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mia. greek. keen sleeper. i write whenever my office job doesn’t give me headaches.

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⇢ 𝐉𝐔𝐉𝐔𝐓𝐒𝐔 𝐊𝐀𝐈𝐒𝐄𝐍

⟡ inevitable ┊ gojo

⟡ force of nature ┊ gojo

⇢ 𝐃𝐄𝐕𝐈𝐋 𝐌𝐀𝐘 𝐂𝐑𝐘

⟡ last call, devil boy ┊ dante

⟡ divine intervention ┊ dante

⇢ 𝐄𝐗𝐏𝐄𝐃𝐈𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍 33

⟡ a spark of jealousy ┊ verso

⟡ patched up pride ┊ verso

⟡ ashfall ┊ verso

⟡ jealousy is not a combat skill (i checked) ┊ verso

⟡ i notice you ┊ verso

⇢ 𝐍𝐀𝐕𝐈𝐆𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍

↳ #masterlist

Your name. Your department. Your desk number. Your badge history. The time you entered the building. The time you left. Your usual coffee order from the kiosk downstairs. Your apartment building. Your mother’s maiden name. Your last three performance reviews.

Vought’s systems were very useful when you were Vought’s favorite product.

By the end of the week, Homelander knew you took the stairs from fifty eight to sixty when you were anxious, even though there was nothing on fifty eight except archived marketing files and one vending machine.

He knew you hated the raspberry protein bars in the break room but ate them anyway when deadlines got bad.

He knew you kept extra shoes under your desk.

He knew you cried once outside the bathroom after a senior VP called your work “hasty bullshit.”

Homelander had watched that part twice.

Not because he liked seeing you cry.

He didn’t.

That was the oddest thing.

He had expected to enjoy it. Depending on the situation and his mood, people breaking was usually boring at best, satisfying at worst. Their silly little reasons for crying like fucking babies without diapers could drive him insane.

They were all so…human. And small. And ridiculous.

Yours was a little different. You had covered your mouth with your hand so no one would hear, forced yourself to breathe, entered the bathroom to fix your lipstick in the mirror, and walked back out like nothing happened.

He had paused the footage.

Then rewound it.

Then watched your face settle into calm in a matter of seconds.

Something in his chest had gone unpleasantly tight.

After that, he started checking the cameras before his interviews.

Then before meetings.

Then after fucking patrol.

Then at night.

Just to make sure you got home, obviously.

He would tell himself it wasn’t strange. It wasn’t wrong. He was the Homelander. He was supposed to protect people right? That was the whole point of his marketing existence. Yes, he hated every second of it but for you, he was willing to pretend.

Besides, you were…

Well.

You were worth watching.

“Your numbers are insane this quarter,” your coworker Diana said, leaning against your desk one morning. “Like, scary insane. Did you sell your soul or something?”

You snorted without looking up from your laptop. “Pretty sure everyone who signs an employment contract here does that by default.”

She laughed.

Homelander didn’t.

From the empty conference room across the hall, invisible behind mirrored glass, he watched your smile curve and linger.

Diana was too close to your desk, her hip was touching the edge.

Why did that bother him so much?

He heard Diana ask, “Drinks tonight?”

Oh he definitely wanted to laser her out in front of everyone.

Fighting the urge, Homelander leaned forward slightly.

“Maybe,” you replied. “Depends on when I finish.”

“You always say that.”

“Because I always mean it.”

Diana just rolled her eyes jokingly and walked away.

Homelander’s gaze stayed on you.

You rubbed at your temple. Your shoulders were tight. You had been sleeping badly again. He knew because you had turned on your corporate phone at 3:12 a.m. the night before and searched, “can stress cause chest pain.”

That had irritated him too.

Vought was full of insects in expensive shoes, buzzing around you, bothering you, taking pieces of your precious day. Your manager gave you extra work because you did it properly. Your coworkers came to you for help because you were too nice to say no. Men in elevators looked at you for half a second too long and then acted normal because cameras existed.

And he saw all of it, that was the problem.

And once he started seeing you, he couldn’t stop.

There was something addictive about your presence, he couldn’t quite grasp. To be fair, he would never even acknowledge to his own self that he’d gotten hooked into checking on you daily. He called it mere curiosity, hoping that if he’d studied you enough, he would know how to turn this into his advantage. Every person had something to offer to him, right? Should offer him.

But if so, why the fuck were the roles in reverse?

The first present appeared on a Tuesday.

Just a fresh coffee on your desk, exactly the way you always ordered it, still warm.

You stared at it for a full ten seconds.

Then you looked around.

No one looked back.

The culprit, watching from the hallway feed, smiled in pride.

But you didn’t drink it like he’d expected.

You threw it away. God knows who was trying to sabotage you into missing that important meeting with your manager later. Nobody had ever brought you coffee before and it seemed suspicious enough for you to get rid of it, just in case. Of course, it would be nice if someone from your coworkers cared enough to do that - but nobody did, mostly because of the strict deadlines everyone followed, so every little second counted. Not much time for chitchat either.

Needless to say Homelander was unbearable for the rest of day.

Ashley spilled three separate coffees trying to get through a meeting with him. The Deep almost pissed himself. Someone from Legal fainted when he asked, very calmly, why it was so fucking difficult for people to show basic gratitude.

The second present came the next day.

A wrapped raspberry protein bar.

Your least favorite.

This time, there was a note.

You should eat real food. Not this shit.

Your body went still.

You picked up the note, turned it over, read it again, then looked directly at the nearest security camera.

Directly with intention.

Homelander went still for a moment behind the screen.

Your expression was impossible to read. Not afraid, exactly. Not pleased either.

Then you raised both eyebrows as if to say, seriously?

And he laughed before getting startled by his own instinct.

The sound left his chest before he could make it handsome, before he could make it charming. A real laugh, brief and surprised.

You decided to put the protein bar in your drawer.

You did not throw the note away either.

You came to the conclusion that someone was actively stalking you enough to know parts of your routine in the company. Could it be an overhead? Did you do something wrong that would cause doubt about your performance? Were you subtly being threatened? Someone who doesn’t want to get caught watching wouldn’t leave traces that they are.

Sure, surveillance in such a place is a must and you have signed up for all of this but this is targeted. Who would care enough to watch a mere employee on office fucking five?

Things started shifting drastically as your questions doubled.

Your workload got lighter, doable.

Of course you noticed.

Emails that would have ruined your morning suddenly went to other people. Your manager stopped leaning over your shoulder. The VP who had criticised your work was abruptly transferred to a division in Ohio and looked physically haunted on his last day. (Haha Ohio)

You watched the changes happen around you like furniture moving by itself in the dark, like some haunting had taken over.

At first you told yourself not to be dramatic.

This was Vought. Weird things happened at Vought. Cover-ups happened at Vought. A lot of dark, illegal things happened at Vought.

Supes walked through walls, PR teams buried scandals, one time someone from Finance found a human teeth in a conference room and everyone just agreed to ignore it…

For better or worse, you were part of this twisted world.

But the notes kept coming.

Not every day. That would have been easier to dismiss as a prank.

No, they came just when you needed them.

A black umbrella waiting on your desk five minutes before rain hit the city.

You forgot yours.

A new badge after yours started glitching.

Security should do their job properly.

A copy of a report you had lost when your laptop crashed.

You need to save your work more often.

Your stomach twisted every time.

The handwriting was neat and controlled. Almost old-fashioned.

You realized who it was before you dared to admit it. You’d heard stories about him before, of fixations of his to get what he wants and then dispose of whoever was lucky enough to help him. He was untouchable and distant, scary up close, nothing like the man on the screen. You never had the honor of meeting him in person, thank goodness.

Everyone knew there were cameras in Vought Tower and everyone knew the walls had ears. But knowing that was different from feeling watched.

And lately, you felt it everywhere;

In the elevator.

At your desk.

In the lobby, when the giant screens played his speeches and his blue eyes looked out over everyone.

You would glance up, and for one horrible second, it would feel like the image was looking back at you.

Then one night, you stayed late. Awfully late.

The office became unfamiliar after hours. The fluorescent lights seemed colder. Desks sat empty. You were rewriting an emergency response statement about a “contained incident” in Queens. Contained, apparently, meant three city blocks and a news helicopter.

Your eyes burned but you had to push through.

Your phone buzzing startled you out of your trance. Who could it be at this hour?

Unknown number.

Go home.

Your blood went cold. No, no, not again.

You stared at the message.

Then typed back before you could completely lose your nerve.

Who is this?

Three dots appeared immediately.

Then vanished.

Then appeared again.

You know.

Suddenly the office felt awfully quiet.

You looked toward the camera in the corner.

“Stop it,” you shouted out loud.

Nothing happened.

Your phone buzzed again.

You’re tired. You’ll make mistakes.

Your fingers tightened around the phone.

This was actually fucking insane. Your mind is racing with possible scenarios concerning your fate. Would you be crushed to death? Badly beaten? Because for sure that didn’t seem to be how normal people reach out.

Well, supes are not normal people and probably don’t think like normal people with all this power in their hands now do they?

Are you watching me right now?

This time, there was no delay.

Yes.

Your breath caught in your throat

There it was. The confirmation sunk in and your fear tripled.

You stood up so fast your chair rolled backward and hit the desk behind you.

“I don’t know what you think this is,” you said, voice shaking despite your best effort, “but it needs to stop.”

The elevator dinged.

Oh you were so fucked.

The doors opened at the far end of the floor.

And then you saw him. The man who had disturbed the peace you had worked so hard to find in that shithole. Ocean eyes and golden locks walked towards you slowly, while you stayed frozen in place.

He was undoubtedly Homelander, but not fully. He was missing the cameras, the cheering crowd, the American flag rippling behind him on morning news. Just him in the suit, cape dragging softly over the polished floor, face calm in a way that made your instincts scream.

You knew who he was and heard things about him, but this was when you started to realize you didn’t know him at all.

“You shouldn’t be here this late,” he said.

You hated that his voice was gentle.

It would have been easier if he sounded cruel.

“I’m working.” Should you have added sir at the end of the sentence? Considering he had been violating your privacy, you decided to risk it and go with a big fat no.

“I know.”

“Of course you know.”

His eyes flicked over your face. “Aaaand you’re upset.”

You laughed once, sharp and humorless. He had to be kidding. “Wow. Great observation.”

His jaw tightened.

Careful, something in your head warned. He could take you out in an instant if he wanted to. And yet, despite knowing the danger you were under if you slipped and said the wrong thing, the anger inside you still managed to surpass your survival instincts.

Supe or not, there was not reason for you to get actively stalked.

“You can’t do this.”

Homelander tilted his head, putting his hands behind his back. “Do what?”

“Watch me. Text me. Move things around in my life like I won’t notice.”

“Y/n, I helped you, and this is what I get? Humans are truly ungrateful.”

“You fucking scare me.”

That landed.

His expression shifted almost imperceptibly, but you saw it. The irritation. The disbelief. The brief, wounded confusion that he crushed immediately under something colder.

“I scare you,” he repeated, just to make sure that he’d heard correctly.

After treating you so nice, trying to help and take care of you subtly - that was the thank you he was getting? He should have snapped your neck right then and there for being such a fucking brat. You had the audacity to talk back to him and doubt his decisions? He could do whatever he wanted with you at any point.

Maybe he shouldn’t have been so graceful towards you.

Despite your confession, your heartbeat seemed pretty steady. It was definitely different than what he was used to. Normally those who feared him didn’t word their fear, rather they were betrayed by their own heart threatening to rip out of their chest.

“I kept people off your back.”

“You interfered with my job and I don’t want that please.” You said, in attempt to reason with him.

The overhead lights hummed.

For a second, you remembered exactly who you were talking to; not a difficult executive. Not some lonely man with boundary issues.

Him.

The most powerful man in the world.

And you had some serious audacity to get into an argument with him, subtly pushing him to admit he was wrong and changing his mind.

Homelander stepped closer.

You forced yourself not to step back because you’d bang on your desk. Besides, showing vulnerability would definitely be to your disadvantage.

“You have no idea,” he said softly, “how many things I don’t do.”

His gaze dipped briefly, then returned to your face.

“I don’t come to your apartment,” he said. “I don’t stand outside your window. I don’t remove every idiot who looks at you wrong. I don’t make you answer when you ignore my messages.”

Your stomach turned.

He said it like these were gifts.

Like restraint was romance.

“Homelander,” you started carefully but he interrupted you by lifting his pointer finger.

“Nope, shut up. Because you kept the notes. The coffee, no. That hurt my feelings, by the way. But the notes? Top drawer. Under the emergency Advil and that awful lipstick you never wear.”

A chill slid down your back.

“You went through my desk, too?”

“I don’t need to go through things to see them.”

“Why me? Why are you doing this to me?”

He took another slow step forward, boots nearly silent on the carpet. His smile didn’t falter, but something darker flickered behind his eyes - hunger, maybe even a flicker of uncertainty.

“Why you?” His voice was smooth, laced with that arrogant drawl, but there was a raw edge to it.

“Because you’re real. Not some simpering idiot throwing themselves at me for clout or power. You sit here night after night, working like the world isn’t already mine. And you don’t flinch when I look at you. Not completely.” He was closer now, towering over your desk.

“I’ve seen every little moment. The way you bite your lip when you’re focused. The way you sigh and stretch… the way your shirt pulls across your chest. You’re mine to watch. And I’m tired of watching.”

Your breath caught now. All strength you’d managed to muster had totally evaporated. You should have been terrified. You should have screamed. Instead, heat pooled low in your belly at the raw possession in his tone. “That’s not a proper answer,” you whispered, but your voice trembled.

Mine, mine, he kept saying that. His superiority over literally everyone else probably made his life boring, boring enough to drive him nuts. He looked at you as his plaything, something to help time pass until he got bored and jumped onto the next.

Despite all these thoughts running in your head, knowing that you were totally helpless and at the mercy of the strongest supe, there was something sickly attractive about the way he treated you. The way his eyes, stormy now, took you in, the way he approached and talked to you. The way he looked awfully good in that suit, the way-

Oh.

He rounded the desk in one fluid motion, faster than you could track. One gloved hand cupped your jaw, tilting your face up to his. His thumb brushed your lower lip, surprisingly gentle.

“It’s the only answer you’re getting,” he murmured, voice dropping to a velvet growl. “Now stop talking.”

His mouth crashed down on yours without any other warning.

The kiss was anything but gentle. It was hot, demanding, almost bruising. His lips were softer than you expected, warm and insistent as they moved against yours.

You gasped, and he took the opportunity to deepen it, tongue sliding in to taste you with a low, hungry sound that vibrated through his chest.

He tasted like mint and something faintly metallic, like ozone after a storm. One of his hands tangled in your hair, gripping just tight enough to send sparks down your spine, while the other braced on the desk, caging you in.

You kissed him back. God help you, you did. For someone thinking supes had weird hobbies, you were acting in a similar manner yourself.

But what were your options anyway? He definitely wouldn’t let you walk out in a civilised manner.

Might as well add to your book of life that you got to fuck the strongest man in the whole entire world.

Your fingers fisted in the front of his suit, the fabric strangely smooth and unyielding under your palms. He groaned into your mouth when you tugged him closer, the sound raw and surprisingly human.

His body pressed against yours, solid and radiating heat even through the costume. You could feel the hard planes of his chest, the tension in his shoulders as he fought to keep control.

“Fuck,” he breathed against your lips, breaking the kiss only to trail his mouth down your jaw, teeth grazing your pulse point. “You have no idea what you do to me.”

Your hands moved on their own, sliding up to his neck, then into his perfectly styled hair, messing it up. He shuddered at the touch like no one ever touched him like this, like he was something to be wanted and not feared. That small, vulnerable reaction made something soften inside you even as arousal burned hotter.

He lifted you effortlessly, your ass hitting the edge of the desk as papers scattered to the floor. Your legs parted instinctively, and he stepped between them, grinding against you.

The hard length of him pressed against your core through his suit, thick and insistent. You moaned, rolling your hips, chasing the friction.

“Homelander-” you gasped.

“John,” he corrected roughly, nipping at your collarbone as his hands worked open your blouse. Buttons flew.

“Say it.”

“John,” you whimpered.

That broke something in him. He shoved your skirt up around your waist, fingers hooking into your panties and tearing them aside with a sharp rip that made you jolt. Cool air hit your slick folds, but it was immediately replaced by the heat of his hand as he cupped you, two fingers stroking through your wetness.

“So fucking wet already,” he growled, voice wrecked. “For me.”

You nodded frantically, pulling him back into a messy kiss. Tongues tangled, teeth clicked, breaths mingled in desperate pants. His fingers circled your clit with devastating precision before sliding into you, curling just right. You cried out against his mouth, thighs trembling around his hips.

He didn’t wait long. The sound of his suit being pulled aside was faint, and then he was there—hot, heavy, and bare against you. The head of his cock nudged your entrance, slick with your arousal.

“Look at me,” he ordered.

You did. Those blue eyes were blown wide with lust, pupils dilated, but there was something almost pleading beneath the dominance.

He thrust in with one powerful stroke, burying himself to the hilt. The stretch burned so good you saw stars, a broken moan tearing from your throat. He was big, thicker and longer than you’d imagined and the feeling of being so completely filled made your head spin.

“Fuck, you feel-” He cut himself off with a guttural groan, forehead dropping to yours. For a second he just stayed there, trembling, like he was savoring it. Then he started moving.

Hard. Deep. Relentless.

The desk creaked beneath you with every thrust. Your hands scrambled for purchase on his shoulders, nails digging into the suit as he fucked you like a man starved.

Each drag of his cock against your walls sent pleasure spiraling through you. His mouth found yours again in a sloppy, open-mouthed kiss, swallowing your cries as he pounded into you.

One of his hands gripped your thigh, spreading you wider. The other braced on the desk, knuckles white. Sweat beaded on his forehead, his usually perfect hair falling messily over his eyes. He looked devastatingly human like this,

flushed, desperate, lost in the feel of you.

“You belong to me,” he panted between thrusts, voice breaking. “Say it.”

“I belong to you,” you gasped, clenching around him. The pressure was building fast, coiling tight in your belly.

His pace faltered, hips stuttering as he chased his own release. He reached between you, thumb finding your clit again, rubbing tight circles until you shattered.

You came hard, back arching, vision whiting out as pleasure crashed over you in waves. Your walls pulsed around him, pulling him deeper. With a broken moan that sounded almost pained.

John followed right after, burying himself deep and spilling inside you with hot, pulsing jets.

For a long moment, the only sounds were your ragged breathing and the faint creak of the desk.

He stayed inside you, forehead pressed to yours, eyes closed. His hand came up to cradle the back of your head almost tenderly, thumb stroking your hair.

“You’re not getting rid of me,” he whispered, voice hoarse. “Not now. Not ever.”

And he meant it.

He’d give you the freedom to choose him, sure, but he’d have the final say, anyway.

He listened to your heartbeat fade through steel and concrete when you left a few minutes later, still dizzy and flustered by what had just happened.

Would telling Diana be an infringement of your NDA? Holy fuck, who cared? That was the most intense experience of your entire fucking life. Him having this obsession with you maybe was less creepy than you thought. Or maybe you getting with him totally turned your mind upside down and blurred your judgment, totally forgetting the potential peril you had just gotten yourself into.

John looked at your desk. Your mug. Your closed laptop. Your drawer with every note you pretended you didn’t care about.

His smile returned.

Small, private, patient.

You would text him when you got home like he’d requested.

Okay, maybe not tonight.

Maybe not tomorrow.

But eventually you would.

He’d studied you too well. And yet, you were still willing to try.

You straightened, forcing a smile, though the movement sent a jolt of pain through your leg. “Limping? Nah, I’m just… pacing myself,” you said, aiming for casual. “You know, taking in the beautiful scenery.”

You knew you were being stubborn and this was a mistake. But the thought of finally putting an end to the gommage worked as a fuel in your body, moving the wheels and giving your strength despite the pain.

Verso didn’t smile back. Instead, he stepped closer, his presence towering, gaze dropping to your leg. “You’ve been ‘pacing yourself’ since the fight this morning,” he pointed out, tone edged with frustration. “What happened?”

“Nothing happened,” you pushed too quickly, and you cursed yourself for how unconvincing it sounded.

You shifted your weight, trying to hide the way your leg trembled, and flashed him a playful grin.

Okay, one last attempt to play it off.

“You’re so serious all the time, Verso. Maybe you should take a chill pill.” You leaned closer, your voice teasing, hoping to throw him off. “I can make you smile if you let me.”

His expression didn’t soften, though a flicker of something—amusement, maybe—crossed his eyes before it was swallowed again by worry. “You’re hurt, and you’re hiding it. I’m not playing this game.”

Your smile faltered, the pain in your leg flaring as if to mock your attempt at deflection. You turned away, pretending to adjust your cloak, but Verso was faster, his hand catching your arm—not hard, but just enough to stop you. “Show me,” he said, his voice quieter now, a plea wrapped in a command.

“Please.”

Charming fucking bastard.

You sighed, defeated, and you sat on the boulder, wincing as the movement pulled at your wound.

He always managed to find a way to the inner you, the you that had no place in a world like this. Prioritising feelings would be a grave mistake, especially knowing that any attempt to keep the stability would only lead to further destruction.

Verso knew this more than anyone.

And yet, malleable beings that we are, we keep falling into the same loop. Such is the essence of our hearts, rarely escaped.

Verso knelt in front of you, his hands careful as he pushed your cloak aside, revealing the makeshift bandage on your thigh. The cloth was soaked with blood, the gash beneath it deep and angry, and his breath hissed through his teeth at the sight.

“This isn’t ‘nothing,’” he said, his voice low, a mix of anger and hurt that caused your chest to tighten.

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

You looked away, guilt settled heavy in your gut. “I didn’t want to worry you,” you admitted.

“I didn’t want you—or anyone—thinking I can’t handle myself. We can’t afford to slow down, not now when we’re so close to her heart.”

He went silent for a moment, his hands still on your thigh, his touch gentle despite the tension in his frame. Then he let out a soft, exasperated laugh, shaking his head.

“You think I’d see you as weak because of this?” he scoffed, his voice softer now, though the worry hadn’t left his eyes.

“You’re one of the strongest people I’ve ever met. But you don’t have to prove it by bleeding out.”

He had a point. You not taking proper care of yourself would only lead to more trouble later. One person less meant lesser chances of making it there.

Your throat tightened, and you blinked hard, refusing to let the tears fall. “I just… I wanted to be enough,” you whispered. “For the group. For you.”

You were starting to become vulnerable around him, and it wasn’t even about your injury. Maybe it was just in his nature, drawing people in with his gentle demeanour. You were too quick to trust him when he joined you, and even though he hadn’t given you any reason to doubt him, you still wondered if he indeed was like the way he acted.

It would be a shame if not.

His eyes softened, and he reached up, brushing a stray lock of hair from your face, his fingers lingering on your cheek. “You are enough,” he said, his voice raw, a promise woven into the words. “More than enough. And we can’t afford to lose you, not to a Nevron, not to anything.”

The sincerity in his voice completely exposed you, and a tear slipped down your cheek despite your efforts to keep it in. The more time you’d spend with Verso, the more your walls would crumble, revealing your sensitive side, a side that should have remained buried deep.

And that was way worse than an open wound.

He brushed your tear away with his thumb, his touch warm.

“I’m sorry,” you said, your voice breaking. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

“I know,” he replied, his hand dropping to your leg again, his focus shifting to the wound. He pulled a small pouch from his belt—supplies he always carried, a habit from his immortal years—and began cleaning the gash, his movements careful but sure.

“But you don’t get to play tough at the expense of your own life.”

You winced as he worked, the sting sharp, but you couldn’t help the small smile that tugged at your lips.

“You get kind of bossy when you’re worried,” you said, trying to lighten the mood.

“It’s kind of cute, you know. I like it.”

He glanced up, his stormy eyes meeting yours, and for a moment, you thought you’d pierced through because his lips twitched, a hint of a smile breaking through. But then he shook his head, his expression firm again.

After a few moments, he finished bandaging your leg. “There,” he said, tying off the cloth, his fingers lingering on your skin.

“You’ll live. But you’re not fighting until this heals.”

“Verso—”

“No arguments,” he cut in, standing and offering his hand.

“I’ll carry you if I have to.”

You took his hand, letting him pull you to your feet, careful of your leg.

“You wouldn’t dare,” you teased, but the thought of him carrying you sent a warmth through you that had absolutely nothing to do with the bandage.

He raised an eyebrow, a playful glint in his eyes now.

“Try me,” he said, his arm slipping around your waist to steady you. “Now, let’s get you back to the group. And no more heroics, alright?”

You leaned into him, the pain in your leg duller now, overshadowed by the warmth of his presence.

“Fine,” you accepted your fate with a smile tugging at your lips. “But only because you’re so good at playing doctor.”

He chuckled, the sound low and warm, just for you, and as you walked back to the others, his arm around you.

As if hypnotized, your hand slowly moved a fraction, just until your fingers brushed against his again. His eyes flicked toward you, meeting yours for the briefest of moments.

Satoru was the one to shift in his seat now and for the length of a heartbeat, everything felt suspended. Then, almost imperceptibly, he leaned in just a little closer. It wasn’t a grand gesture, but it was enough. Enough for you to completely lose your mind.

Your heart thudded in your chest as you both sat there, a breath away from something more, from something you’ve been daydreaming about for a long time.

Neither of you spoke, but in the stillness of the car, it felt like the world had narrowed down to just this moment. His hand, still hovering over yours, seemed to be waiting for something. For you to make a move? Or for himself to?

And just as quickly as it began, Gojo pulled his hand back, sitting back in his seat, the moment slipping away in an instant like sand through your fingers. He didn’t say anything, but there was a darkness in his eyes now—a flicker of something you couldn’t place.

“Get some rest,” he simply said, his voice almost too casual. He didn’t wait for you to respond, just turned the car on again and gave you a small, almost hesitant smile.

Without a single word, you stepped out of the car, your legs feeling unsteady, the weight of the unspoken moment heavy on your shoulders. You closed the door behind you and turned to look back at him. He didn’t reciprocate.

iii.

Hope is the fuel that drives us forward, yet it has the power to burn us to ashes.

And tonight, you were bound to be burned.

He hadn’t mentioned her before. Not once. Not to you, not to anyone, apparently, as they all seemed to hold the same surprised expression as you did. The only difference was that yours contained a mixture of bitterness and betrayal, evident enough for an observant reader.

“Guys, this is Mei,” he had said nonchalantly, slinging an arm around the woman’s shoulders and giving her a quick kiss. “My girlfriend.”

Your world shifted on its axis. Every stone you placed to build your happily ever after castle collapsed in a blink of an eye.

At first, you convinced yourself it was temporary. Satoru never stuck around for long in relationships, right? He would realize soon enough that she just wasn’t for him. That you were the one who had been there all along. That he would rebuild your castle.

But weeks passed.

Then months.

Then, on his birthday, he made the announcement.

“We’re engaged.”

No castle. No happily ever afters.

And as laughter and cheers erupted in the room full of your closest friends, you couldn’t hear any of it over the rushing sound in your ears. You felt like you were being pulled down into the pit of the ocean, instantly drowning. The glass in your hand trembled and before anyone could notice the devastation on your face, you stormed out after sharing your congratulations.

You desperately needed an exit. Out of this hell on earth that embraced your soul and caged it.

Your legs buckled, the sudden realization that you’d lost him forever crashing over you like a tidal wave. You weren’t sure if you were shaking from the chilly breeze of the quiet night or from the raw ache tearing through your heart.

Eventually, you collapsed to your knees on the porch, your hands clutching the edge of the railing as if it could anchor you to something, anything. The tears began to flow like a faucet.

It haunted you already. His smile as he’d told everyone. The way she stood beside him, her hand resting on his arm, showing her ring. How easily he’d said it, like it was just another step in the natural flow of things. They’re getting married. As if it had always been that way. Like you were just a passing thought.

There was nothing you could do to stop it. You had no right to. You had to sit along with the shattering truth from now on: He wasn’t yours. He never had been. He never would be.

You felt guilty for allowing yourself to be carried away by signs that turned out to be a false alarm.

You wish you had been more aware, more careful, more…

Realistic.

If Satoru wanted to make a move on you he would’ve done so as soon as he realized he had developed feelings for you. He wasn’t the type of man to hide away or act all shy like a schoolboy.

There had never been something there, ever.

It had always been empty, not an ounce of what you expected.

And if at some point it had existed, it was all long gone now, leaving dust and pain behind it.

As you were about to think that at least nobody had noticed your awful exit, you heard the door behind you creak.

Suguru Geto wasn’t the type to miss things. The way your eyes were empty, the way you barely met anyone’s gaze—it unsettled him.

He made his way outside, the soft light from the house spilling onto the dark yard. It didn’t take long before he noticed you, crumpled on the porch, knees drawn to your chest, hot tears staining your cheeks. You looked utterly broken, a mess of emotions you were unable to hide anymore.

“Hey,” Suguru said softly, kneeling next to you. He reached out, gently pulling you up and into his arms. You didn’t resist, your body still trembling a bit against his. Your breath came in jagged sobs, but your face was hard, as if you were trying not to show how much it hurt.

“Shh,” he soothed, guiding you to sit on the bench nearby. “You don’t have to explain. I can see it. I know.” Suguru’s hand moved up and down on your upper back, offering the little comfort he could without invading your space too much. You both sat there until the tears started to dry, until the night breeze dried your tears and emptiness started to take over.

Until the door opened again.

Satoru stepped out onto the porch, his excitement still buzzing in the air. It was time to cut the cake.

“Alright, what the hell are you guys doing out here?” His voice was light, teasing, filled with his usual carefree energy. But the moment his eyes laid on you, sitting there with Suguru, something shifted.

His smile faltered as he took in the scene—your eyes red from crying, your posture stiff, distant. Without a second thought, he dropped his playful tone and rushed toward you. “Hey, hey, what’s wrong?” His voice cracked with concern, as he reached out, kneeling in front of you. His hands hovered uncertainly, unsure of what to do, his eyes searching yours for some kind of answer. But you didn’t dare to meet his.

You didn’t speak either. Not a single word came out. Your gaze was hollow, distant as you stared into nothingness, face pale and devoid of emotion. Satoru’s heart sank, the confusion and panic evident in his expression.

Suguru stood up, his face calm but laced with an underlying concern. “Her stomach feels a bit weird,” he said quietly, his gaze shifting between Satoru and you just to check if you’d react to his lie. “I’ll take her home to rest, you guys can cut the cake without me, it’s fine.”

Before Satoru could reply, Suguru started walking back inside.

“Y/n, be right back, going to grab my keys and your stuff.”

All you managed to do was nod as you both watched him disappear.

You slowly rose to your feet, your movements stiff and calculated. You still refused to make eye contact with Satoru, knowing it would break you all over again. You moved past him, your shoulders brushing for a brief moment as you started heading for the steps to leave.

Satoru’s heart raced, panic rising in his chest as he quickly reached out to grab your wrist. “Hey, y/n, please wait—”

The moment his fingers brushed against your skin, you pulled away as if your body was getting electrocuted. Your expression remained unreadable as your eyes fell on the floor, which suddenly seemed more like a safe space than your own best friend.

Gojo stood there, stunned for a second. He could feel the weight of the moment pressing down on him. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to—“ He paused for a moment, trying to think of the right expression to use. Scared you? Startled you?

“Fuck, if something’s wrong, if there’s something going on, just tell me, please.”

You ignored his plea for answers.

“Look at me! Y/n please I need to know…”

The fact that he pretended to care—it gnawed at you, eating away at what was left of your patience. He had no idea how much he was hurting you and that was what pissed you off the most. He was so oblivious, so self-centred, acting as if everything was fine and you were the problem.

Your hands balled into fists at your sides as the anger began to rise, slow and steady, like a sandstorm, pulling you under.

But no, you wouldn’t give him the satisfaction, you wouldn’t be the one to cause more of a scene and give the lovey dovey couple something to gossip about before they go to sleep at night.

“You never keep secrets from me,” you finally said. “Unless you know they’ll hurt me.”

Satoru fell silent.

“You knew, didn’t you?” you pushed, voice cracking. “You knew all along and despite that…”

His fingers curled at his sides. He opened his mouth, but no words came out at first.

“I don’t see you like that.” He admitted, voice careful, a bit too hesitant, too soft. But it was enough to shatter you once again.

“Then at least you should have had the fucking decency to tell me instead of making a joke out of me tonight!”

“I didn’t mean it to appear that way, y/n.”

Everything after that was a blur. You backing off, unable to believe your ears. Suguru gently guiding you to the car, Satoru apologizing over and over, crying once again in Suguru’s car, falling asleep on your bed with your outside clothes on.

Not to worry.

It would all start to fade completely with the first rays of the sun one month later.

iv.

The room was loud, buzzing with laughter and drunken teasing as you all gathered around in a circle to play a game of “Seven Minutes in Heaven.” The rules were simple: each person would take a turn drawing a slip of paper from a hat, and whoever’s name was written would have to go into the small closet for seven minutes with said person.

The air was thick with anticipation as the time passed. The dim lighting cast a warm glow over the scene, bottles of sake scattered across the table. Shoko was grinning behind her cigarette, Nanami had his arms crossed, looking like he was already regretting joining, and Suguru was laughing, thoroughly entertained.

“Alright, next up,” Utahime said, shaking the hat full of names. She reached in, pulled out a slip, and read it aloud. “Oh, this is gonna be good. Satoru.”

You rolled your eyes as he made a dramatic show of adjusting his sunglasses, grinning like he already owned the room.

“Obviously,” he said smugly, stretching his arms behind his head. “Alright, who’s the lucky—”

Utahime pulled the next name. Her grin widened. “Oh, this is good. It’s you,” she said, pointing at you.

The room exploded into laughter and catcalls.

Your stomach dropped. “Absolutely not.”

“Ohhh, come on!” Satoru clapped his hands together, his smirk practically glowing. “Don’t be shy, y/n, you know me more than anybody in here.”

You shot him a glare. “I’d rather die.”

“Seven minutes can’t kill you,” Shoko snickered.

“It can if it’s with him,” you shot back, crossing your arms.

Satoru placed a hand over his heart in mock hurt. “I’m wounded.” Then, before you could protest any further, he grabbed your wrist, already pulling you toward the closet. “C’mon, let’s get it over with.”

The door slammed shut behind you, and you were immediately swallowed by darkness, the only light slanting through the cracks. The air was thick, filled with the distant laughter of your friends and the suffocating closeness of him.

You backed up until your shoulder hit the wall. “You better not try anything.” You lied.

“Oh, please,” Satoru scoffed. “Like you’d be able to resist me.”

You barked out a laugh. “Resist what? Your giant ego?”

“You say that, but I’ve seen how you look at me.” His voice dropped slightly, and you could feel his smirk. That fucking asshole knew what he was doing.

You scoffed. “You wish I looked at you like that.”

Satoru took a slow step closer, the air shifting. “Do I?”

The silence stretched between you, charged with something you didn’t even dare to think about. You could smell his cologne, the faintest hint of something sweet under it—maybe the sake he’d been drinking.

Your jaw clenched. “You’re always doing this. Flirting, teasing, making everything a game. You don’t even take me seriously.” You regretted saying that as soon as you let the words out. That was a little too much information for someone like Satoru to know.

He tilted his head. “And that bothers you?”

“No!” you snapped.

“Then why are you getting so worked up?”

You absolutely hated how easily he could pull reactions from you. You wanted to push him away, wanted to shove that cocky smirk right off his face.

Instead, you did the next best thing—you shoved his shoulder. “I hate you.”

Satoru barely moved. He only grinned, his expression shifting, something dangerous sparking behind those blue eyes. “No, you don’t.”

Your breath hitched in your throat. His hand came up, fingers gently brushing your jaw. Your body betrayed you, a shiver running down your spine.

And then, before you could think about how sick and twisted of a man he is, before you could even breathe, Satoru grabbed you, yanking you forward, and his lips crashed against yours.

The kiss was nothing like you expected. It wasn’t slow, wasn’t teasing—it was hungry, desperate. His hands found your waist, pulling you flush against him as your back hit the wall. His fingers dug into you like he was afraid you’d disappear.

You gasped against his mouth, but he didn’t give you a second to process. His teeth grazed your bottom lip, and suddenly, you were gripping his shirt, pulling him closer, like something inside you had snapped.

You were finally tasting him, after so much longing, after so much fear, after—

v.

“The procedure is straightforward, but I must emphasize that it is permanent.”

The words hang in the sterile air, cold and final. You grip the edge of your chair, fingers curling into the fabric of your coat.

“Upon completion, you will no longer experience romantic feelings toward him. Your memories will remain intact, but any emotional attachment of that nature will be severed. You will recall that you once loved him, but you will be incapable of feeling it again.”

Your throat tightens. “So I’ll just… see him and feel nothing?”

The doctor folds her hands on the desk, her gaze steady. “That is the intended outcome. No lingering pain, no unfulfilled longing—no more suffering.”

No more love.

The doctor regards you carefully. “You must be certain before proceeding. There is no way to reverse this. Once it is done, the possibility of romantic love for the person of interest will be permanently erased. You will not be able to recover it, even if you wish to.”

Permanent.

The word settles over you like a stone, heavy and immovable. Is this what you truly want? Or is it simply the only way to survive?

It doesn’t take long for you to decide.

“I’d like to sign the papers and schedule an appointment please,” you said, your voice steady—too steady. It felt like if you let even a single crack show, the whole thing would shatter.

The doctor nodded, sliding a clipboard toward you. “The soonest available appointment is next week. Does that work for you?”

You picked up the pen, pressing it to the paper. “Yes, thank you so much.”

The ink bled into the form, a quiet confirmation of the choice you had made. With each stroke, it became more real.

More permanent.

When you stepped out of the office, the cold air of the hallway hit you first—then it was Suguru’s waiting gaze. He was leaning against the wall, arms crossed, his expression somewhere between impatient and concerned.

“How did it go?” he asked, pushing off the wall as you approached.

You hesitated for only a second. “Good. It’s done. I have an appointment next week.”

Suguru let out a slow breath, tilting his head slightly. “So you’re really going through with it?”

You nodded, gripping the strap of your bag and looking past him, down the empty hallway.

“I don’t see any other way.”

He clicked his tongue, shaking his head. “You’re making a mistake, y/n.”

Your jaw tightened. “No, I’m fixing one.”

Suguru scoffed. “By cutting out a part of yourself? By pretending he never meant anything?”

“I’m not pretending,” you shot back, your voice quieter now. “I’ll still remember. I just won’t… feel it.”

Suguru’s gaze softened, but there was something sharp underneath it. “And you think that’s better?”

You swallowed, your throat suddenly dry. “It has to be.”

If you did that, everyone would win.

He sighed, rubbing the back of his neck before looking at you again, this time more serious. “Feeling anything, even pain, is better than feeling nothing at all.”

Your fingers curled into fists at your sides. You appreciated his concern, you really did, but the last thing you needed right now was someone to plant second thoughts into your head. “I’m not shutting off everything, Suguru. It’s just one person.”

He studied you for a moment, his expression unreadable. “And what if that one person is the one who made you feel the most alive?” he said finally, voice quieter now.

A bitter laugh escaped your lips before you could stop it. “Then I guess it’s a good thing I won’t remember what that felt like.”

Suguru exhaled, shaking his head as if he wanted to say more but knew it wouldn’t change anything. And maybe it wouldn’t.

Maybe, by next week, none of this would matter at all.

vi.

Satoru tried to be patient, understanding.

The first few days, he told himself you just needed space. That you’d cool off and things would go back to normal. He guessed that if you were the one to get married, he would feel a little bit uneasy as well. Well, actually no, he immediately brushed off these thoughts as a little unease would be an understatement. Why was he feeling that way?

Weeks went by and still nothing.

And for the first time in his life, he had no idea what was going on with you.

At first, his texts were casual, an attempt to smooth things over without addressing the weight of what had happened:

— Shoko said you haven’t been answering her either. You didn’t die, right?

— At least tell me if you’re alive. That’s basic human decency.

You left them all on read.

Then his messages changed.

— I really hate not talking to you.

— Is this really how you want things to be?

Still, nothing.

He stopped texting and tried to focus on his fiancée, on work, on anything that would keep him from checking his phone every ten minutes. He’d always thought you’d be there, that no matter what, he’d have you to joke with, to lean on.

But now there was silence, and it ate at him more than he wanted to admit.

So one evening, after work, more than a month after his birthday party, he finally gave up on waiting.

Before he could overthink it, he found himself at your doorstep, hand hovering over the doorbell.

It had been a long time since he’d come here without walking in like he owned the place.

The door opened, and there you were.

Satoru had played this moment over in his head a thousand times—how you’d react, what you’d say, if you’d slam the door in his face. But he definitely hadn’t expected this.

You looked… fine.

Not sad, not angry, just fine.

“Hey, stranger,” you said, leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed. There was no hesitation in your voice, no flicker of the storm he was used to seeing in your eyes when it came to him. “Long time no see.”

Satoru frowned, searching your face. “Hi, uh…Hi.”

There was something off about you, something he couldn’t put his finger on, and it was making his chest tighten.

“I tried to reach you,” he said carefully.

“I know,” you replied. “I saw the texts.”

His frown deepened. “And?”

“And I didn’t feel like answering back then. But it’s all good now.”

Something inside him twisted. You had never seemed this indifferent with him. Even when you were pissed, you felt things so deeply. But now… there was nothing.

“Can I come in?” he asked, eyeing you carefully.

You tilted your head, considering, before stepping aside. “Of course, make yourself comfortable.”

Satoru walked in, the familiar space somehow feeling foreign. It smelled the same, looked the same—yet it felt completely unfamiliar.

You walked ahead of him, hands in your pockets. “You want something to drink, or are you just here to stare at me like I kicked your puppy?”

He nodded, almost mechanically, and you poured him a glass of something strong, handing it to him without a word. He took it, but his eyes never left you. There was something different about you now, and it bothered him more than he cared to admit. Something in the way you moved, the way you spoke, the way you avoided his gaze—it was all off. He could feel the change, but he couldn’t put his finger on it.

“I’m sorry,” Satoru blurted, finally breaking the silence. “About that night, I should’ve told you first before I announced it to everyone. I just… I thought we were fine, you know? We’ve always had this understanding. You’ve always been there for me, and I guess… I guess I took it for granted.”

You watched him for a moment before responding, your expression soft. “There’s nothing to apologize for, Satoru,” you replied, “You wanted to get married to someone you love. That’s not something you need to be sorry for.”

He sighed, running a hand through his hair, his frustration visible. “I should’ve told you first, though. I always tell you everything. You’re the one closest to me. And I know there’s always been something… between us. We’ve never really talked about it, but it’s always been there, right? It’s like we both just… agreed that it was there, even if we never said it out loud.”

You looked at him then, but your gaze wasn’t filled with the usual warmth. It wasn’t filled with anything at all. “Maybe that was the case before,” you said, your voice even. “But after the procedure… on my end, at least, that doesn’t exist anymore.”

Satoru froze, confusion flashing in his eyes. “Procedure?” he repeated, his voice barely a whisper. “What procedure?”

You gave a short laugh, leaning back in your chair. “The procedure to erase my feelings for you. It’s… not as bad as it sounds, please don’t panic. I didn’t want to keep carrying around something that wasn’t going anywhere, especially when it was clear that you didn’t feel the same way.”

Satoru stood there, still as a statue, his mouth open in disbelief. “You… erased your feelings for me?” he repeated, his voice cracking, like the words were too hard to form. “Why? Why would you do that?”

You shrugged nonchalantly. “Because, Satoru, that night you made it clear you didn’t see me in that way, remember? I didn’t need you to spell it out for me to understand. You were, are in love with someone else.”

You looked at him, your expression unreadable. “I just wanted to be happy, and I didn’t want to hold onto feelings that weren’t being returned. It wasn’t about you or the wedding or anything else, it was just… about me. I couldn’t keep pretending like I didn’t care when I knew I did. It wasn’t fair to either of us, not fair to poor Mei as well.”

Satoru stood still, his eyes locked on yours, as if he couldn’t comprehend the gravity of what had just happened. The words he was about to say came out more urgently than he intended, as if they could somehow undo the decision you’d made.

“This was a mistake, y/n” he insisted, his voice cracking, desperation thickening it. “If I knew you were going to do this, I would’ve stopped you. I can’t… I can’t imagine a world where I don’t have your love. I need you. I—” He swallowed hard, looking at you as if you were the very air he breathed.

You sat there, the calmness in your demeanor almost haunting as you watched him fall apart before you. It should’ve hurt, seeing him so shaken, but it didn’t. Not a bit.

“That’s quite selfish of you to say, Satoru,” you replied, your voice steady, like you were telling him a simple fact of life. “You have someone who loves you. You’re getting married, for God’s sake. You don’t need me. You’ve already found someone who gives you everything you want, someone who’s going to be with you and love you..”

He looked at you in shock, his chest tightening as if the breath had been knocked out of him. “What are you talking about? I can’t just—” He shook his head as if trying to clear his thoughts, to find the right words. “You’re my person, y/n. No one else can replace you.”

“If you truly felt this way about me, Satoru,” you said, “you should’ve been honest with me from the start. You shouldn’t have waited until someone else was already involved. You shouldn’t have waited until you were about to marry her. You should’ve told me everything before you made that decision, before you put me in the position of being the one left behind. Look at yourself, you don’t even know what you want or what you truly feel.

“I want you, y/n,” he finally admitted, his voice raw with emotion, a trace of desperation in it that he hadn’t shown before. “I don’t know what I was doing before, but I know I want you. I always have. I can’t imagine a life without you…”

You took a deep breath, swallowing down the sting of his words. “No, Satoru,” you said, your voice firm, you had made your own peace with it. “You don’t get to say that now. You had your chance. You had all the time in the world to figure this out, but you didn’t. And now, it’s too late. It’s not about what you want anymore, because I’m not here for you like that. I can’t undo it.”

“You… you can’t possibly feel nothing anymore. Not after everything we’ve been through.”

“I do feel like I need to help my best friend organize his wedding because he’s an utter dumbass. Nothing has changed Satoru… Romantically speaking I’ll just never be there again, that’s what we both needed and that’s what’s right.”

Before Satoru could protest any further, the sound of a door clicking shut echoed through the room. The lock turned with a soft but decisive click, and before either of you could say another word, Suguru walked in, his usual calm demeanor in place. He was casually dressed, his hands tucked into the pockets of his jacket, though there was a subtle tension in the way he looked between you and Satoru.

“Sorry, did I interrupt something?” Suguru’s voice was smooth, but there was a glint of curiosity in his eyes as he took in the scene, sensing the tension thick in the air.

Satoru turned sharply, the shock on his face still evident, though he tried to mask it. “Suguru,” he greeted, though the word sounded more like a question than a real greeting. “What are you—”

But Suguru didn’t wait for him to finish. His gaze flicked to you, a small smile tugging at his lips, but there was a quiet understanding in his eyes. “You two have been… talking, I see.”

“Oh, we haven’t had time to catch up about that, love,” you let out a laugh. “But we’ve been figuring things out.” You turned to Suguru with a calmness that felt like a weight lifting from your chest. “We started going out a few days ago.”

Satoru froze, his mouth going dry as his heart skipped a beat. The words felt like a punch in the gut, even though he had been trying so hard to convince himself that everything was okay. The idea of you being with Suguru—that way, romantically—was like a cruel joke he hadn’t expected.

Suguru, however, didn’t seem surprised. He glanced over at Satoru, his expression unreadable for a moment, before he gave a small, almost teasing shrug. “You took long enough to figure things out, didn’t you, Satoru?”

Satoru’s head snapped toward Suguru, his eyes wide. “Wait, you knew?” His voice was strained, like he was on the verge of losing control.

Suguru’s smile widened slightly, but it was devoid of any amusement. “I had a feeling,” he said, his gaze lingering on you. “But it’s not for me to explain. I didn’t interfere at all, if that’s what you’re thinking. You two have had your history, your own way of… handling things. But now, I think y/n has made her decision.”

“You really did it, didn’t you?” Satoru muttered under his breath, though it was almost more to himself than to anyone else in the room. He stared at you, trying to find any trace of the person you used to be, the person he once meant something to. But all he saw now was a calm, detached version of you, one that no longer felt the weight of the love that once existed between you two.

The anger, confusion, and disbelief were still swirling inside him, but it was replaced by something much crueler now—acceptance. A bitter, painful acceptance that he had messed up. That he had waited too long. That his indecision had cost him everything.

He looked at you one last time, but he found nothing familiar in your eyes. There was no warmth, no affection, no love. Just emptiness.

“You think you’ve moved on,” he said quietly, as if to convince himself. His voice cracked slightly, betraying the deep hurt that he was trying so desperately to suppress. “But maybe, deep down, you’ll always feel what we had. At least, I’ll always do.” He shook his head, almost like he was trying to clear his thoughts. “Maybe that’s the only thing left, huh? At least I didn’t chicken out and erase my fucking feelings.”

When all he received was silence, his shoulders slumped, and he let out a long, exhausted sigh. His gaze lingered on you one last time before he turned towards the door, his footsteps heavy as they echoed in the room.

“I’m sorry for everything,” Was all he managed to utter. “I hope you guys are happy.”

And then, without waiting for a response, he left. The door shut loudly behind him, and with that, Satoru Gojo walked out of your life for good.

There was a moment when you had everything and nothing at the same time.

And there was a moment when he had everything and nothing at the same time.

A helpless scream leaves your throat as you turn all the other way around and find yourself staring at the one and only Satoru Gojo, the man who’s been occupying way too much space in your thoughts lately.

Gojo seems composed when he offers you his signature smirk, leaning casually against the wall, his blindfold pulled up so his mesmerising blue eyes are visible. "I was expecting a student ambush or something."

"Yeah, well... same here, kinda,” you mutter, as you try to control your breathing. After a few moments, reality hits and your cheeks heat up as you realise you’re completely alone with him in a—not so very comfortable—space. "Did they trick you into coming here too?"

He nods. "I got a text from Megumi saying something about needing immediate help. Guess we're both suckers."

You cross your arms and sigh, slightly relieved that at least you aren’t a victim of some really serious prank. You glance at the door one last time. "Well, it's locked now, so I guess we're stuck."

There is an awkward silence for a few moments. The tension between you two has always been evident, but neither of you ever made a move to address it. You often find yourself stammering around Gojo, unable to handle the teasing words or the way his eyes linger on you a little too long sometimes.

Gojo, on the other hand, despite his confident front, is surprisingly shy when it comes to you. Sure, he makes his usual sarcastic comments and tries to act like all is fine, but deep down, he’s always been afraid of saying the wrong thing and accidentally hurting you.

"So,” you start, scratching the back of your neck awkwardly, “you think this is some kind of setup?"

He chuckles, walking closer to you. "Oh, absolutely. Our adorable students are trying to play matchmaker. I should’ve known when I saw Yuji smiling like a fool earlier."

You roll your eyes, trying to ignore how close he’s standing now. "Well, it's not going to work. We’re professionals."

"Sure, because professionals definitely get trapped in storage rooms," Gojo quips, flashing you a grin. "Besides, I think they just wanted to speed up the inevitable."

You blink, feeling your pulse quicken. "Inevitable?"

Acting dumb won’t slow down that inevitable, either.

"You know," he replies with a nonchalant shrug. "Us."

You narrow your eyes, though your heart is now undoubtedly hammering in your chest. "You have a lot of nerve assuming there's an 'us,' Satoru."

He raises an eyebrow, stepping even closer, his tone dripping with playful sarcasm. "Please, y/n, I've seen the way you look at me. You're totally into me."

Your mouth drops open, a mix of embarrassment and irritation bubbling up. Sure, he’s absolutely right, you’re head over heels for your handsome and charismatic coworker, but hell, he makes it sound one-sided when that’s so far from the truth.

“Excuse me? You’re the one who’s always staring at me during meetings. It’s creepy."

"Oh, so you notice me staring," he teases, his grin widening. "Admit it, you like it."

"I do not!" you huff in honest annoyance, cheeks burning. "And even if I did, why would I ever admit it to you? Your ego is already big enough to take up the whole room."

Gojo dramatically places a hand over his heart. "Ouch. You wound me, darling. Here I was, thinking we had a good thing going."

You cross your arms and shoot him a glare. "Yeah, well, you're delusional."

Denial will get you nowhere, you’re well aware, but the fact that Gojo is so cocky about it flips a switch inside you which makes consider whether your should jump him or jump him.

He chuckles as he leans in slightly, his face only inches from yours now. "Am I? Or are you just too shy to admit you like me?"

You swallow hard, refusing to back down. "Like you? Please, you're insufferable."

"Insufferable, huh?" he murmurs, his voice dropping an octave. "Then why haven't you moved away yet?"

Fair point.

Your breath hitches in your throat. Yes, you could have backed up, put some distance between you two, but instead, you’re just rooted in place, caught in the intensity of his gaze. Gojo’s smirk softens.

"You're cute when you're mad, you know that?"

You scoff, though it comes out weaker than intended. "And you're annoying, as always."

He tilts his head, his eyes glinting with amusement. "Maybe, but you like me anyway."

You open your mouth to retort, but before you can form any sort of response, his lips are on yours, cutting you off with a sudden kiss. For a moment, you freeze in shock, but then, instinct takes over, and you kiss him back. His lips are sweet, soft, and despite the teasing and the banter, the kiss is gentle, almost tender. Gojo's hand embraces your waist and slowly pulls you in, while the other rests on your face, and you can’t help but melt under his touch.

When you finally pull away, both of you are slightly breathless, and his usual cocky grin is replaced with a softer smile.

"See?" he whispers. "Told you it was inevitable."

“You're still insufferable."

"As if it doesn’t turn you on," he teases, leaning in for another kiss.

Outside the storage room, Nobara, Yuji, and Megumi exchange their triumphant high-fives.

"Mission accomplished," Nobara whispers.

Yuji nods. “Nicely done, Kugusaki."

Megumi shrugs his shoulders, glad that the whole thing is finally over.