and onto the floor.

You can not register where you are. Only that you are not alone. That beady eyes are watching from a distance as you come to beneath harsh lights and amidst the scent of something nauseatingly sterile. After a few seconds, you hear footsteps wander, echoing about the vacant space, circling toward you like sharks in water.

Your head is pounding, and you blink, trying to see properly ahead of you. That is when the throbbing in the right side of your face settles in, and you whimper, squinting with a wince.

The alarm starts to sink in when you look down and find that your clothes have been changed while you were unconscious. You're sported in an unfamiliar grey shirt and shorts that leave very little to the imagination, and that little pool of blood from your nose settles between your bare, tied feet.

Your heart pounds, and your eyes roll around in panic. You go to scream, but cloth is taut around your mouth, knotted at the back of your head.

Oh fuck. You're so fucked. What do you do? Where are you? Who are the people you hear approaching you? Why are your senses so muddled?

Then it dawns on you.

"What d'ya think?" one grimy voice startles from behind you as three men step out of the shadows and into the harsh light that beams down on you overhead.

You tense, looking frantically about you. You immediately start to jerk and thrash against your restraints, your body jumping back into survival mode as the rope holding you back burns your skin. You feel something incredibly wrong, more wrong than the circumstance you are in. It's the atmosphere, something in the air that is sinking down on you and flooding you with an overwhelming sense of dread. Similar to the brief dread you felt at the elementary school.

It clicks. These aren't ordinary abductors. Your senses are blurred and your mind is playing odd tricks on you. Sorcery must be involved. These people must be sorcerers... or curses... you aren't sure. You just know, suddenly, that this is beyond you.

Within seconds, you feel pale as Satoru pops into your mind. This is exactly what he was talking about. This is exactly why he wanted you to be able to sense this energy, to see the curses.

There are things out there beyond your comprehension, and he always feared over whether they would collide with you outside of his influence. Now they have, all because you can't see.

You're just a regular person. Weak. Fragile. A target.

And here you are, subject to things you can't understand.

You've never been more afraid for your life.

"Where'd you find her?" a woman's voice rings out much to your surprise, stepping closer with a wicked smile. Two other men linger with mirrored smirks, and a hand reaches around from behind to grip your jaw and raise your head. You whimper through squished cheeks, brows angling as the light stings your eyes.

"On patrol this morning," the owner of the hand gripping you says proudly. "In one of those houses on the east side. Thought I’d break in, and happened to find her. She’s perfect, huh?"

The woman bends over before you and tilts her head, raising a brow. "You weren't supposed to bruise her," she says with a grimace, as if you are too unpleasant to her eye.

"The bitch put up a fight. What was I supposed to do?"

"You let a human give you a hard time?" one of the other men cackles. "Pathetic."

"She didn’t give me a hard time," the voice behind you hisses, the voice of the very man who stole you away from your home. His nails dig into your skin as his grip on your jaw goes taut, and he jerks you again. You release a muffled yelp, a wildness in your frightened hues. "Whatever. Where is it?"

The other strange man halts before you, stopping right beside the woman as she lifts herself back up to peer down at you as if annoyed, dark lips curled in distaste. The second man fishes something out from his pocket wrapped in dirty cloth, and slowly unwinds it.

You don't know what the fuck is going on. Your hasty, pitched breaths are audible with each second that passes as you watch, as voices murmur about nothing that is of value to you. You are out of your depths, overpowered, bound.

And when the cloth drops from that object, your eyes process the vision of what looks to be a severed, decayed human ear.

You scream, thrashing about, your cries ringing out hoarse and sustained behind that cloth. Dark chuckles rise over the sounds you emit as if you are a form of entertainment, as if this torture is funny to them. Watching you wiggle and squirm and fight against the inevitable. And what the inevitable is still remains a mystery to you.

The one with the ear steps further toward you, hovering just inches away. The piece of flesh is presented before you as if he wants you to take it, but when you look up in his eyes, you can't read his sadistic intentions. You can't read anything.

"She's gonna keep screaming when we take the tie off," the other man standing behind the woman says.

"Who cares? The result will be the same regardless."

"How are we gonna make her eat it?"

Eat it?

"If you don't just fucking force her mouth open," the woman snaps, eying the figure gripping you. "She's a human. She's tied up. Are you seriously scared?" she teases.

"I ain't scared," your abductor growls. You feel his other hand moving to untie the cloth around your mouth. You feel the fabric slip and loosen, your hefty breaths ragged when it finally falls around your neck with a stretch of your saliva connecting it to your lips. You cough and sputter, and before you can think, the same hands curl into the inside of your mouth.

You act quickly, chomping down as hard as you can the second you feel an invasion. Metallic blood filters into your taste buds, followed by the curse of the man behind you as he rips his bleeding fingers away.

"Fuck!" he curses. You hear footsteps shuffle as he clutches his hand. "She fucking bit me! I oughtta -"

His words collide with the fist that knocks your skull into the opposite direction with a force you can't quite name. Blood splatters from your lips onto the floor, and that ringing circles back in your ears, intensifying, as you filter between consciousness and unconsciousness from such a blow.

Voices overlap in a haze. Figures surround you. Everything is spinning, and you no longer have the strength to move about as new fingers pry into your mouth, hooking behind your top and bottom rows of teeth to force your jaw open wide as he hovers over you.

Someone grips around your neck, and before you, the ear is lifted from its cloth and inched toward your mouth. Through the dizziness, through the searing pain, alert strikes your body once more as you tense every muscle you have. You can't move away, can't do anything but stare in wide horror as it is drawn closer and closer to your open mouth.

Your body coats itself in goose bumps, the hairs on the back of your neck standing upright as you shake and choke from the discomfort. What do you do? You can't kick, you can't yell, you can't punch. You're alone. You can't understand. Sweat drips down your body, mixing into the blood dripping down your chin, and tears of sheer anguish, terror, and humiliation rise.

Satoru left you for one second. One second, and that was all it took for you to be stolen by sorcerers - no, by curse users. That's what these people are, aren't they? Monsters. Villains. Sadists with techniques. You remember your boyfriend told you that very briefly once. That not all sorcerers are good.

Your poor boyfriend. He's probably worried half to death trying to find you. Guilt wracks you in the seconds before your forced consumption of this severed body part, a tear streaking down your aching, stretched cheeks.

Satoru. He doesn't say it, but you know how deeply he worries. You know how anxious he gets about you. You know that there are still things he withholds from you in order to protect you, in order to give you as much normalcy as you can with someone like him by your side.

You wish you could have eased his mind more. You wish you didn't need stupid glasses to sense cursed energy. You wish you weren't so... helpless.

"Look at that. She's crying," someone coos viciously. "Don't you just love when they cry?"

And just as the ear hovers centimeters away from your tongue, the harsh light clicks off, and the sound of a generator dies with a sinking whir.

A chorus of confused grunts and huhs lift, and the ear is frozen before you. You hyperventilate, now unable to see what is happening around you.

"The hell happened to the lights?" one of the four speaks up.

"Fuck if I know. Go check," the woman orders.

A hand slips away from your neck, but someone keeps your mouth pried open.

The man holding the ear grumbles, using his free hand to fish into his back pocket for his phone. The screen lights up his face momentarily, his occupied hand pulling the ear away from you subconsciously as it hovers by his side.

Suddenly, you feel the curse users behind you hold their breaths. The man in front of you tenses as well, a paling look crossing over his face as he stiffens.

There's silence for a moment as everyone stills. "Do you feel that?" your abductor speaks.

"It's so..." the woman starts, before freezing with the realization.

"Is that...?"

"Can't be. No way."

"There's only one being whose... cursed energy is that strong!"

The room thickens with sudden understanding which, once more, fails you. Then panic rises.

"Hurry up! Feed her the fucking ear and let's get out of here!"

"We won't have time! If we feel him now, then he's already -"

"Already here?"

A new, disembodied voice echoes lowly, menacingly throughout the space. A voice familiar to you. A voice that makes your heart pound with disbelief, with hope that the owner is actually present. Are you dreaming? Are you still alive?

The hands gripping you immediately rip away, and you sputter, leaning over with heaving coughs. The phone screen waves about in a panic, your abductors’ abruptly stricken by fear. You hear feet shuffle in a hurry and curses fly. The ear drops to the ground before you, and the phone flashlight is hastily turned on to sweep the area to locate whatever or whoever they are suddenly so afraid of.

You lift your head, and through a searing squint, the flashlight turns and freezes on a pair of glowing celeste hues. Hues that gaze upon you with gentle love each day, now bold and almost alien.

And utterly blood curdling.

The man yelps, dropping his phone to the ground with a clatter. Your other abductors attempt to flee. Feet pound against the ground and scatter into different directions. The flashlight faces the ceiling from the floor, giving you a view of the man stepping away slowly in fear as Satoru approaches him slowly, methodically. 

Bright eyes cut through darkness, and you stare. He doesn't look at you. His eyes are locked on the curse user ahead, like some kind of beast pursuing a meal. His expression is neutral, lips pressed in a firm line, but the chaos roams in those eyes, wide, focused, thirsty for blood.

You've never seen your boyfriend in such a light, and by the reactions of those around you, he is just as terrifying to them as he appears to you.

They recognized his presence before he even physically appeared. Satoru is... known.

"Please," the man begs as they step into darkness again. "Please, Gojo. No, please - please don't!"

A sweep of air cuts through your earshot. Satoru thrusts a hand forward, sending the guy flying back into the concrete wall with a loud commotion. A terror stricken scream rings out, followed by the horrid squelch of flesh, the sound of blood dripping, then nothing more.

The sorcerer's head rips back into the direction of the scattering curse users, and his focus lands next on the woman. Cutting through darkness with lightning speed, he gives chase, breathing harshly through flared nostrils. Attempts at the expulsion of cursed energy are made, but they fall through, as Satoru's technique cancels them out.

They don't stand a chance.

If you weren't in this building, he'd use his domain. He'd hollow purple the whole fucking establishment, but the sight of you there, tied up, battered with bruises blooming over your skin and those dirty fingers prying into your mouth drives him to use his own bare hands, his own strength to rip these fuckers apart without so much as touching another hair on your perfect head.

How dare they.

His hands reach out and grasp the head of the woman mid flee. She cries with anger and fear, reaching back to try to pull away. But Satoru expels energy through his hand and squeezes, just a bit, just enough for her skull to crack under the pressure. Blood seeps from the sockets of her eyes as she wails, and then gargled silence as the head capsizes and explodes, chunks of brain and blood and skull fragments flying across the room, bouncing off of his infinity.

How dare they do this to you. 

How dare they soil your innocence, how dare they so much as lay a finger on your skin, how dare they pierce it, how dare they bruise it, how dare they attempt to steal you away forever to turn you into a curse no one even remembers.

Your poor face. The way you must have suffered without him there.

Oh, he'll fucking kill every last one of them.

His head snaps up. Speaking of... who's next?

Satoru locates him in an instant, teleporting across the base to cut off his path. He skids to a stop far too late before Satoru plunges a fist forward to pierce his chest, then pry him apart from the inside. The honored one is insensitive to his cries, to the tedious way flesh tears through his infinity, the way it burns, bubbles, and flops to the ground in two heaps.

Satoru stares down at the mangled corpse harshly, breaths weighted.

Then he smells it again. That scent that invaded your home, that was plastered over the walls, that was blooming over the injuries on your body when he found you.

Slowly, his head lifts and turns to locate the one who took you away. The one who started all of this.

He sees past the pitch black. Past the technique that likely allowed him to sliver into your home undetected, past that veil of transparency - the way his technique toys with light and shadows to fade into background as though invisible. Then cancels out.

Oh, Satoru sees him plain as day, the way he inches toward the back wall in search of the door. He sees how he tries to escape the pit of hell that narrowly awaits him.

With a flash of speed, he arrives, hovering behind the perpetrator who once appeared invisible to the naked eye. He trembles with the imminent presence of the honored one too close for comfort, knowing that he's been spotted, knowing that his life is over. He'd end his own life right there if he could, to prevent himself from experiencing the agony of Satoru Gojo's wrath.

The snowy haired sorcerer glances down at the guy’s fingers, noting how he clutches them as they bleed red down his wrist. A flicker of pride swells in his heart, as it seems you did your best. You fought back the only way you knew how.

That's his girl. His precious girl. He's so proud of you. Proud of you for staying alive long enough for him to get there. Proud of you for using the tools you do have in this likely horrifying, confusing situation.

He hopes you feel relief. He hopes your nervous system is resting now as he finishes what you started.

Satoru's firm hand rockets forward to grasp your abuser's neck. He chokes, reaching up to claw at Satoru's veined hand for air fruitlessly, as he can't even touch him. He can hardly even move.

Gojo keeps his eyes peeled wide as they bore into the curse user's, watching as life leaves him in seconds, as air sucks itself from his lungs and stops at Satoru's relentless hold. Satoru's eye twitches, his breathing growing louder. 

Then SNAP!

The man's body goes limp, his neck snapping back. Satoru releases a coarse breath and drops him to the floor, raising his foot high above to stamp down hard on his head. Then again. And again. Each blow, each crack for every second you spent in torment, for every scar that decorates your skin, and for every moment this will haunt your mind going forward.

He stomps and stomps, animalistic grunts flying through gritted teeth. There's nothing left beneath him but a pile of mush and blood at the end of the corpse's neck. But Satoru doesn't care. Not one bit.

And when he's finally done, he lifts his foot, steps back, and leans his head back with an exhale. His adam's apple bobs as he swallows thickly, eyes lashes fluttering against his skin as he allows himself to blink.

Then, he turns to you.

In your perception of time and space, what just transpired only happened within a few seconds, at best. You listened as death rang out from every corner of the space, and flashes of harsh air and the stench of blood wafted about you. Your breaths ring out as you twist and turn to look around, still bound.

"Satoru?" you call out in the emptiness, uneased by the sudden lack of activity. Your throat is sore, your voice torn when you call out. Where did he go? Is he okay? "Toru? Toru!" you shout again.

"I'm here, pretty."

And suddenly, he is standing right before you. The lights slowly flicker back to life, revealing him in all of his glory as he looks down at you with devastation in those eyes, sweet and lidded on you, a sheer contrast to what you saw and heard not even a few seconds ago. You gaze up at him in awe with curled brows before looking about and registering the dead bodies around you. You suck in a sharp breath, but he moves to untie you quickly, freeing from your restraints.

He drops to his knees before you, the greatness fading from him at your feet. He can breathe now, he can think now that he's got you. Now that he's protected you. Now that he sees you're okay.

He slips his arms under your weak ones to pull you down against him, embracing you tight. He holds your frame tight to his, breathing you in. A hand raises to clutch the back of your head, and you slip your arms around his neck clinging tight, afraid to let go.

"My baby," he huffs, tucking his nose into the crook of your neck. He dots kisses to your skin, adjusting his hold, pressing you in safely. "I'm so sorry."

“Satoru,” you whimper, finally safe. “You - you found me.”

He pulls back to look at you. You're curled up against him, your knees sprawled on the ground, your hands tucked over his undercut. His hands reach to cup your cheeks carefully, bringing your attention to him and only him.

His thumb grazes the purple and red swelling over your cheek, the blood trailing from your nose and down your chin. He looks into those big (e/c) eyes tinged in red, the tears collected on your lashes, and he feels the chill of your flesh when he touches it. You're shaking uncontrollably as he looks at you, and his lips tremble.

"Of course I found you. I always will. I'm here," he says again softly. "Just look at me. Don't look anywhere else. Keep your eyes on me, baby. I'm here."

"But how? How did - what did - " you can't find the words. Satoru shakes his head, wiping tears and sweat and blood away. Your nose flares and tears well in your vision as security and warmth swarms you, despite the monstrosity you saw in his gaze, despite the corpses that surround you. You're safe. "I thought I was gonna die before I got to see you again."

Satoru's heart shatters. "No. Don’t say that," he asserts sternly. "I would never let that happen. I'd give myself up before I let anything happen to you."

You don’t know just how heavy his words are.

Your chin wrinkles as your lips wobble. Satoru's hands smooth over your hair, helping to tame it, to bring you some sense of consolation and comfort as he kneels before you. He brings your head in to press his lips to your forehead, letting his kiss linger as long as he can as he savors you, savors the fact that you survived, that you didn't die on him.

Satoru expects questions. He expects your fear. He expects you to look at him like he's some anomaly, like he's a wild monster that you just happened to be stuck with. He expects you to interrogate him, to ask why those curse users reacted the way they did when they saw him, why killing comes so easily to him - as easily as breathing, why his speed is practically inconceivable, why the blood dotting his cheek does not faze him in the slightest.

Why he exhibits such power.

But instead, he feels your shoulders jerk and hears your soft cries. He pulls back from his kiss to look you in the eye again, and he feels his heart twisting. He feels his chest tightening at the sight.

You're in pain. He knows. You're traumatized. He knows. He should've found you sooner. He shouldn't have even left. But instead of expressions of your own pain, you whisper: "I'm sorry for making your fears come true."

“What?” He falls apart. "(Y/n). You listen to me," he ducks to hover mere inches away from your face as you fight the tears and humiliation and pain. "You didn't ask for any of this. This isn't your fault. You couldn't have known -"

"But that's the problem," you tremble, eyes glossing over. "I never know anything. And it's too much on you to have to be responsible for me like this."

Satoru has been used as a weapon all of his life. Ordered around, tossed about, spoken to like an object of orchestration rather than a human being with thoughts and feelings. All of his life, he's been othered, treated as some glorified, inhumane, aggravating thing. He lost his childhood. He lost his best friend. And yet, the world pushed and pushed and pushed until Satoru lost any hope of being taken seriously. Of truly being seen.

But then, you.

As he holds you in his arms, as you bleed and shake and suffer, as you reel from the events you just witnessed, from the carnage that Satoru just lay, all you can think about is the toll that being human takes on him. The extra burden you pose.

And Satoru is floored. How can you think that the most beautiful thing about you is a burden to him? How can you sit there in your own dread, blaming yourself instead of him?

How can you continue to think of him when no one else on this planet does?

"Too much?" he repeats incredulously. "(Y/n), there are a lot of things in this world that could be too much. That I do everyday. That everyone expects from me. Things come to me because of... because of who I am, and it’s hard to explain any of that, but you?" he gazes at you with such sincerity and sorrow. "You are the very last thing that could be too much for me. Looking after you and taking care of you is my priority above everything else. Everything. That's not because you're a burden. It's because if something were to happen to you like it just did, I wouldn't be able to forgive myself. I can't forgive myself."

"You didn't ask for this either," you sniff.

"It doesn't matter," he breathes. "You're what matters. I couldn't breathe until I found you. I couldn't think of anything but getting to you because you mean more to me than anything else in this world. You're everything, and I have been trained to be ready for every possible obstacle on this earth except losing you. It's not an option. It will never be an option. I worry because i care. So much. Your humanity is not a burden. It's perfect. You're perfect," he confesses as though the words have been jumbled inside his soul for months. Tears slip down your face as you listen to him, as his fingers swipe over your face tenderly, as he keeps you near. "I'm so sorry I didn't get here sooner. I'm so sorry you got hurt."

"It's not your fault," you echo his words through tears. "You found me. You saved me."

"I was late," he argues, tormenting himself. "Look what they did to you."

"You're here," you emphasize. "I'm alive because of you," you shudder. "Thank you."

Such gratitude like this has been foreign to Satoru, because this is intimate. It's real. It's laced with love and truth, and the sapphire eyed sorcerer feels his heart swell.

He knows he loves you right then and there. He can't deny it. It smacks him clean in the face.

He pulls you back in, scrunching his eyes tight as he hugs you. You cry into his uniform, your fingers gripping the fabric tight as your cheek settles against his broad shoulder.

"I won't let anyone touch you ever again," he promises you. "I swear on my life."

Satoru eventually teleports the two of you back to his home, secluded in a jungle of bamboo trees, quiet and sterile with the scent of his cologne staining the air.

You sit on his bathroom counter as he stands between your legs, holding your chin cautiously, dabbing your wounds with antiseptic soaked cotton. You're fresh out of the shower, clean of the dirt and grime and blood that ailed you, and draped in an old shirt of his. He was sure to light the clothes he found you in on fire.

The two of you don't talk about curses or sorcerers. You don't talk about the display of power you witnessed. You don't talk about the weight that his very name carries in the world of sorcery. You don't talk about the fists that collided with you, the attempted reincarnation that you were almost utilized for, the weakness in your knees, the rope burns on your wrists and ankles.

Instead, Satoru spends a human afternoon caring for you. Fixing you a bowl of cheap ramen the way you like. Turning on a movie you always watch. Lifting you into his arms as you straddle his torso, and carrying you from room to room until you make it to the soft sheets of his bed.

Satoru lays you down on his pillows softly, handling you like pristine glass, and helps you under the covers. Exhaustion swirls in your eyes as you look up and reach for him weakly, wordlessly begging him to join you. And how could he not?

He slips in beside you and melts into your arms. The two of you mold together like malleable clay, sinking into sweetness and safety, expelling breaths that were caught in your throats.

You nestle your unbruised cheek against his chest, breathing him in, securing your arms around his middle as he does yours. There is nothing to say, as your hearts and limbs speak for themselves. And you both feel it. The shift. The tenderness.

You feel lips peck your head, trailing down to your forehead, then your nose as you tilt your head up to meet his eye. Fingers caress the small of your back as you hold one another's gaze, a silent exchange transpiring.

You see one another clearly. For your weakness, and his strength. Exposed, bare, vulnerable before one another, and yet, safer than either of you have ever felt in your entire life.

Satoru cranes down to kiss your lips. Softly. Appreciatively. Relieved. Your entire body vibrates down to your toes, your skin warm, your soul secure. He pulls away slowly, nose brushing against yours, sharing gentle breaths. And his eyes convey his truth, just as they always have.

That no matter your weakness, no matter your humanity, Satoru will love you until the day you both part from this earth.

That he will protect you with every ounce of infinite power coursing through his bones. And anyone who gets in his way will pay.

Of course, Suguru's distant voice sighs out in his head, though Satoru's too enraptured in you to quite hear it this time.

“the old man said you wanted to talk?”

dad already told him?

the terrace’s fairy lights caress sylus in a way almost somber. underneath the open and star-studded sky, he looks less like the renowned ceo and more like a man who still hasn’t gotten to know himself. it isn’t the first time. you have spent countless evenings here with him. often times indulging in a wine, confident just like him. you’d pretend to enjoy it, even if it burned your throat as it went down. sylus would have been watching, always, not ignoring the hiss that pushed past your lips when you’d think he wasn’t staring.

tonight, it feels different. there’s no wine because you two weren’t supposed to be here in the first place. sylus has finally landed home after a three-week business trip that kept him away from everything deemed important: his company, your father — his teacher — and possibly you.

was it you as well?

(but you know not to think too much on matters like this. they, unfortunately, do not yield anything productive except worry.

and you also know you can never rid of yourself of this pastime activity.

no matter what.)

on closer observation, the terrace is empty apart from him. it wasn’t coincidental, right? the faintest of cold air seeps into your bones as a few steps bring you toward him. his eyes snap to yours, their ruby red reflecting the tension that hummed in the air. your lips begin to part but sylus beat you to it.

“come sit.”

a pat on the lounge sofa beckons you closer.

sylus usually waits — tries to. but not now. tonight, just like you, a pull of impatience tugs at him. the distance you’ve spent apart speaks through him. however, he doesn’t let you speak your mind yet, and you wonder if he was already aware of the turmoil knotting inside you.

the weeks’ work makes him move more sluggishly than he’d like to admit: heavy breaths, arms dropping, and face falling flat when the mask slips. he doesn’t let you see the real him; you still don’t know when he will. you follow his gaze as his eyes cross over to a neighboring skyscraper, adorned with windows to lives that probably don’t amuse him. the mundane and the predictable, none of which would ever mean anything to him.

he hums, finally settling on a question. “how did you find the university?”

pre-grad has been an experience — an elite university, unending lectures, relationships that failed to cross past acquaintance, and a loneliness that has lodged between your ribs; the kind that will haunt your every social interaction from now on. you don’t know what to convey to sylus. knowing him, he would prefer to know the bits and pieces that made a significant impact, whether they be of the best or worst of days. but knowing yourself, you’d rather tell him of those days that have already slipped past your conscience — empty and unmemorable.

just so he doesn’t worry. you’ll worry if he does, and that is the last thing you want to happen right now.

“must have been great. after all, i studied here myself.” sylus answers for you tonight.

“and the finals?” he asks again before you can say anything. the impatience is more evident now.

skittish as you already were, his demeanor only makes it worse to say anything. the first signs of annoyance, as you see it, start flickering on his face. on the side table, his phone occasionally lights up, no doubt the company’s theatrics chasing him even on new year’s eve. a huff pushes out of him whenever a call rings too long; whatever it may be, you didn’t wish to make him any more annoyed.

his head turns toward you, but he doesn’t look at you. “(name)?”

oh, right.

“good.” you blurt out and finally sit beside him.

great, actually: both of you know that.

if it weren’t for your perfect grades, your father would never have referenced you. sylus wouldn’t have met you, ever — but that’s what your father wants you to think. it’s been three years since you officially became acquainted with him, and in these years, you have learned enough to know something about him. it’s quite endearing. sylus isn’t strict about your academic achievements in the same sense your pops was. what he expected and excelled at was hands-on practice rather than basing credibility on textbook memorization.

pragmatic, as he had always accounted for. it was only a matter of time before he smelled out your exceptional talent like a mad dog, so he would say.

you were a hard pass.

(the very thing sylus told you at your very first meeting. it was in his office, in his company that made your father, and so many others, from nothing to something.

was it going to be the same for you?

“you are worth it,” he had said even before you started working there.

how did he even know that? how could he possibly say that?

in his hands were your first-year transcripts — all a’s. you had no idea how he acquired them, but a single glance at your father revealed everything. guilty, though he didn’t care enough to make it more convincing.

you had questions, a multitude of them, and sylus had answers, satisfying and credible. he read you open like never before: your skills and ideas, your passion, your everything, and that’s the moment you dropped the ball — the reason why you fell so hopelessly in love with sylus qin.

someone who was willing to create a future out of you.)

“after graduation, how about a tour of the company by yours truly?” another question.

you gulp. “that’s…”

“you’ll join, i assume.”

tonight, his questioning seems relentless; however, this time it was more of a command than a question.

why is he so eager to get you under him?

and it isn’t like you had something against him. it’s the company, his company, that didn’t resonate with you. by extension, it would mean sylus himself as well, but you’d like to differ.

your eyes trace the side of his face. “if pops don’t drag me into a master’s, that is.”

he chuckles. “of course, that old man.”

sylus finally allows you to meet his eyes. fatigued, carrying a history you couldn’t delve into. you see their corners crinkle deeply with an emotion you were well acquainted with.

“what is it you wanted to talk about?”

finally, he’s willing to let you speak your heart.

the man wears time finer than wine, even more so than your own old pops, who still seems to be stuck in his fraternity days. you wish you could say that out loud — maybe compliment and raise his spirits a bit. but it’s just a mere wish. you know he’s heard more than enough. today, this entire week, the past few weeks, heck.

even if you do give him a comment, it would only come across as flattery. what you do want to say right now, as you relish in the honor of sitting beside him, is far more indecorous. something in you tells you to move close to him, so you do. it’s a slow start you’ll have to take.

rabid dogs bite first if provoked, after all.

“can you please hear me out?” you ask, as collected as your nerves allow you to.

he snorts, but remains indifferent. “okay?”

then it comes: a smile. just a ghost of one, but it doesn’t change the fact that he is giving you a smile. you. sylus doesn’t offer them as freely to anyone; he must have wanted you too, no? you’re losing track of rationality; blame the adrenaline.

the boldness in you latches onto the green light for the night. “sylus, i—”

fuck.

too hasty, and now you have already made a mistake.

“sylus?” his eyebrows quirk up as a gaudy laugh sounds from him. “where did that come from, sweetie?”

what do you mean, “sweetie!”

“t-that’s not important right now!”

“why not?” a smirk creeps onto his face. “do you know how much it took for you to say my name?”

of course, he doesn’t let your tiny slip go unnoticed.

never has.

this is why sylus is to you what no one else could ever be. it’s merely a gist of everything, but his causality when it comes to everything pertaining to you is part of the reason why things are the way they are — unfortunate in ways they couldn’t possibly be.

what about the implications? why is he not ashamed or scared the way you were?

why?

are you that unimportant, or perhaps…

a bite of your lips to stop them from trembling.

perhaps you have already become a factor in his life, one that would balance both sides — one he can’t let go of.

“can you stop?”

sylus reclines on the sofa, letting you know he’s all ears from now. “sure. tell me what’s important then.”

when you most need it, it doesn’t come — courage. this moment doesn’t resemble the previous memories of drowning in stage fright or being called to your father’s office. the bubbling anxiety is indeed familiar, and so is the shake in your hands; however, this time there isn’t anything to save your face from this predicament that was definitely going to be devastating in every sense possible.

not the applause of a crowd nor your father’s reassurance.

i love you, and i want you to love me too.

your innermost, sincerest plea finally surfaces.

sylus, you whisper mentally to no one. please, i’ll hope you do.

delusions: you have kept your head immersed in them ever since he first called your name. you fear, what if he’s the one to pull you out of them? but at the same time, another possibility stands, iron clad — what if he doesn’t?

and that’s more than enough for you.

you take it as a cue to speak when the countdown starts.

“sylus.”

he snorts yet again. “go on.”

five!

“i-i’ve been thinking about this a lot.”

four!

“i think—”

the people in the square below are beginning to yell alongside the countdown, their screams blaring through the exhilarating night.

three!

“sylus, i-i mean this s-so very truly that—”

(fuck, why am i stuttering?)

two!

his eyes narrow slightly, but the smile never vanishes. “(name)?”

one!

“i love you.”

happy new year!!!

“so much.”

you see his smile drop.

you are twenty-six when you are forced to relive everything you wish never happened. it happens during a business dinner, one your father has unfortunately roped you into for this sunday night.

you need to connect, honey! put yourself out there, as he would always preach.

upon your return home hours ago, he already had a black suit on, his hands busy fiddling with a matching tie. you, on the other hand, were balancing your tote, loaded with the papers your professors wouldn’t stop assigning. each step felt grating as you crossed the threshold of the living room, laden with the need to just crawl into your bed and pretend the world didn’t exist.

“dinner tonight, (name).”

his gruff voice stopped you before you could slip into the hallway. a few moments passed next — like a river, quiet and unending, with your father staring at your mother, who sat idly at the dining table, swiping through recipe after recipe.

“get ready.”

you held tightly onto your tote bag. “what’s that got to do with me?”

“the ceo wants to meet you.” he turned to you then.

you gritted your teeth. “i am not going. hello?”

how can you?

after that night on the terrace, it’s been a few years of radio silence. what makes him think you’ll willingly buzz over it? right now, you wish they knew of the humiliation, of everything that has been chewing at you. but you know better than to.

“you don’t get to decide.”

a sneer on his face silenced your plea. he finished messing with that tie, not once looking at you, while your mom only glanced at you with feigned pity. those enticing cheese fritters were far more important than tending to her child’s disregarded boundaries.

nothing is new. you had learned this long ago: the only way it always goes — your parents win, you lose. they won’t ever listen, even if you yell your heart out, even if you bleed out. it doesn’t come as a surprise either when they dismiss your supposed work for tonight. they don’t care about the fact that you’d rather be anywhere than here: squished into a corner, where you’re forced to gawk at the swarm of officials in white and black formals; unfamiliar faces sucking color from the world. ones you wished you could punch.

however nescient your father might pretend on the surface, you have unfortunately matured enough to see this for what it actually is. nothing can convince you now that he’ll choose his child over his business: his pride, his everything. you have seen it before, his commitment to absolutely anything to get this senseless business rolling. it wasn’t long before he was pulling you into this messy and abhorrent company. you know for a fact that most of the staff are already coughing up a storm about you: the cfo’s successor finally returning home.

bleh.

you try to keep your face in check, hoping no one saw you entertaining this insulting daydream. your hands reach up to your torso, swatting at the dirt that isn’t there. the formal attire you’ve donned is nothing like the ordinary. no, you are not particularly interested in standing out. rather, you’d like to emphasize your red, satin two-piece as a rebellion — your last fight before you are ultimately made to follow in your father’s footsteps.

even the thought of working at the company makes you nauseous. how will you ever work there in reality? besides, why even bother to bring you here when that old man knows, and so do you, that you are not moving an inch from this corner — the end seat of a sidebar that no one bats an eye at.

fuck socializing and networking.

whoever wants to connect with you should seek you out because you are not going to put even a pinch of effort into this ridiculous event.

nope.

… except no one has come to greet you yet!

perhaps it’s because of the strong liquor that has engulfed the bar, tinting the air-conditioned air with something far heavier than most people could stomach. or — as an insecure part of you thinks — maybe it’s because of you: that you are somehow scaring people off even before they have set eyes on you. after all, the bartender — a young, handsome man who can apparently charm everyone into a drink — hasn’t even bothered to ask, let alone serve you a glass.

poor you, the only company that hadn’t dared to ridicule his skills yet, and this is how you are treated. he should be grateful, actually. you wish you could retort to this sad offense — one he wasn’t even conscious of.

but you can’t.

can’t afford to disgrace your father. not even the slightest.

at least the handsome lad stuck around, no matter his side glances at you, unlike your old man who abandoned you moments ago. apparently, he’s supposed to be the one to welcome the ceo of the company. you know how it is… he just wants his benevolent teacher with him! as if you can’t see through his unending chains of lies — micro-lies that only painted your father as a pathological liar.

your head flop down on the marble surface of the counter. it isn’t cool like you expected it to be, the sleek metal soaking up every ounce of heat.

you can’t keep running from him.

your father words surface in your mind. they were simply responses to your relentless excuses; simple, yes, but they often revealed a part of him you didn’t want to see. on sunny afternoons, he would simply hide his feelings behind a cup of tea, while timid nights on the terrace would do nothing to veil the blatant disappointment. how do you even begin to explain that his very student, the prodigy of the business world, is the very person you fell in love with?

that same person who most definitely did not want to see your face.

ever.

you’ve been lurking behind those ridiculous excuses for so long now that you ultimately failed to see the sand running down in the invisible hourglass. that time has come. you can’t just lurk around like a ghost anymore.

tonight, you shall meet your boss.

“mr. qin!”

the bartender? of course it’s him…

even with your limited vision, you can easily guess what might be going on right beside you. the bartender’s footsteps thump against the concrete floor, suddenly hasty; it must have been an order for a special drink — his preferences always so notorious.

just like him.

“what do we have here?”

sylus’s suave voice weaves in between the cordial music in the background. you don’t look up. you don’t care that he probably wants you to greet him. he lets you test the waters of his impatience before a glass ting! sounds close to your ears with your next inhale. the smell of a confident liquor wafts in the air, leaving nothing for confusion.

what a tease.

slowly and reluctantly, you lift your head to see the bartender placing a glass before you: wine, of course, you don’t need to guess who ordered it for you.

“for you!”

how dare he…

you sigh through your nose. “finally decided i existed?”

a bit crude of you, but you really need to release the pent-up tension. and no, you are not sorry for this at all. the handsome lad only manages a clean smile. there’s no resentment evident on his face; he must have been trained well. you take a sip, shooing away the bartender.

a familiar voice sounds just as he leaves. “and what about me, sweetie?”

… sweetie, huh.

now what to do about him?

a little to the right, and you see him: sylus, just as he was years before you moved countries under the pretense of a master’s — weary to his cracking bones, and donning elegance like a second skin. he leans to the side with a smirk on his face, making you see the entirety of him: a crimson suit to match his ruby eyes, rings shining brighter than diamonds.

jewelry and a splash of color; this wasn’t like sylus. you were under the impression that the old man didn’t resonate with adornment anymore. why the sudden change? you wonder what else has changed about him.

(of course, the bashful part of you doesn’t hesitate to relate the crimson color to your own satin suit.

must be fate, no?)

“hello,” you take another sip. “mr. qin.”

“evening, (name).”

you have to meet his eyes now, watching as he takes a sip from his own glass. his face is bare of any expression, not cluing you in on what he was preparing next.

“you have changed.” the glass remains pressed against his mouth as he says.

is that a smirk?

“so have you,” you place yours on the counter and turn to him fully. “this color…”

as the saying goes, two can play at this game.

a similar smirk curls on your lips. you don’t care about cordiality. you don’t care about him anymore, so you’ll do whatever you want. tease him. touch him on his sleeve, make him feel what it could have been.

call it a revenge at worst.

“—doesn’t quite suit you, sir.”

he blinks, mouth agape. “oh?”

you feel his heavy stare as your fingers circle the buttons on the cuff, one by one. the cut, the lines, you trace it all. your smirk deepens as you brush right where his wrist peeks out of the shirt sleeve.

do you feel it, sylus?

“don’t tell me your old brain can’t keep up with the fashion anymore.”

a hushed laugh. “is that what you believe?”

and sylus is pushing you away, with a hand as gentle as on that fateful night. “don’t think i do not know what you are doing.”

“you can’t.” his smirk vanishes as he kisses his teeth, taking you back to that moment on the terrace.

(happy new year!!!

“so much.”

you clutch your sweater with eyes clenched shut. the darkness behind your eyelids incessantly flashes with his saddened face, haunting you even when you have decided to ignore this entire moment. it’s impossible to hear anything clearly over the clamor of your heart — sylus, or those happy new years!

for a few breaths, it’s only your heartbeat and the muffled cheers, before: “can you look at me?”

sylus…

something knots in your throat. he’s using a familiar voice: not reprimanding, no, not even in the slightest.

it’s worse and lonelier: compassion.

one sylus wielded like a weapon unknowingly.

“will you listen to me, please?”

you open your eyes, blurred vision making him look like an apparition. “n-not until you give me a-an answer.”

an answer i yearned to hear. desperately.

a rough hand brushes your knee. “(name).”

you shake your head, and a sigh from him spills into the cold air, laced with everything dejected now.

“you know this is…” sylus starts.

… inappropriate?

and finishes. “inappropriate.”

“please—”

“for me… and you.” his eyes drop to the cemented floor.

you bite your quivering lips.

why is he so kind?

when that was the least you warranted right now?

at most, he could have expressed disgust, sheer revulsion to drive you away from him, you and your appalling desires. but he doesn’t. the reason may very well break your heart, and you do not wish to indulge in it, even when it waves in front of you. sylus cares for you, so much so that he’s willing to hurt you — to protect you, from everything, from him, and it hurts, it hurts.

a few floors down, the cheers have begun to quiet down, allowing you to register sylus’s words in depth. you wish it hadn’t, that the sea of cheers would have washed your pathetic confession away in their vigor. you wish he would have made you suffer instead — shouted a few profanities at you, and seen you out of the terrace, then you wouldn’t have felt as guilty as you did now.

a pat lands on your head, accompanied by a hitch in his breath. “you deserve better.”

“someone your age — someone who was not me.”

but… i want you.

you wish you could say that, but you won’t. you have learned your lesson.

“you know that.”

sylus…

“i know that.”

how…

“so, we can’t.”

can i…

“you can’t.”

let go now?

“(name).”

tell me.)

it was a welcome back that forged a new goodbye, one that will last years. it was an attempt to triple down on sylus, and right now, you think you couldn’t be more foolish than that.

sylus doesn’t say anything more, and neither do you. you wonder if he’s aware of this: the wounds yet to be healed that he so heedlessly touched, caressed. the same kindness he graced you with a few years ago is just as jaded as he is, making it easier to discern that he’s becoming tired of everything.

possibly you too.

you see him stand up, motioning to the bartender before sliding something across the counter.

“good work.”

the handsome lad, elated as ever, nods his head and quietly pockets the large tip he’s just received. he leaves, back to tending to boastful officials, and of course, acting as if you didn’t exist. coward, not him but you, because it’s no use pretending to yourself that it doesn’t sting; you didn’t know when and how you became so… contingent on sylus.

is this the opinion everyone holds of you now?

just what has been transpired during your absence?

you stare at him, at the swirling wine in his glass, now down to its last drop.

sylus sighs. “your father is looking for you.”

and he doesn’t bother to look at you now.

maybe he’s decided that no matter what happens, you’ll just never learn. that you’ll never be the mentee he hoped you’d be.

“go, (name).”

the once-promised tour pushes you into sylus’s daunting lair: the glorious empire he, alongside your father and many others, built over the decades, the eminent pillar of today’s business sphere called the n109 corp. it receives you not as the person you are meant to be, but as prominent as your father, as sylus himself. if anything, no one glances at the badge on your chest: the “INTERN” penned just below your name.

“we are so delighted to finally welcome you!”

a bouquet is pushed into your arms: gerberas, blooming fresh and yellow.

“oh, thank you—”

you are quickly silenced by a flash of a camera.

“how is mr. qin?” someone yells.

“how do you feel finally working in this company?” a mic is pushed to your nose. “was this decision yours or his?”

what…?

a pat lands on your back just as you push down the mic.

“excuse us! thank you!”

you turn to see your father nod to someone before he’s smiling at the reporters. you don’t know if you want to acknowledge him right now, or really anyone in this trifling crowd surrounding you. everyone else must have been looking over too — the front desk, the clients who were unfortunate to get caught in this — curious as to what is shaking the company today.

“this way, please.”

someone motions toward a hallway.

but you are still waiting for something else.

… someone.

where is he?

“move on, (name).” your father nudges you forward.

maybe it wasn’t customary? knowing him, this isn’t very unlikely.

but… wasn’t sylus the one who promised you? then why? why didn’t he come to receive you?

a frown tugs on your lips.

you have no choice but to excuse the ceo’s absence. with a courtesy, you are soon led to a massive hall enclosed with glass walls.

breakfast, comparable to gourmet meals, is served right on the clock. finest china that just reeks of accumulated wealth upon wealth. an unspoken decorum between the officials taunts you, one you don’t know if you’ll ever learn. you are forced to smile at jokes that bordered on barely concealed degradation. you are expected to contribute, unlike the mere intern you were supposed to be. you press back against the chair, the softest of cushions supporting your back — uncanny just like the smiles plastered on everyone’s faces.

this isn’t what it should’ve been. what you hoped.

that familiar snarky face has also yet to reveal itself, and the fact that it’s taking him so long is only making you fraught with concern.

and disbelief.

you spend the next few hours jumping from floor to floor, making sure to greet every single department, every single face that somehow knew who you were. the anticipated man doesn’t show up for lunch either — caviar, freaking, cruel caviar-topped sandwiches. who is even commissioning this? because it’s definitely not sylus.

upon your first and last bite, forcefully swallowed, you are extended an invitation for the first meeting of today — one meant for higher-ups only, one you had no business attending. no matter the attendees’ polite gestures or expressions, you know they are already passing you off as a nepo baby. and it’s frustrating when the least you wanted was anything but this favoritism. what you you want is sylus’s guidance, as strict as he always was in your sessions. you want him to guide just as he said he would.

except he’s not here welcoming you into his beloved empire.

as he promised…

where even are you, sylus?

it is only when your father is showing you around a room — no doubt your soon-to-be office — that you come to see in between the pleasantries. the tour isn’t anything what was stated. this messy and abhorrent company has already made its first moves; you weren’t given a choice from the beginning after all.

“i requested burgundy, just for you.”

a flinch as your father slaps the desk — burgundy, deep and rich.

“gotta be on top of aesthetics!”

his laugh is gruff; no nostalgia or affection rises to soften it. you don’t sadden at the fact that he didn’t ask for your preferences beforehand, not when something more important and incredulous needs to be dealt with right now. something catches your eye: the placeholder title card is slanted on a wooden block, not permanent or finalized in any manner.

but it’s enough to set you off.

the ceo — (name).

you push away at the stack of empty file binders on the desk, the restraint long evaporated. “you can’t be serious right now!”

the title, along with a centerpiece, joins the binders on the wooden floor; the glass shatters with an intensity that your father doesn’t appreciate at all.

“oi—!”

he quickly glances at the open door and jogs to close it before turning to you. “what the hell do you think you’re doing, (name)?!”

“do you think i’m stupid?” you sneer at him.

he blinks. “wha— what do you—”

“this!”

you motion at the burgundy desk, at the fallen title, before turning to your father’s strangled face as you erupt.

“how can you even think i would want any of this?!”

your voice rises, and your finger points at him.

“the ceo?! are you kidding me?!”

“i don’t want this!”

“never!”

murmurs have begun to sound behind closed doors, but they don’t mean anything to you. your father steps back just as you walk forward. the finger never releases the tension as it remains pointing at his shocked face. you don’t have it in you to lower it — the respect you held for him is gone, and the only thing you can do is yell and yell and yell; years’ worth of negligence, failed expectations, and broken boundaries tearing you apart.

“(name)—!” he tries again.

“no!”

you clutch your chest, eyes blurred, begging for the liberation you always longed for. “i won’t tolerate this any further—”

something snaps in him.

“this isn’t for you to decide! god dammit!”

he exhales deeply, trying to calm himself. “do you know how much i’ve done for you?”

“i…” you pause, searching for an answer. and when it comes, it’s from the little you of years ago, as hurt and broken as you are today.

“does it even matter when i never asked for it?”

it doesn’t.

“tell me.”

not to you. and not to him.

“you never cared for what i wanted. it’s always been about you, and you, and your dreams, year after year, and years to come! what about mine? when will you listen to me?!”

this time, it’s him and his restraint breaking apart. he’s the one hurling a chair across the room, with rage in his eyes. it collides against the desk, mere inches away from you, causing its metal to vibrate throughout the room, a visceral sound as it forces into your ears.

a lump rises in your throat, fear settling in. “a-are you insane?!”

“why don’t you ever—”

in an instant, he’s on you, his hand clamping on your wrist, teeth baring. “listen to me! you brat!”

“let me go!” you thrash in his grip.

“enough!”

a glare at you, a galore of something a father shouldn’t ever cast toward his kin. “shut your mouth!”

so vile that you fold in on yourself, a grief unlike anything spreading like a haze over you. this wasn’t even worth fighting — this fight, one you were always set to lose. just an asset; you have always been an asset — a mere something to ensure his legacy.

the cfo wins.

his hold loosens, as if sensing your rigor melt away, his voice tempered now. “you are coming with me now—”

your father doesn’t get to drag you further as the door bangs open, startling the two of you. you both stop upon the hidden figure entering the room and making itself known: irate in a way you haven’t seen before.

“enough — both of you.”

sylus.

“your father told me everything — he’s upset.”

of course, he did.

the evening sky peeks from behind the towering city tops, a smudge of oranges and reds, as if mocking your anger. you ignore sylus in your periphery, gazing at a myriad of buildings that poked at certain, miserable memories.

back at this damned terrace because he just loves to see you embarrassed, no?

“(name).”

a barely-there whisper which would’ve moved you before, but now, it does nothing.

the sofa lounge creaks in a way it never had. you feel him sit beside you, too close, at a distance that only irks you more. soon, warmth permeates your back, one you were sure you didn’t deserve now. you stiffen as sylus presses his hand more, letting you feel him despite the layers you have worn today.

“are you okay?”

you bite the inside of your cheek.

“you can talk to me, sweetie.” his voice comes low.

why do you care now?

you want to ask him questions, a multitude of them. however, you now know his answers won’t hold their credibility as they did before.

you instead whisper: “… leave.”

“hmm?” he bends forward, clearly not hearing you.

your head whips toward him. “can you leave!”

sylus’s expression changes instantly. shock bleeds into the indifference he always prided himself on — something you hated so much now. why so surprised now? it only makes you snicker inwardly.

what a joke.

“i don’t need you now.”

a jab at his chest, and you recoil instead of him.

“just go. and leave me to wallow alone, just as i always have…”

“go, mr qin!”

your gaze pierces through his, blurred once again. “like you once said, this isn’t appropriate!”

“so go! leave like you did!” you yell when he doesn’t get up.

“(name)—”

you shake your head and push his hand away from you, tears welling in your eyes. “stand up right now, and leave me the fuck alo—!”

a scent you had always smelled from afar hits you closer: pine, woody, expensive musk, old pages. the audacity in him to hug you right now makes you tremor in anger. your slaps at his back are unfortunately futile, as are the kicks you land on his shins. but you don’t care.

you’ll break this old man, his bones and everything he can sustain apart.

you look up to see sylus, but he only pulls you in, tighter and tighter, until you can’t escape from him. a hiss, “you bastard — let me go!”

“forgive me.” he murmurs above you.

you feel his face fall on your neck as he inhales deeply. “i know i am asking for too much, but… please.”

another squeeze from his arms. “but you must.”

what an egoist.

“you didn’t care!”

“i know. i should have been there — today… for your welcoming to this ridiculous company. however, i couldn’t get myself past this feeling.

i-i’ve been mourning the mentee i had, someone whom you could have become, all because of me.”

everything stills except his rising and falling chest. sylus holds you close, in a way he never did: scared and too tired to fight against morals.

“that meeting in the bar should’ve been enough, but it wasn’t.”

“t-tell me you are just as hung up as i am, then.” you whisper.

you feel sylus shake his head.

“there’s n-no chance? like for you to fall in love with me. e-ever?” you push back, ignoring the shake in your voice.

“i wasn’t until i was.”

huh.

“what if i said i am — not in the way i desired, should’ve.” he whispers.

“… what.”

you part from him, and he lets you.

“i do feel something… for you.”

your eyes fall to his chest, and a gasp pushes out of you.

the cfo — sylus qin.

“you left, slipped away, so i did what i had to to make sure you won’t again.” his voice cracks.

suddenly, the ceo name card on your desk makes all sense now.

“i was ashamed of myself, scared of what it meant for you — there was no other choice.”

sylus doesn’t explain further, even if you press for more. he cups your hand in his and rests it on his cheek. “i’m not wrong for this now, am i?”

your dream is unfolding right before your very eyes, and yet you can’t grasp it.

how can you though?

“but you… hurt me.”

and there’s nothing he can do.

“i know, and i know there isn’t anything i can do to fix what i caused.”

he only holds you as you burst into tears, and cry and cry and cry.

you were failed. terribly so.

“i-i don’t know what to do…”

sylus wipes your tears. “not to worry.”

what is there to love anymore?

sylus accepted your refusal for the position of ceo.

perhaps it’s pity, or because of those feelings, as he claimed on the terrace. whatever it may be, your decision not to join the company certainly didn’t appease your father. but he’s grown too tired of the theatrics to rebut it openly. you are not even granted the closure, be it the anger you deserved, because it would have meant something, that he still cared for you, unlike his silence; the hurt upon his lips tightly shut.

the year-end air is chilling, though nothing comparable to the realization that dawns on you. snow falls one by one, bringing with it everything unfurling. it’s not a choice now to accept it as it is presented. you see it — everything — for what it always has been.

“your father is resigning.” you hear sylus come out onto the terrace. “what am i supposed to do?”

five!

you are twenty-seven when you finally realize sylus will always be your father’s student before anything else. the affection will shower, so will the reassurance. what they will never wash away is the grimy truth: you will never mean more than the perception sylus had already caged you in.

a cage that had been built even before you locked eyes with him.

four!

and you are twenty-seven when you finally realize you haven’t aged past twenty-three. you never stopped pining, even if you bang your head against the wall just to prove you did. this love that never got to bloom, this dead, rotten love that neither of you will shake off.

three!

“i am sorry, (name).”

two!

a smile is all you can afford now.

one!

be it real or fake.

happy new year!!!

harmless deception that keeps love at bay

it’s the ones who resist that we most want to kiss

wouldn’t you say?

you stare at him, your sugar packet frozen mid-tear. your brain currently executing a hard reboot. the audacity required to utter that sentence in broad daylight, without a hint of irony, deserves some sort of scientific study. you’re completely trapped between the trash bin and the cinnamon shaker, wondering if you can use the tiny plastic stir stick as a defensive weapon.

then, the air pressure in the room drops.

it’s a sudden shift, the kind that usually precedes a category five hurricane or the arrival of a mythological deity bent on destruction. the bell above the door simply rattles in sheer terror as two massive shadows blot out the afternoon sun entirely.

ushijima steps into the shop first, looking less like a college student and more like a mountain that has recently acquired a gym membership and a deeply ingrained sense of purpose. his posture is so perfectly straight it could be used to calibrate spirit levels. right behind him, occupying a terrifying amount of vertical and horizontal space, is zodyl. tailored into a trench coat that looks like it cost more than the average human kidney, zodyl manages to radiate the distinct energy of a cosmic horror who has successfully figured out how to use a smartphone.

both their eyes sweep the room in perfect synchronization, a dual radar system calibrating for a single, specific target. the exact millisecond their gazes land on you—and more importantly, on the proximity of brandon’s elbow to your shoulder—their faces undergo a simultaneous transformation.

if looks could physically manifest as physical objects, brandon would have just been flattened by a falling grand piano dropped from the orbit.

ushijima closes the distance between the entrance and the condiment bar in approximately six to seven steps, his heavy boots echoing like thudding artillery. zodyl glides alongside him, multiple eyes beneath the brim of a dark hat narrowing into slits of pure, concentrated venom.

“is this.. uh.. thi—ahem—individual..? causing you discomfort?” ushijima asks, his voice deep enough to vibrate the liquid in your plastic cup. he doesn’t look at brandon. he doesn’t acknowledge brandon’s existence at all. he doesn’t even acknowledge a random guy named berto who farted behind all of them. to ushijima, brandon is like a squeaky floorboard that needs to be permanently replaced with concrete.

“hey, man, we’re just talking,” brandon scoffs, though he takes an involuntary half-step backward, his spine colliding with the napkin dispenser. his voice has gone up a noticeable octave, sounding like a deflating balloon. “who even are you guys?”

zodyl steps forward, the magnitude of his presence causing the overhead lights to flicker slightly, or perhaps that is just the raw power of their collective irritation. definitely the second one since brandon is about to shit his pants. a pair of long, perfectly manicured hands settle over the collar of his coat, while another pair—subtly hidden but very much implied by the shifting fabric—seems entirely ready to drag this man into a dimension where the concept of light does not exist.

“we’re the boundary line,” zodyl purrs, the sound like broken glass. his tone is dripping with a terrifying level of polite menace. “and you’re currently trespassing with a spectacular lack of self-preservation. it’s honestly fascinating. do you possess a spine, or do you function entirely on cartilage and unearned confidence?”

you blink, suddenly feeling like the most protected, highly guarded treasure on the face of the planet. it’s an absurd contrast: on your left is a man who looks like he could crush a bowling ball with his bare thighs, and on your right is a creature of corporate elegance who could probably dismantle a fortune 500 company with a single email, and both of them are looking at this random barista-botherer like he’s a grease spot on a pristine rug.

“i was just giving out my number,” brandon stammers, his bravado leaking out of him like water from a cracked bucket.

ushijima shifts his weight, his broad chest practically creating a physical wall between you and the intruder. “your digits are unnecessary. every communication channels are fully occupied. go away.”

“go away,” zodyl echoes, their multiple eyes flashing a dangerous, iridescent hue under the dim cafe lighting. “before i decide to investigate how many pieces your ego can be broken into before you stop making that unpleasant noise with your mouth.”

“you— but i— i was just talking!”

“exactly.”

brandon looks between ushijima’s fists, which are currently the size of small melons, and zodyl’s smile, which contains entirely too many sharp teeth to be legally compliant with human anatomy. he decides, very wisely, that he loves living. he mumbles something that sounds like an apology to a potted fern and scrambles out the door so fast he nearly trips over his own loafers.

the second the door clicks shut, the oppressive, world-ending aura vanishes instantly. it’s an immediate transition.

ushijima turns to you, his fierce, terrifying expression melting into something so soft, so incredibly desperate for your approval, that he looks like a giant, worried puppy who accidentally knocked over a vase. his large hands reach out, hovering over your shoulders as if he’s afraid he might annoy you if he touches you without permission. “are you unharmed? did he touch you? if he touched your sleeve, i’ll find him outside. the pavement needs to be repainted anyway..”

“i’m completely fine, wakatoshi,” you say, a helpless smile breaking across your face. “he was just being annoying.”

“an absolute parasite,” zodyl declares, his tone instantly shifting from demonic overlord to an adoring, lovesick fool. both of his hands immediately cup your face, his palms cool and incredibly gentle against your skin, while another hand takes your coffee cup to ensure you don’t spill it. “my darling, my precious starlight, the absolute center of my gravity—how do you survive walking among these creatures? their mediocrity is infectious. i felt my own intelligence dropping simply by standing within five feet of his haircut.”

“zodyl, your hands are cold,” you chuckle, leaning into the touch anyway because, despite their dramatic nature, the warmth radiating from their love for you is tangible.

ushijima frowns slightly, staring at zodyl’s hands on your cheeks. without a word, he reaches out his own massive, calloused hand and places it over yours, his warmth immediately seeping through your fingers. “my body temperature is higher. use me for warmth instead. zodyl is ..unheated.”

“i’m cooled for optimal performance, you oversized brick,” zodyl snaps, though there is no real heat behind it; they’re both already too busy using a free hand to gently smooth down a stray lock of your hair. “and they enjoy the texture of my hand. don’t you, sweetheart? tell the block of granite that you prefer my elegance.”

“i prefer both of you not causing a scene in the middle of a local business,” you say, though your heart is doing a series of complicated gymnastics inside your ribs.

it’s ridiculous, really. you’re an ordinary person, yet you have somehow acquired two of the most intensely devoted, entirely unhinged protectors in existence. you’re their sun, their northern star, their entire operational objective. if you asked them to flip the coffee shop upside down to find a dropped dime, ushijima would already have his hands under the foundation and zodyl would be drafting a legal document to authorize the demolition.

“we’re not causing a scene,” ushijima says with absolute sincerity, his eyes fixed on yours with a level of intensity that makes your knees feel like warm honey. “we’re executing standard security protocols. you’te important. your safety is the only priority on my schedule today. and tomorrow.”

“and for the next several centuries,” zodyl adds, leaning down so his face is mere inches from yours. his breath smells faintly of mint and expensive tea. “if i had my way, you would be carried everywhere on a velvet litter, completely shielded from the eyes of the public. but since you insist on ‘having a career’ and ‘buying groceries,’ i’m forced to endure the agony of watching lesser beings perceive you.”

“you guys are ridiculous,” you breathe out, the sheer amount of romantic pressure in the air making your face heat up.

ushijima’s thumb strokes the back of your hand, a grounding pressure that makes you feel entirely safe. “i’m not ridiculous. i’m focused. when i play volleyball, i don’t lose sight of the ball. you’re much more valuable than a ball. therefore, my focus is absolute.”

“see? he compares you to inflated leather,” zodyl sighs dramatically, though his other hand is currently trying to subtly adjust your jacket so it sits perfectly on your shoulders. “whereas i compare you to the final, perfect equation of the cosmos. the singular reason the universe bothered to expand. now, come. let’s leave this establishment before the ghost of that man’s terrible cologne ruins your appetite. i’ve reserved an entire dining room for us.”

“an entire room?” you ask, letting them guide you toward the exit. ushijima takes your hot chocolate cup from zodyl, holding it with the delicate care of a man carrying a live grenade, ensuring not a single drop spills.

“of course,” zodyl says, pushing the door open for you with a flourish that involves entirely too many arms. “privacy is non-negotiable when i wish to worship you without the distraction of civil society.”

as you walk down the sidewalk, sandwiched securely between them, you realize that people are staring. it’s impossible not to stare. ushijima is walking on your left, his shoulder occasionally bumping against yours with a deliberate, heavy gentleness, his eyes scanning the crowd like a secret service agent on high alert. on your right, zodyl is practically vibrating with affection, a flurry of hands adjusting your scarf, holding your shopping bag, and occasionally resting against the small of your back to steer you away from a puddle.

“wakatoshi,” you say softly, looking up at him. “you’re walking very fast.”

he instantly halts, his boots nearly skidding on the concrete. his expression turns deeply apologetic. “i’m sorry. my stride is long. i’ll recalibrate.” he takes a tiny, exaggeratedly small step forward to match your pace exactly, looking incredibly proud of his adjustment.

zodyl lets out a sharp laugh. “look at him. a giant trying to walk like a penguin. truly a majestic sight.”

“it’s workable,” ushijima replies, his face deadpan but his grip on your hand tightening just a fraction, a silent plea for you not to find him foolish. “matching pace ensures maximum defensive proximity.”

“you both make me feel like i’m a high-value asset being transported by a private military company,” you laugh, wrapping your arm through ushijima’s while zodyl immediately claims your other hand, intertwining his long, slender fingers with yours.

“you’re far more valuable than that,” ushijima says, his voice dropping into that quiet, chest-rumbling register that always makes your pulse spike. “assets can be replaced. you cannot.”

zodyl’s eyes soften, a rare, genuine warmth overtaking his otherwise sharp features. he lean across you, his shoulder pressing against ushijima’s for a brief, rare moment of truce as they both look down at you. “for once, the athlete speaks the truth. you’re entirely irreplaceable, my love. every hour spent away from you is a bureaucratic error in the timeline of my day.”

by the time you arrive at the restaurant—a gorgeous, secluded spot overlooking the river—the sun has begun its descent, painting the sky in bruises of purple and gold. the private room zodyl booked is entirely excessive, filled with plush velvet seating and a table large enough to host a small parliament, but the moment you sit down, the vastness of the room disappears.

because they do not sit across from you. obviously. who does that??

ushijima claims the seat directly to your left, pulling his chair so close that his muscular thigh is pressed firmly against yours, providing a solid, warm barrier against the rest of the world. zodyl takes the right, immediately draping one of his elegant coats over the back of your chair and they both settle in with an array of limbs that somehow manage to surround you completely without making you feel crowded.

“eat,” ushijima says, sliding a plate of perfectly prepared appetizers toward you. he has already cut the food into perfectly uniform, bite-sized pieces while you were looking at the menu. “you need sustenance. you had a long day of dealing with inferior individuals.”

“i can feed myself, toshi,” you say, your heart doing that familiar, melting sensation again.

“i know you can,” he says, his gaze steady and filled with love in his voice. “but i find satisfaction in providing for you. it’s a measurable metric of my care.”

“let me do it,” zodyl interrupts, holding up a fork with a piece of smoked salmon that just arrived. “my coordination is statistically superior, and i can offer a variety of angles.”

“your angles or whatever you’re talking about are unnecessary,” ushijima states, his large hand gently but firmly blocking zodyl’s fork. “their left side is my responsibility.”

“since when did we partition our darling like a post-war territory?” zodyl scoffs, though there is a soft, fond curve to his lips as he looks at you. “fine. we can share. but only because the heart on their cheeks is currently reaching a level of beauty that should be illegal under local zoning laws.”

you hide your face in your hands, your ears burning. “you both need to stop. my heart can’t take this much flattery before dinner.”

ushijima’s large hand gently pries your fingers away from your face, his touch incredibly light despite his strength. his eyes are wide, honest, and entirely devoid of guile. “it’s not flattery. it’s an accurate assessment of reality. you’re very beautiful. it makes my chest feel tight when i look at you for too long, but i don’t wish to look away.”

zodyl makes a dramatic, wounded sound, placing a hand over their own heart. “oh, heavens. the granite block has discovered poetry. we’re all doomed. but he’s ..correct, starlight. you have both of us completely. i used to care about corporate takeovers and global market dominance studies. now, my entire morning strategy session consists of wondering what flavor of tea or just hot chocolate you prefer with your breakfast.”

the sincerity in their voices is what truly undoes you. it isn’t just a game or a bit of playful banter; you can feel the absolute weight of their adoration in every small gesture—the way ushijima’s fingers lightly trace the hem of your sleeve, the way zodyl’s hands are currently weaving a small, intricate pattern out of the cloth napkins just to keep you entertained, the way both of them keep their eyes anchored to you as if the rest of the room would simply dissolve into mist if they looked away.

the dinner proceeds in a beautiful, chaotic symphony of over-attentiveness. you’re offered drinks before your glass is even a quarter empty. your napkin is replaced three times due to microscopic specks of dust. ushijima manages to eat his entire steak with one hand because his other hand refuses to let go of your left one, and zodyl spends a solid ten minutes explaining the entire history of the restaurant’s architecture simply because you murmured that the ceiling looked nice.

it’s so absurd. it’s completely over the top. you feel like a monarch surrounded by two incredibly lethal, deeply lovesick guards who have completely forgotten how to function in civil society.

when the check finally arrives, a silent, vicious war of credit cards breaks out between ushijima and zodyl. it involves a display of hand-eye coordination, multiple limbs, and ushijima’s raw physical speed, resulting in the poor waiter looking as though he has just witnessed a high-stakes magic trick.

“i paid,” ushijima announces, his face entirely expressionless but his chest puffed out like a victorious rooster. “my card was processed first.”

“you used physical intimidation to block my arm,” zodyl huffs, adjusting his cuffs with an air of profound dignity. “a completely unsanctioned maneuver. i’ll be reviewing the security footage, wakatoshi.”

“the transaction is complete,” ushijima replies simply, standing up and immediately offering you his hand to help you rise from the plush seat. “there is no appeal process.”

as the three of you step out into the cool evening air, the city lights are reflecting off the river, creating a shimmering path of gold and neon. the temperature has dropped significantly, a brisk wind blowing through the concrete canyons of the streets.

before you can even register the chill, a massive weight settles over your shoulders. ushijima has stripped off his heavy leather jacket, draping it over you. it’s warm, smelling intensely of cedarwood and clean laundry, enveloping you completely like a heavy blanket. a second later, zodyl’s silk scarf is being wound gently around your neck, his long fingers tucking the edges in with practiced precision.

“better?” zodyl asks, his face close enough that you can see the faint, glowing patterns in his eyes.

“i’m practically sweating now,” you laugh, looking like a small child drowning in oversized winter gear.

“good,” ushijima says, his large arm settling around your waist, pulling you against his side so that his body heat seals out the wind completely. “hypothermia reduces cognitive function. i require you to be fully operational so you can enjoy the walk home.”

“you’re an absolute romantic void,” zodyl sighs, though he slides his arm through your remaining free one, his long fingers resting over the sleeve of ushijima’s jacket. “ignore him, my sweet. he views romance as a series of health and safety regulations. let’s focus on the fact that the moon looks exceptionally lovely tonight, though it suffers greatly by comparison to your profile.”

you walk down the quiet street, the city humming around you, completely insulated from the rest of the world by the two forces of nature walking on either side of you. you think about brandon from earlier, and how utterly insignificant his cheap lines were compared to the terrifying, beautiful, world-shattering devotion you’re currently engulfed in.

ushijima presses a soft, surprisingly gentle kiss to the crown of your head, his lips lingering against your hair for a long moment. “we should do this every tuesday,” he murmurs.

“the coffee or the public intimidation?” you ask, looking up at him with a grin.

“both,” he says with absolute gravity. “anything that allows me to remove obstacles from your path is an efficient use of my time.”

“and i shall handle the administrative cleanup,” zodyl smiles, their fingers giving yours a tender, reassuring squeeze. “a perfect partnership.”

you smile, leaning your head against ushijima’s sturdy shoulder while zodyl’s thumb gently caresses your cheek, your heart completely full, entirely certain that the universe has never seen a pair of protectors more terrifyingly, beautifully whipped.

to my dear twin,

happy birthday !! meeting you through tumblr must’ve been one of the biggest blessings i had in my online journey. even though it started as you somehow hating my ex more than i did, i’m glad we got to talk more and share our mutual interests. i have come to value you dearly as someone i can call my close—dare i say, best—friend. you’ve genuinely helped me through so much, whether you know it or not so i wish to help you too :3 it makes me the happiest when you confide to me, it doesn’t matter whether i should give advice or just listen, i’m just glad that you thought of telling me.

you truly are one of the best friends i have ever gotten and i’ll always gladly come to your rescue if need be. i want your birthday and every other normal day to be the best because you deserve nothing less. you’re genuinely such a blessing to me that i’d forever trade my soul just for someone as precious as you to be my friend and exist in every lifetimes. thank you for always staying with me even if i talk and send you the most random bs known to humanity. you made my life lighter ever since i’ve known you, you’re nothing but a breathe of fresh air. you’ve always been there when i suffer through almost every single thing imaginable, and you always manage to make me feel better. whether you give me good advice or just say something so stupid that i forget all about it.

you know me so well—too well, infact—that you get concerned so easily, but i know you too :3 how could i not? you’re so easy to cherish, you have a special place in my mind and in my heart. i admire everything about you—as much as you hate this—especially with how beautiful you are, inside and out. i hope you know that i’ll always be here for you, and it’s not because i feel obligated to do the same, but because that’s what i do for people i care about.

you’re one of the greatest gifts in my life, i pray you’re aware of that. i’ll always be proud of you. if i could give you a gift just for yourself, it’s to see yourself through my eyes. ouuhh cringe, i know. don’t come for me please. if you see yourself through my eyes, you’d probably never think bad about yourself.

distance, time, and change could never erase how much i care about you.

i love u sooo soo much! happy birthday :3

n: i lob u

© showhay — don’t copy, repost, or translate without my permission. do not use/feed my works to AI.

As you absentmindedly braided her hair that night, you wondered if it was your bad luck or good grace that he'd been killed in a riot in jail. When the penitentiary had phoned for you to come and identify his body, you'd been scared.

Scared that it wouldn't be him and the bastard would've cheated death itself.

You decided there was no need for your daughter to ever know what kind of person her father was. But as she grew older and the neighbors' kids started talking, it was clearly affecting her more than you'd realized.

"Hey, Bun" You softly turned her to face you "Do you miss Daddy?"

Her eyes widened like she had been caught with her hand in the cookie jar before she hid her hands behind her back, shoulders drooping "No.."

"It's okay if you do" You reassured her. You couldn't blame her for feeling left out when she watched all the little kids get picked up by both their parents. It was obvious she'd wonder why she didn't have that.

You weighed your options. If you played it right, you could satisfy her and also keep her in the dark at the same time.

"Would you like to write him a letter?"

Tears sprang to your eyes when you saw how instantly she bloomed in joy, nodding vigorously and trying to escape your hold so she could do it immediately. You stopped her, promised you'd help her write it the next day if she went to bed at once.

Three days after she posted her letter, you brought one home with a flourish, telling her that her father had written back after all!

If the little lie you told was the reason your daughter had the dopiest smile on her face, you'd never feel guilty for it ever again. Especially not as you tucked her into bed that night, her little fist still clutching the letter like it was her lifeline.

It was only a few days later that you felt your heartbeat nearly triple when she rushed into the house, clutching a blood red envelope "Mommy! Mommy look!" You'd been folding laundry when she barreled into your legs "Daddy wrote letter again!"

You didn't mean to, but you snatched the letter from between her hands so fast, it startled her. Lower lip wobbling, you saw the tears well up in her eyes and immediately decided to do damage control.

"Daddy said I should only give you this letter if you freshen up for dinner quickly!"

When your daughter turned and sprinted for the bathroom, you couldn't believe it had worked. Abandoning the laundry, you tore the envelope open and started reading.

You stared in disbelief. Sure, you had really posted the letter to the penitentiary when your daughter had insisted to take it all the way to the post office herself. You'd come up with a random serial number on the spot and figured they'd just toss the letter when they realized there was no one with that number on the roster.

My dearest Princess,

Daddy very much misses you as well. I'm always thinking of my precious daughter.

P.S You are very good at drawing! I'm proud of you.

Love,

Daddy

Not only had someone received her letter...they'd also written back? In character?

The obvious conclusion is that it's an accident. An obvious mix-up. But your daughter is so ecstatic, you can't possibly break her heart like this.

So, you let her write a letter back. Again going to the post office and posting it.

When the third letter comes back from the prison, you decide to take matters in your own hands. Writing a little letter of your own and enclosing it with your daughter's drawings.

I really appreciate you humoring my daughter, but this was just a way to cope since her father is dead. There is no need to keep up with the farce.

I don't mind it. I quite enjoy her little sketches of the three of us. Tell her that Daddy's hair is lighter in color (:

I will not be telling her anything of the sort.

So cutthroat. You wound me, darling.

Despite yourself, you found your lips lifting at his words, but you caught yourself in record time, shoving the little note in your jeans as you quickly skimmed over his letter to your daughter before you deemed it okay to hand it to her.

She squealed with delight, clutching her new bunny by the ear as she thundered down to her room to read her letter in "secret". You watched her go till she was out of sight, still staring after her and wondering if it really was a bad idea to exchange harmless letters. If some bored criminal wanted to play house with your daughter over some letters, was there really any real danger to it?

You'd always check the letter she'd write, illegible as it was, to see if she didn't accidentally reveal any information about herself. And after she'd go to sleep, you'd only change one little thing.

Erasing her name at the bottom, you used your non-dominant hand to sign a pet name. Not once had you let your daughter's letters carry her real name over to a criminal. For the sake of her mental health, you'd allowed the letters, but this was non-negotiable to you.

Like clockwork, every Tuesday his letter arrives, you skim the contents before re-sealing it and handing it over to your daughter when she comes home from pre-school. Subsequently, you post her letter every Wednesday evening, using an address that was four blocks away from yours, belonging to the sweetest old lady who lived by herself and had dementia. You felt horrible taking advantage of the fact that she never checked her mail so you could always just conveniently swipe out the letters from her mailbox, but you brought her enough baked goods to make up for it. The letters you sent were just addressed to the penitentiary; with the serial number of an inmate you'd never know the owner of.

He signed his letters Skye but after having lived a life in hiding with a criminal, you'd learned not to trust the lot. If your daughter's deteriorating mental state hadn't been in question, the first letter would've never gone out.

One Tuesday evening, your daughter pulls at your pants to grab your attention and gives you a tiny note that she says is from Daddy. Your senses immediately go on high alert, wondering how you could've missed it, worrying he's said something inexcusable and you would have to stop this little pen pal relationship.

Am I not allowed to know what my daughter looks like?

You feel a vein throbbing in your forehead, smiling at your daughter as she stares at you with her big doe-like eyes before you distract her with a snack.

If he wants to know what your daughter looked like, he would do something crazy like wanting to meet her if he ever got out. And if that wasn't bad, he'd probably kidnap her or do something inane, maybe he was already plotting it. Feeling your heart drop to your chest, you decide it really was the end.

That week, you don't send your daughter's letter. It remains in an unmarked envelope, hidden on the top shelf of your closet in a big box at the very back. The Wednesday of the week after, you wake up in cold sweat wondering if he sent a letter anyway. The morning of, you drop by the old lady's mailbox and quickly look through her mail just in case and sigh in relief when there's nothing in it.

The next week, you can't help the dread as you're swiping through the mailbox again, realizing how stupid you'd been. Not only had you probably endangered your daughter, but also the sweet old lady who always babysat for you whenever you had to pull extra shifts at work.

You can't keep the guilt off your face when you run into her at the grocery store that weekend, paying for her share as well when you realize she didn't remember to bring her wallet with her, heart pinching in agony at having taken advantage of her situation. Your daughter is skipping in front as you carry all the grocery bags, dropping the old lady off at her place with her stuff. She insists you stay for tea and you're about to decline but she's already bribed your daughter with cake and it's too late to retreat.

The sun is setting in streaks of orange and blue when you finally wave goodbye to her, adjusting the beanie on your daughter's head before she runs off again. You cross the mailbox, your stomach dropping as you backtrack and decide to doubly check.

Your hands are sweaty, forehead perspiring as you pluck out the blood red envelope, gulping as the dread overwhelms you, like hands wrapping around your throat and squeezing squeezing squeezing to see how long you'd last.

You quickly shove the letter inside your purse before your daughter can catch sight of it. There was no way she was going to read it- if at all- without you proofreading it first.

The entire walk home, you cannot keep your eyes off her. Heart palpitating like any minute you expect someone to pick her off the street and run away where you could never find her again.

Your mind is on the contents of the letter throughout preparing dinner, watching your daughter's favorite show, her bath time, reading her a story to bed and finally, like all the other nights for the past week reassuring her that her Daddy does love her even if he's not written back in a while.

By the time you're finally alone, you're about ready to rip off your hair from its roots as you hastily open the envelope and pluck the letter out.

You skim the letter, it is inconspicuous, nothing suggesting that he never received another letter, keeping the conversation going like always. Asked her about school, her best friend Kara (who was a plushie, but he'd never know) and what kind of cake she liked. Totally innocent. Picking up where they'd previously left off.

You checked for another note, and sure enough there was one. Hands trembling, you opened the twofold and started reading.

Dearest Mommy of the Prettiest Princess in the World,

You'd have appreciated the sarcasm if your knees weren't fighting the urge to buckle and give in from the dread.

I suppose I have scared you with my little request. Thus, the lack of letters from your end for the past couple weeks. I apologize for the same, I only realized the implications of my request afterwards. I meant no harm and would understand if you would like to stop completely.

You trusted the man as far as you could throw him. Considering you knew nothing about him; you decided even that was unreliable.

But once in a while, with your permission of course, if the little bunny draws any more pictures, I'd be very much interested in seeing them.

You huffed out a laugh at his audacity, feeling your chest deflate. Years spent trusting your instinct to protect your daughter had wound you so tight that feeling even a single knot loosen was enough to knock the breath out of your lungs.

In sickness and in health,

Daddy

As you posted your daughter's letter that Wednesday, you couldn't help but laugh at your inside joke, wondering how he'd take it. If his previous demeanor was anything to go by, you were guessing it'd be in stride.

"Mail!"

Complete silence filled the yard, all the inmates stopping where they were, at odds with how they'd usually be clawing over each other to get their mail first.

Because no one touched their letters till he had taken his.

The crowd parted like the red sea, hordes of men in orange clearing a path till the mailman who, for all the brave face he put on, was trembling in his pants as well. He could feel the bead of sweat on his back, lining his forehead as he watched him approach, praying to all the Gods up in Heaven that someone- anyone had written this man a letter.

When he'd realized there was no letter for him, yet again, no one had been allowed to take theirs. Not because he forbade them, but because they were scared of what he'd do.

He'd not raised his voice, barely bothered looking intimidating and yet no one stood in his vicinity as he carded through the envelopes, not finding one for himself before asking in a saccharine tone "Are you sure you didn't misplace any?"

The first week, the mailman had been cocky, confident. He'd tched as he snatched the mail back, wondering why no one else was stepping forward "Don't blame me just 'cuz there ain't a letter for you in here ya bloke"

But when no one else stepped forward to take their mail, all that confidence had wavered as he looked around at downcast eyes, no one willing to risk upsetting him any more than he already was.

For the past two weeks, inmates had been avoiding him like the plague. He wasn't amiable on any day but if he didn't receive his letters on Friday, it was a long weekend for all of them.

Especially the ones who challenged him in the ring on Saturday nights.

The second week, it was a similar outcome. The mailman didn't understand what exactly was going on but the nervous, fidgety energy of the inmates was making him nervous as he watched him go through the envelopes and come up empty.

This time he'd just raised an eyebrow, making the mailman sweat "I didn't misplace any!" The desperation and fear ringing clear in his voice.

He'd smiled, crimson eyes glimmering in the sunlight "No one's blaming you" He'd turned around but the wind still carried over the last word "Yet"

The mailman had found himself rechecking for any lost envelopes thrice. He didn't know what would become of him if he returned another week without a letter.

Everyone waited with bated breath as he flipped through the stack of mail the mailman had just handed over and a collective sigh of relief escaped when he plucked out a measly white envelope, lips lifting in a sinister smirk as he handed the rest of the stack back, uncaring of the crowd descending on the poor mailman now that they had the green signal.

He returned to his cell, littered with drawings lining the walls surrounding a single bed, desk and chair. His fingers were twitching with excitement as he tore open the envelope and three things fell out.

He picked up the one on the top first. His daughter had written back to him finally, describing in great detail that she had won a finger-painting competition in school, that Kara came second, her favorite cake was "stroubery". A wry smile lifted his lips at the little sketch of the cake next to the text with cherries lining the top.

Like always, she'd signed it

He admired your resolute, truly. Your daughter's writing was so dark that it would leave indents behind the paper and yet, you'd erase her name so cleanly every time that despite multiple attempts at shading over the lines of the pencil indents, he was yet to figure out her name.

Luv u forehver

Princess Bunny

Picking up the second letter, he couldn't help the smirk spreading over his lips when he saw what you'd addressed it.

Dearest Daddy of the Prettiest Princess in the World,

God, he wanted to see you mouth off to him in person so bad.

I've attached a picture of her.

He was so surprised that he immediately dropped your letter to look at the polaroid you'd sent him. One he stared at for all of two seconds before throwing his head back and barking with laughter, unable to help himself as his shoulders shook with mirth.

Resting his forehead on the letter, he could faintly smell the perfume lingering on it and wondered what you looked like. He'd spent almost every day since your first letter wondering who you could possibly be. Sure, he had no reason to lie here and actually complete his sentence, he could get out whenever he wanted but he looked forward to his daughter's letters. There was no fun in finding out who you were through Luke and Keiran when he was sure he could get you to come to him. And you would. Slowly but surely.

Beautiful, isn't she?

She looks forward to your letters so I suppose you can keep sending them.

In happiness and in sorrow,

Mommy

As he pinned up the latest letter next to the others, he also pinned the polaroid next to it, unable to escape the huff of laughter escaping him when he gazed at the ultrasound.

Sylus would make you his. There was simply no other option.

Dearest Mommy of the Prettiest Princess in the World,

She is, indeed the most beautiful little princess I've ever seen. She takes after her mother, I'm sure. For research purposes, would you be willing to provide evidence I can submit?

To have and to hold,

Daddy

Dearest Daddy of the Prettiest Princess in the World,

Do you want my ultrasound too?

For better or for worse,

Mommy

Dearest Mommy of the Prettiest Princess in the World,

I don't mind. Although, I'll admit I usually save the ultrasounds for a third date.

For richer or for poorer,

Daddy

Dearest Daddy of the Prettiest Princess in the World,

Unfortunately for you, I don't have those ultrasounds or a third date for you.

To love and to cherish,

Mommy

Dearest Mommy of the Prettiest Princess in the World,

Why don't we start at a first one then? I would like to know the color of your eyes.

Till' death do us part,

Daddy

A/N: This has been marinating in my drafts for two months now. Time to unlock multiple chapter fics<3