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“Well, maybe you’ll get your very own dad someday.” Satoru says, all choked up. His eyes sting and he fights to keep them from filling with tears. 

His face lights up, “It would be really nice to have a daddy and a mommy.” 

Then and there, Satoru understands that he’d give up his soul, his fortune, anything to have this kid call him dad even just once. He can’t help bending down and pressing a kiss to the crown of his son’s head. “Someday kid. Maybe sooner than you think.”

The rest of the way to the museum Ender chatters about their surroundings—“look Satoru, the tree is red,” or “Angry clouds. Will they cry later?” His son’s innocent enthusiasm helps keep him grounded, keeps him from throwing up in the back of this Uber at the idea of confronting his parents at last. He just has to keep silently repeating that if not for himself, he’s doing it for his son. 

When the Uber finally arrives at the museum, his heart sinks into his feet. There you are, looking every inch quietly dignified as you stand in front of the building. The elegant black dress you’re wearing is both professional and alluring, clinging to your curves while covering them modestly. Normally, it’d make his mouth water, but not right now because standing across from you are his parents and Kaori. He still can’t believe they had the nerve to show up at your photography showing to harass you. Actually, he wishes they had come for him first instead of targeting you. 

Even from here, he can see his parent’s faces are flushed with rage. Satoru hurries out of the car, pulling Ender into his arms and jogging toward you. His eyes are locked on you, his only focus on getting you away from his parents. When he stops beside you, he hands Ender off and just says, “Go.” He doesn’t mean to sound as cold and angry as he does, but seeing you cornered by these three fills him with a rage like nothing he’s ever felt. 

Slowly, he turns to face his parents. For a moment, he just stares at that them. When he speaks, his voice is so icy and detached that he almost doesn’t even feel like it belongs to him. “What the hell do you think you guys are doing?”

A/N: Well, the good news is that my power is back up. The bad news is that my power was down because of a big storm. So, I didn’t get to write much yesterday.

Tag reqs HERE // ⋆.𐙚 ̊m.masterlist 𝜗𝜚⋆₊˚

Her entire role on the show was Dr. Zayne’s love interest - a pretty young doctor from a small town hospital, coming to learn all she can before going back to her small town. Typical romance with only the faintest hint of drama. You tried your best not to be jealous, but you also started leaving the hospital early when it was her turn to film. To his credit, your boyfriend did what he was supposed to do and nothing more.

You were lying on the couch when he arrived home, much later than he was supposed to. “Oh, sweetheart, I figured you'd be asleep by now. It's awfully late,” he says, completely innocently, not aware of the fact that you had begun spiralling. 

You sit up, looking at him, inspecting him for anything that wasn't supposed to be, any hint of another woman. “I was waiting for you, I had made dinner…” You try to keep your voice steady and not let the worry out. If he noticed the undercurrent in the tone, he didn’t let on.

He walks over to you, kissing the top of your head. “My apologies, sweetheart. Filming wrapped up, and then I had an emergency surgery to attend to. Next time, I'll have Greyson or Yvonne let you know so you're not waiting. Now come on, you need sleep so you can fight wanderers and keep our city safe.” He takes your hand, pulling you to your feet.

That was when the smell hit you. It was faint, but it was there - perfume and not the perfume you use. You tried to rationalize it, but it was faint, which means it couldn't be fresh; it must have been from filming. But…there was that lingering doubt, something dark clawing at you. What if he was with her and the surgery was just a cover?

You nod, giving him a quick peck, barely touching his lips before you walk off towards the bedroom, closing the door behind you, leaving Zayne standing there, confused by the shift in your behaviour. He chalks it up to you being tired from work and goes to grab some of the dinner you made him, looking over his lines for tomorrow.

You pretend to be asleep when he comes to bed, freshly showered and smelling like him again. For a minute, you forgot about the clawing feeling deep in your soul; you wanted to roll over, resting your head on his chest and sleeping in his arms as you’ve done nightly, but then you remembered and decided to stay facing the window, your back to him. Not that he notices, he climbs into bed, kissing your cheek before falling into a comfortable sleep almost as soon as his head hits the pillow. 

You had planned on asking Zayne in the morning about the perfume, but a mission stole that opportunity from you. At 2 am, your hunter watch went off, and you begrudgingly haul your ass out of bed and make your way to the association, leaving Zayne a brief note, not wanting him to be anxious when you’re not around in the morning.

Called off on a mission, I’ll see you when I’m home. I’m safe, don’t worry. Have fun filming.

Short and to the point, enough to inform and put his worries at ease.

You spent the following week playing over every scenario in your head during moments of rest - the good, the bad, and the ugly, but there was one scenario that stayed in the forefront of your mind during your waking hours, one you desperately didn’t want to believe, but you were slowly losing that fight. Was he cheating?

While the rest of your team sleeps, you’re up, staring at the moon in some city you’ve never heard of, wondering if Zayne was looking at the same moon or if his attention was with another woman. The guilt would eat you alive, gnawing at your heart and negatively impacting your performance. You were getting sloppy, your movements uncoordinated, and you were taking hits that never should have landed. Your team starts to notice.

“What is going on with you?” One asks one night, pulling you away from the group. “You’ve been distracted, and you’re risking the rest of us. Get your head focused.”

You nod, shifting your weight. You wanted to confess, you wanted to explain what’s been going on, you wanted to get it all off your chest, but a simple apology and a small explanation were all you could muster. You assured them you were just exhausted and you’ll be better after a night's rest. They leave, leaving you standing alone, a million thoughts swimming in your mind. 

What was he doing now? Was he lying in your bed, his hands exploring the perfect curves of her body while kissing her, dumb? Or was he at a restaurant with her, publicly loving her, something he still won’t do for you? You pull your phone from your pocket, seeing the message you tried to send him earlier in the week, still trying to send. You had no service, even if you did, it's not like he would have sent you anything anyway, he's too busy with a pretty young actress with a perfect body and perfect hair. 

What you didn’t know, however, was that your loyal, attentive boyfriend was texting you daily for the weeks you were gone. Good morning texts, pictures of the foods he’s eaten that he thought you’d enjoy, updates on his day and all the I love yous he could. He knew you wouldn’t get them, but as soon as you entered cell service, your phone would be flooded with messages. He had no idea the battle you were fighting with yourself.

But he was about to learn.

You didn’t mean for the mission to go south so fast; you were so caught up in your mind, visions of Zayne with that actress making out, making love in your bed, laughing about how clueless you were, you didn’t see the strike until it was too late to dodge. You took the full blow of a wanderer's attack straight to the chest. The world was dark before you even hit the ground.

“Akso Hospital, do you copy? We have a cardiac trauma en route. Hunter attacked by a wanderer”

“You don’t think…” Yvonne asks, looking at Greyson. They both heard the call come through from the paramedics. 

Greysonn rubs his face, nervous about this call and how Zayne is going to react if it really is you on that helicopter.  “I’ll meet them at the helipad. When I know for sure if it is her, you get Dr. Zayne. He’s already worried about her. I don’t want to stress him out prematurely, in case it’s not her.” Yvonne nods, answering the call as Greyson runs off to the roof, running past the filming set.

Filming was running smoothly, the romance was romancing, and everyone on set was buzzing - the leading actress was about to make her move and confess her feelings for him. Right as she mentioned the love she feels for him, Zayne could see Greyson booking it down the hall. Something was wrong - Greyson very rarely runs when there’s no emergency, and he didn’t hear any alarms or anything going off. The whole scene was ruined.

“Dr. Zayne.” The direct calls after the yelling cut. “What happened? The scene was perfect, the chemistry was there,” He asks, walking over to them. 

“Forgive me, I just saw my assistant running down the hallway, allow me a few minutes to check everything is alright. I am hoping it’s a false alarm.” Zayne says, checking his pager without waiting for a response. He is still the chief of cardiac surgery, after all.

“With all due respect, Dr. Zayne. We are on a time crunch. Once we finish this scene, you can check. Now, places everyone! We’re going to roll it from the top.” 

Reluctantly, Zayne dials back in, returning to his place as the scene starts again. Vanessa begins her heartfelt confession again, laced with comments from their time spent together outside of filming. Right as the two were meant to share their first kiss, Yvonne bursts through the door, the film set security hot on her heels. “Dr. Zayne. We need you, now.”

“CUT!” The director yells again, clearly growing frustrated by the constant interference. “What now? Aren’t there other surgeons here that can handle whatever this is?” He asks, his tone full of annoyance, staring daggers at her.

Yvonne stands defiant, refusing to budge. “Dr. Zayne is the chief of surgery. Your filming does not take precedence over actual patients. Not only that, but the patient requires him and him alone. Only he knows the full extent of her heart condition.” That was all Zayne needed to hear. He pulled off his costume and ran for the door, Yvonne following closely behind, a satisfied smile on her lips. 

Greyson meets the pair just outside the operating room, his eyes were apologetic. “Dr. Zayne, it was my call not to inform you when we got the call. She’s being moved to recovery as we speak. I did not want to worry you before we knew for sure it was her. You were also busy filming.”

“What were her injuries? Is her heart okay?” Zayne asks, shoving his hands in his pockets. His evol has been unstable since you’ve been away, and now he’s losing control. You told him you were safe; this is the exact opposite of safe. “I don’t care about filming. What I care about is my partner and my patients.”

“Blunt force trauma to the chest, broken ribs, punctured lung with abdominal bleeding, and a pretty serious concussion. Her heart, as far as I can tell, was uninjured, just strained. We got the bleeding to stop and did what we could on the broken ribs. It’s going to be a long road to recovery, but she should make it through this.” 

Zayne nods. “Which room is she in? Did anyone come with her?” 

“Recovery room one. One of her coworkers came with her; she’s waiting in the waiting room if you wish to go speak with her first.” 

“No,” Zayne shakes his head. “I need to see her with my own eyes. I trust you did everything you could, but I need to be able to see her to know for sure if she’s okay.” He walks off towards the recovery room, his hands still firmly placed in his pockets, fists clenched, doing everything in his power to calm himself.

When he walks into the room and sees you waking up, he can finally breathe again - you were awake. “Hello, sweetheart.” He says, softly, walking up beside your bed, tenderly brushing the hair from your face. “How are you feeling? Any pain anywhere?”

You look at him, your brain still hazy, but it's unmistakably him, though he looks almost older. More tired than before you left, as if the past few weeks have not been kind to him. “What are you doing here?” You question, your voice hoarse and strained from the hours of intubation. “Why aren’t you with her?”

Zayne pulls out a chair to sit beside you. “What are you asking, sweetheart? Of course, I’d be here with you; there’s nowhere more important to me than being with you.” He runs his fingers over your arm gently, confused by your questions. “What happened while you were away?” 

His genuine softness and confusion make your heart hurt. He really was a great actor; you do your best to pull your arm away from his touch. “You know what I mean. Go see your new girlfriend. I’m sure she’s missing your company; you don’t want to keep her waiting for whatever date you guys had planned. Just make sure you change the sheets on the bed.” You look away, not wanting to see his face, see the anger at being caught, or the guilt of cheating. Your heart couldn’t handle that.

Zayne carefully tilts your chin to look at him, his face showing a sadness you have never seen before. “My love, there is no one else. You’re the only one I ever want to be with. If I did something to make you question my loyalty, please tell me so I can fix this. I can’t lose you, darling. I love you more than I have the words for. My very soul yearns for you and only you. Talk to me, please. Help me understand where I went wrong so I can fix it.”

Seeing him, hearing him beg to know what's going on in your mind, you finally break. Tears stream down your cheeks as you tell him everything, all the fears, the near constant worries that you weren’t enough for him. Everything you were feeling ever since Vanessa entered the show came out in one jumbled, emotional word salad. You kept apologizing for even thinking that, for assuming he would be anything less than loyal. 

“Darling…” he begins, his voice soft and pained, before Vanessa walks into your room, interrupting the moment.

“Zayne darling, the director wants you back. We need to finish the kiss scene before we finish filming today.” She smiles, looking forectly at him, completely ignoring your presence. Her heels click on the tile floor, the sound causing your head to pound. 

You wipe your eyes before pulling your face from Zayne’s hand. “Go. Your little friend needs you.” You fully expected Zayne to stand up and follow her out, to go about his day like nothing happened, like you didn’t just confess all your fears to him. 

Zayne stands up to face her. “I’m not going. If the director has a problem with that, he can talk with me personally. I have been neglecting my partner in favour of this show, and that’s not fair to her. She is my number 1 priority. She needs me here, and I plan on staying. The script writers can write me out if they so desire.”

Maybe he noticed that you returned from the hospital happier than usual. Your softened voice grated on his nerves, and your dreamy gaze only sharpened his. Honed his tongue to the way it left more and more wounds.

As if you weren't berating yourself for even thinking about another man. As if you didn't force your gaze to tear apart from Gojo at first. To keep your mouth shut. To gather your bearings and lock your heart with the key thrown away to the ocean depths. To shut Nitta's and Miwa's whispers with sharp glances. To stand your ground as the endless blue threatened to swallow you whole.

Either way, you were torn between your actual feelings and things you were supposed to feel.

That day wasn't particularly sunshine and rainbows: from a kid with an asthma attack to very vigilant parents, insisting on vaccine shots conspiracy. Your smile turned more strained with every word, and your left eye almost twitched at "how much are you paid per shot?"

And that was only the morning.

"Kao, stop squirming! What will the doctor think of you?"

The boy, a 5-year-old Kao-kun, who was supposed to have his hearing examined, fell on deaf ears to his mother's pleading words (not literally, as you hoped, standing with an otoscope beside the kid).

"I am so sorry, Doc, I don't know what's gotten into him," Kao-kun's mother, Nakata-san, offered you an apologetic, forced smile, and you couldn't help but feel a pang of sympathy towards her.

"It's completely fine, Nakata-san. Kids don't usually like these sorts of things," smiling warmly back at the lady, you briefly patted her arm in support. Nakata-san only pressed her lips into a thin line and opened her purse to fish a handkerchief to dab on her forehead.

The sudden April heatwave enveloped Japan in its suffocating embrace. Heat clung to skin in rivulets of sweat, and people fought for every sliver of shade, not to mention the usual humidity — the feeling of your blouse sticking to your back set your overstimulated brain on fire even more, but you didn't have the right to complain.

Poor Nakata-san, meanwhile, murmured in despair and sighed, shaking her head, "He's usually such a nice, smart boy. We started to teach him Hiragana a couple of weeks ago, just like in that handout you gave us, Doc. Oh, I have it, wait a minute, —"

The woman started to browse through her endless purse again, but you interrupted her softly, glancing briefly at the clock. Ten minutes were left before the next appointment, and Kao-kun seemed way more interested in the poster of the giant green cactus Sabo-san, a chair named Kosshi and…Inai Inai Baa.

The corners of your mouth twitched with a bright grin.

Of course.

"Hey, Kao-kun," drawling playfully, you waved at the poster. "Do you like Inai Inai Baa?"

The boy's voice rose to a high-pitched tone as he nodded enthusiastically, "Yes!"

You clapped happily, hoping to match Kao-kun and beamed at the kid, "You want to play Peekaboo?"

The boy practically jumped out of his seat, and Nakata-san hurried to shush him, only for you to gently stop her with a knowing look. She stopped in her tracks, blinking a couple of times; as the realisation dawned on her, the woman sent you a conspiring wink.

"Kao-kun, I am gonna look for Inai Inai Baa in your ears," as you finally had the kid's attention, he looked up and hung on your every word, "Will you help me — "

You barely finished the sentence as the boy shouted happily, his toothy grin on full display:

"Yes, yes, yes!"

The sight dispersed the gloomy clouds in your mind like the brightest sunray.

Kao-kun helped you to spot the dog, Wanwan, every time he barked into the boy's ear, and you discreetly wiped your forehead as you finished the examination and put the data into the kid's medical record.

"Doc, you're the best!" Nakata-san pressed her palm to her chest, thanking you sincerely. Kao-kun eyed the bowl of lollipops on your table as his mother kept talking about the school they were about to choose. Stiffling a warm chuckle, you nodded at the bowl.

"Help yourself, Kao-kun, don't be shy."

The boy beamed and hurriedly thanked you, urged by his mother on the way out of your office. He was already too fascinated with the sweet and colourful cartoon sticker inside, but dutifully listened to his mom. You waved back with a laugh.

"Take care!"

When you finally had two minutes for yourself, you fished a small handy fan. As it always happened in the most inconvenient times, the climate control in your office decided it certainly had enough and retired after a long period of duty. The facility manager grumbled that the equipment hadn't been modernised in a long time, glaring at you as if you were the sole reason for that decision. You highly suspected your beloved fiancé (to be precise, his family) of being in charge of it. Yet, somehow, the one on the receiving blade of occasional pointed glances and hushed whispers was usually you. No wonder: Naoya had a knack for charming everyone under his spell.

And you were just…you. Your presence, so tethered to his, didn't help the situation either. Mostly, that didn't bother you: little patients adored you, while parents paid their respects — after all, that mattered the most.

One of the nurses kindly informed you that the next appointment had been cancelled. That rare occasion had you raise your brows in a mild surprise, which later turned into a fleeting moment of joy: since it was the last appointment before the day hospital's checks, you could go there earlier and later hurry to the little cafe near the hospital. The cold kiwi lemonade had been quietly haunting your mind since the moment you stepped into your office.

"How are you feeling today, Rika-chan?"

"Better now!"

The little girl with two pigtails stilled as you checked her throat and discreetly let out a sigh of relief as you turned to her mother with good news.

"I think Rika-chan is going to be discharged soon," muttering under your breath as you flipped the papers, you couldn't help but chuckle at the sight of happy Okami-san. "Cephalexin 20 mg…yeah, that's right. I'll see you tomorrow at the final examination, Rika-chan!"

The girl eagerly nodded, hugging her Kuromi plushie, and your chuckle morphed into a warm laugh.

Walking out of room 626, you hurried to the last patient of the day. Knocking softly at the door, you couldn't help the low roaring of your pulse in your head. Your grip on the chart tightened, and with a deep breath, you stepped inside.

Gojo was engrossed in his phone, thumbs flying over the screen, and cast occasional glances at Megumi, who was quietly drawing in the corner. The black crayon wandered over the paper; judging by Megumi's brows, knitted in concentration, and the peeked out tongue, he was more than focused. Your gift, a little plushie dog, alongside a giant toad, guarded Megumi's peace like loyal knights.

Another warm sunray crept through the clouds.

Too absorbed in his own little world, the kid didn't notice you. Contrary to his uncle, whose ears immediately perked up at the sound of the doors creaking. A bright grin spread on Gojo's handsome face at the sight of your slightly hesitant form — you had to blink a couple of times just to reassure yourself that you weren't dreaming — before he sent you a conspiratorial wink with his finger on his mouth and pointed at the boy.

Pressing your lips into a thin line so as not to burst with laughter, you closed the door as quietly as you could. What was a paediatrician without a little whimsy?

"Hey, Megumi-chan," Gojo drawled in an overly obnoxious manner, earning Megumi's unimpressed look. Gojo's grin turned even brighter. "What are you drawing out there?"

Megumi's grip on the crayon tightened, and he mumbled back, finally sneaking a glance at you, "I am not finished yet."

Gojo wasn't quite satisfied with his nephew's answer and leaned over to peek at the table, only for Megumi to snatch the drawing from his uncle's nosy gaze.

"Come on, Gumibear —"

The boy's ears went pink at the humiliation that Gojo was bestowing upon him with a mere nickname, and the glare he sent his uncle was nothing but murderous. "I told you not to call me that!"

"Careful, Megs, your anger level is wa-a-ay above your daily norm, ouch!"

You chewed on the inside of your cheek, but a few chuckles left your lips nonetheless.

Gojo slumped back in his chair with a theatrical groan, resting his palm on his forehead like a damsel in distress; his biceps flexed with each movement in a white t-shirt.

Well, it was really hot.

You allowed yourself a second of gawking before eventually stepping to Megumi's side.

"Can I have a look, Megumi-kun?"

Megumi's eyes briefly flicked between you and the drawing he clutched close to his chest before he shrugged, "I still have to finish it."

Peeking at Gojo, you saw the amusement dancing in his bright blue gaze. So, it was a yes.

"Had a rough day?"

Your hands on the pulse oximeter stilled for a moment. Megumi's eyelashes fluttered with a tiny fractured breath. Gojo's casual words sent your heart stammeting against your ribs like a trapped bird; however, you forced yourself to focus and didn't tear your gaze away until you saw the result.

"Saturation is still not good."

Gojo, who hovered over you, knitted his brows in concern and opened his mouth to ask you something when Megumi's exhausted voice tugged on your heartstrings.

"You put a mask on me, right?"

The movement of your throat was sharp as you swallowed and exchanged glances with Gojo. He pressed his lips in a thin line and gave you a silent nod, urging you to continue.

"It's nothing bad, Megumi-kun." Your hand, warm and pleasant, rested on the boy's shoulder and gave it a light squeeze. A deep frown crossed over his features as Megumi murmured in a barely audible voice.

"You are always saying that."

After another worried glance shared with Gojo, you kneeled before the boy's bed and put your mask down, so he could see you better.

"I promise you it won't hurt you. Besides, your uncle and I will be with you all the time." Even turned away from Gojo, you could feel the light grin already tugging on the corner of his mouth. The boy's eyes flicked between you and Gojo, and after seconds of inner debating, his posture relaxed just a tad, and he grumbled.

"I suppose it's okay then."

Your chest suspiciously tightened as you watched Megumi's small fingers twitch in Gojo's hold. His shades were gone, offering you an unobstructed look at the blue of his eyes, simmering with concern, framed by the snow of his lashes.

Casting your gaze back down at the boy, you concentrated on the task.

"He's slowly getting better," a soft, reassuring murmur left your lips as your gaze lingered on Megumi, who dozed off, exhausted after all the procedures. Then it landed on Gojo, driven by some unknown force. His hand hovered over the boy's shoulders — strangely unsure for a man like him — and finally drifted down to tuck Megumi's blanket in clumsily.

"I hope so."

His hesitant whisper stirred something deeply buried. Before the ever-present tentativeness could consume you, your hand settled on Gojo's shoulder, giving it a light squeeze. The contact made your fingers twitch with an unexpected urge to dig them deeper into the muscled skin. The heat immediately coloured your cheeks; a fleeting thought of yanking your hand away crossed your mind, but it was too late and impolite.

Gojo stilled beneath your touch and slowly turned around. The blue of his eyes held you captive in their waves, but his small, gentle smile gave you a much-needed breath of fresh air.

Only to take it back with a casual brush of the long fingers, subtly grazing your hand. A fragile, aching in its delicateness, flower bloomed quietly between you.

Soon, Gojo's ringtone dispelled the strange air. You discreetly shook your head in a skimpy attempt to get rid of the image of the man beside you, now talking quietly to someone on the phone. His lips widened into a smile so bright and unadulterated, it transformed his face into something…angelic.

Naoya's disdainful scowl from the morning emersed in your exhausted mind, no matter how hard you tried to drown it.

Gojo shot you a sidelong glance — seemingly relentless to decipher a look of somberness on your face — on your way to the elevator.

He couldn't quite put a finger on the sudden feeling the bags under your eyes evoked in him.

Your fingers came to fiddle with your chain as you worried your bottom lip. Then your hand limply fell at the absence.

Yeah. Right.

Gojo's eyes followed your gesture, but you seemed so hollowed out, as the life had been suddenly sucked out of you, that he didn't think of anything better than to blurt out, "Wanna have a coffee?"

Eyes widening, you stilled completely. That man, Gojo, who looked like a secret the morning tentatively shared, a kiss of the rosy sunset on your skin, and a whisper of a mystical night, had asked you out?

Or were you imagining things? Was he just bored? Polite?

At first, a usual thought of waving a man who somehow had his mind hazy enough to look at you immediately crossed your mind. A hot wave of panic flooded you like a strong ocean. The need to flee somewhere, just not to stay under Gojo's piercing blue gaze, ordered a retreat already. You almost opened your mouth to offer a moot excuse, with Naoya's presence looming over you even miles away, and…

Abruptly closed it.

The sparkle of rebellious flame surged high and slowly devoured the gnawing hesitance.

Your silence gave Gojo quite an unambiguous sign. His smile wavered for a moment, taking a bitter edge, and he stepped back, raising his arms in surrender.

"Oh, I am sorry, you might think I want to hit on you or whatever, but it's just so hot —"

You cut him off with a shrug too quick and a grin too sharp. "Sure. Why not?"

Surprised, Gojo blinked before tilting his head as the boyish grin slowly made its way back on his handsome face.

"Lead the way, Doc."

For a moment, you weighed all the options on the inner scales: the hospital cafeteria was immediately off the limits — even the walls had ears there, as well as a popular cafe just around the corner. The possibility of someone grassing you up to Naoya rose tenfold.

Yet, you had something on mind.

"Meet me in ten minutes near the entrance."

A content hum and a theatrical salute were your answers.

ੈ✩‧₊˚

Mentally thanking yourself for filling out daycare forms in advance, and the raging flu that knocked Yaga out, which saved you from the lunch meetings, you set the world record for changing out of the scrubs and hurried to the elevator.

The hospital still buzzed with worried patients and exhausted doctorsю You craned your neck to see a familiar spark of frosty hair outside, and your pulse roared in your head at the sight of the tall man, leaning on the wall with a casual air of confidence.

Smoothing down your sundress — for some unknown reason — you hurried out.

"Hi!"

Gojo was looking somewhere past the crowd, a melancholic smile playing on his lips, and your words made him abruptly turn to you with a messy white fringe falling over his forehead. His smile dipped into something warm as he took you in.

"You're not in scrubs, it's the first!" An airy chuckle left Gojo as you led the way to the small cafe, nestled between towers of the enormous business centre, and a flower shop. To your surprise, Gojo immediately fell into step with you; Naoya never bothered to wait for you. You had always been expected to catch up to him, no matter what. "Nice dress."

Warm spring air caressed you both with delicate touches. The pink sundress you wore — Naoya raised his brow in the morning and mused whether you were dressed for work or a playground — licked the soft skin of your thighs with every step. Gojo sincerely tried not to gawk at the legs of his nephew's doctor (wait, was it a breach of ethics? He sincerely hoped no), but it became increasingly difficult.

Luckily, you stopped near the small, cosy coffee shop just before his feigned nonchalance would've morphed into something more scorching.

"Here we are!"

The scents of cinnamon and peppermint immediately hit his senses, mixed with the drumming sounds of an espresso machine and the faint hum of the climate control. The sudden temperature difference caused you to blow a lone strand of hair that escaped your ponytail off your face, and a whiff of your fresh perfume (albeit with a strong sense of antiseptic clinging to you like a second skin — once a doctor, always a doctor) sent his pulse drumming quietly.

Just when Gojo wondered if you felt at least something too, your shoulder lightly brushed against his. He didn't know what to do, because even the touch like that was enough for something to stir in his chest. So he just stilled, and let his gaze unabashedly drift over the delicate line of your neck as you studied something through the display.

Perfect.

"Recommendations are accepted," clearing his throat, Gojo waved at the arrays of pastries and rubbed the back of his neck. "Damn. Might as well order everything."

The look of pure confusion and something suspiciously similar to awe on his face earned a quiet laugh from you.

"Uhm, I usually like those chocolate-filled croissants," you murmured, hesitantly pointing at the pastry that looked like it had just descended from the famous French boulangeries. "Sometimes I take a tiramisu or a panacotta. Their strawberry-filled mochis are absolutely to die for!"

Beside you, Gojo went completely rigid. You felt the usual fear that you might've fucked something up — nothing new, but something inside you wished Gojo would be kind enough to let it slide — but then he turned around.

"I love mochis!" He breathed out not even with enthusiasm — a playful reverence coloured his tone. His eyes sparkled even brighter.

You briefly discussed other desserts displayed, and you complimented the ones shaped like fruits ("Actually, very close to Cédric Grolet's!"), before you attempted to grab your wallet from the purse and… met a disappointed nothingness. You sulked a bit and stepped back in the line before the barista would glare daggers at you, giving Gojo an apologetic shrug.

"I forgot my wallet, so this time I am just gonna —" You glanced around the cafe. "Wander around, I guess."

Gojo blinked and shook his head with an airy chuckle, pulling his wallet out, "You're so funny."

Your smile briefly faltered. Nevertheless, you forced it to stay plastered.

"I know, yeah."

A light frown flickered across Gojo's face, but before he could even form a question, the barista, a young, lively girl, greeted him with a joyous chirp.

"Good afternoon, what can I get you today?"

Flashing a charming grin, Gojo slightly leaned over and pointed at the pastry with a low purr, "Hello. I would like to have a caramel latte and that whole set of fruit desserts. A box of strawberry mochi and two — no, wait, three chocolate croissants for takeaway."

"Noted," the girl nodded as the light pink tinged her cheeks at the sight of Gojo. Well, no wonder. "Anything else?"

"Make the latte really sweet. And whatever this lady wants, of course." With that, Gojo finally leaned back and waved at the pastries as if he had baked them all by himself, "My treat, Doc."

Completely stunned, you just huffed an unsure laugh, "No, Gojo, it's okay, I am just —"

"Please," Gojo's voice lost all the cockiness just for a second, offering you a peek of the man beneath the facade. "Do me a favour. You showed me this place, after all."

A strange kind of fog clogged your mind as you watched Gojo casually take out his black card. You murmured something about a kiwi lemonade.

He ended up buying another yearly supply of sweets for you as well.

Gojo flipped his wallet, and a photo tucked inside — him hugging a couple of kids — immediately caught your attention. Judging by a grumpy scowl on one of the children's faces, you successfully deduced the boy to be Megumi. And the girl with a shy grin, showing a peace sign, should've been his sister, Tsumiki.

A flicker of warmth sparkled in your chest as your lips twitched in a smile.

Shifting your gaze just a tad, you noticed Gojo's business card peeking out from the photo. Your best attempt at squinting at it wasn't successful, but the sight of his surname in a bold business font awoke something in your mind.

You certainly heard it. Maybe Naoya once happened to drop it during dinner? Or some hushed pieces of gossip finally reached you at the numerous Zenins' gatherings?

The image of Naoya stubbornly kept surfacing in your mind, no matter how hard you tried to bury it under the pretence of nonchalance towards a certain white-haired man. The mere thought of your future husband finding out about your little detour sent a fresh wave of fear through you.

God. What the hell were you doing?!

Swallowing, you briefly mused about fleeing, but the force that seemed to be stronger than the gravity itself — attraction, blending with recklessness — chained you to the chair right in front of Gojo.

Damn him. You felt like a butterfly pinned to a board by the sharpness of his gaze.

"What's bothering you?"

Forcefully blinking yourself back into reality, you sent Gojo a confused, apologetic smile, "Nothing much."

"Come on, Doc," he prompted, resting his chin on the palm. Almost half of the caramel latte in front of him was gone, as well as a peach-shaped dessert. Yours still rested untouched on the plate. "You've been hypnotising that poor peach for a solid five minutes."

You nervously twirled a straw between your fingers. Shit. You didn't even notice it. And with Gojo staring at you, his brow lazily arched, you decided to opt for a half-truth.

"Your surname. Where could I hear it?"

Gojo's grin withered a little before taking a strained edge. Just a fleeting second for everyone else, but if sharing a roof with Naoya had taught you anything, it was attunement to other people's senses. So, you just waved your hands in surrender.

"I didn't mean to intrude, sorry. Forget it."

The sincerity of your gaze softened the sudden harshness of Gojo's features and the rigidness in his shoulders. You indeed were just… curious.

He shook his head with a light chuckle, "No worries. My family is quite well-known. Limitless, maybe you heard it?"

Eyed widening, you almost spluttered the poor kiwi lemonade.

"Limitless? You mean that big company in advanced robotics and technology?"

Well, that surely explained why he spent so much time with Megumi at the hospital. Nepo babies weren't used to working a lot, judging by Naoya.

Gojo gave you a lazy nod and took a bite of another pastry, looking somewhere past you at the bustling Tokyo streets, and dropped off-handedly.

"Yeah. But I am not a big fan of boring meetings, reports and presentations."

Something in his tone suggested that it wasn't a single reason.

You just prompted gently, "What are you doing then?"

Gojo's smile turned relaxed.

"I am a restaurant owner."

Stunned, you paused with a spoon halfway through, "What? That's so cool!"

Laughing warmly, he confirmed again, "Yep. Three in Tokyo, one in Kyoto, and…," he leaned over with a suspicious look and whispered loudly, sending you a wink, "planning to open in Yokohama as well. But that's a secret just for you."

A light chuckle left you as your face heated up from the sudden proximity. You quickly cast your gaze down on the plate, cutting through a delicious treat.

"So, where are they? Maybe we, sorry, I —," you corrected yourself immediately, earning a slow, curious tilt of Gojo's head, "visited them?"

He only dropped one name, but the mere mention of that restaurant had you staring at him in shock, eyes sparkling with excitement. A dollop of soft cream was smudged over your chin, but in your contagious joy, you never really noticed. The blue of Gojo's gaze softened into a warm breeze, embracing you in a tender gale.

"Really? Is that one in Ginza, a rooftop bar? God, I've been dying to visit it! That grilled red squid with herbs? Damn," gesturing animatedly, you quickly explained at Gojo's curious glance, "I had a bit at a family gathering. And let me tell you," now it was your turn to lean in with a conspirational whisper, "it was the best thing in that evening."

Despite Gojo's attempts to compose himself, his grin widened even more as he asked, "So, why haven't you visited it yet? I mean, you look pretty happy talking about it."

Your own smile slowly faded at Gojo's ask, and the unsure curl of your shoulder that followed immediately didn't go unnoticed.

Naoya's dismissive words sparkled brightly in your mind again, and you waved them as best as you could. Hugging the empty cup with your lemonade, you attempted to joke weakly, "Didn't have enough time. You know, hospital, shifts, meetings."

Gojo's lazy drumming slowed a little before coming to a complete halt. A warm feeling cracked in his chest at the memory of you attending Megumi.

"Ah, of course. Sorry for that. You are the busiest that I will ever be."

You weren't used to it. To someone listening to you with a genuine expression. To someone casually complimenting you. To someone including you in a conversation. As if you were worthy of someone's attention.

And that someone being Gojo caused a warm sun to rise in your hollowed soul.

So you resorted to the only thing familiar to you.

"Ah, it's nothing. I am just a paediatrician," offering a usual downplayed explanation, you didn't even notice the muscle in Gojo's jaw jump. Why were you doing it? "I mean, there are surgeons and — "

"You are joking, right? You are literally a doctor."

Gojo's incredulous tone caught you off guard. Shoulders dropping, your smile curled into a nervous, unsure scowl, while he went on.

"You're doing such a great job. I mean, all of that stuff, checking saturation, temperature, carrying all these charts, and, on top of that, working with kids! This is so cool."

A weird, scorching feeling coloured your cheeks. What was actually the last time you heard someone talking about you like that? All sincere, kind, and…warm?

The lump in your throat started to feel suspicious, and you took a shuddering breath in an attempt to accept Gojo's words with no usual overthinking, "I guess so. Kids are really cool."

Popping a spoonful of panna cotta in his mouth, Gojo hummed in acknowledgement.

"You're cooler. Do you like working with kids?"

For the second time, you were sharing a conversation, your smile widened, tone dipping into an affectionate tenderness, "Of course! I like seeing them smile as they finally get better. I love helping them to navigate through the world, especially knowing I can do that and make a difference! I want to make the start of their life easy and smooth. The rest of it may be shitty, but the childhood…"

Quiet steel crept into your voice, honing your tone.

"…the childhood is sacred."

Your eyes suddenly bore remembrance to black holes — swallowing Gojo in vast expanses of them. He stared, unblinking, and recalled that version of you on the lone evening. Smoking, laughing. Teasing.

Where was the line between that version of you and the shy doctor sitting in front of him, shrinking, lessening herself to fit some image Gojo hadn't deciphered yet? Who were you?

The truth might've hid amongst smiles, sincere, and too stretched to be genuine; glances, soft, and too pointed to offer truth; gestures, secretive, and too deep-seated to bear some meaning.

Gojo recalled your laugh as you talked about the damned grilled red squid. Maybe that version of you, that crept in the cracks of all the conversations you shared, was the real one?

He didn't know yet. But hell, he was determined to solve the mystery that his nephew's doctor was. With those sweet smiles. That sharp tongue. And that contagious laugh.

"Gojo? Are you listening?"

Okay. Perhaps he went into recalling a little bit too much.

He let his gaze wander over your features freely. "Yeah. You mentioned that kids usually don't like their ears checked. But honestly, what kid likes hospitals?"

Your shoulders shook with mirth as you shot him a quick, shy grin. Gojo felt his lips curling into a warm smile as well.

"Do you like working at that hospital?"

Twirling a straw, you stilled at his question. Then a deliberately calm shrug came as you glanced through the window.

"I like working with kids."

"That's not what I asked." Despite the warmth in his tone, you managed to notice an unusual heaviness lurking behind it. Nothing in Gojo, from the curious tilt of his head to the calmness in his blue gaze, revealed his true intentions.

Still. An assessing gleam that flashed in Gojo's eyes told you much more than he probably thought.

His fingers drummed against the table with barely concealed impatience. You mirrored his tilt and drawled hesitantly, "Could've been better, honestly. The department's director is constantly on our ears about financing and modernising the equipment. But, you know. Paediatrics isn't on the priority list."

Gojo hummed — a low, throaty sound that had you casting your gaze immediately down on your plate — and leaned in. His brows furrowed in frustration.

"Really?"

You mumbled something unintelligible as your shoulders curled inwards.

"But that doesn't make any sense," a murmur full of disbelief left him soon, addressing no one in particular, but rather musing aloud. "You're doing such an important thing, taking care of kids. I saw you running around like a Duracel rabbit, and this constant chaos. Yet you're doing such a great job! Especially with Megs. He likes you, you know? And he doesn't like doctors."

You leaned a bit with your chin cradled in your palm, looking out of the windows: some lady hurried to the cafe, barely catching up to her doggie, an adorable Pomeranian. The doorbell soon announced their entrance, followed by a cheerful bark.

"No wonder. He has a long story with them. I am afraid he just has to like me because I am a lady with masks and all that stuff."

"I am serious, Doc. Believe me," a small laugh followed his grin — you would've been damned if you didn't spot bitterness buried in it.

"I know when Megs feels…," Gojo pondered for a moment, looking for the right word. "Acceptable towards someone."

Now it was your turn to smile.

"He's not an easy kid," you murmured to Gojo after some time as you both watched the lady attending to her adorable, lively puppy. Gojo's grin widened for a second before settling back with heaviness too unfitting for the mask he usually wore.

"You can say so. They both went through…a lot."

You could only press your lips in sympathy. No matter how many tragedies you witnessed, each of them had left scars on you. Especially when you found out the reason Gojo adopted Megumi and Tsumiki.

Gojo didn't like to talk about it, but you gathered enough from the bits of conversations, information from Megumi's chart and heavy pauses between the words. Didn't press: one time, you saw Gojo examining the handout on how to help a kid process the grief, and noticed Gojo's gaze hardening into an iceberg.

So, you kept all assumptions safely catalogued in your head.

A heavy silence settled between you, interrupted only by excited yips of the Pomeranian, distant melodies of some indie song coming from the speakers, and the whirring of the cash register.

Hand drifting mindlessly to scratch an old scar, your fingers twitched with an indescribable urge to soothe Gojo's wounds as well. In the end, he lost his sister, too. And as shocked as he might've been, he had two distraught kids to bring up.

Did he have a chance to mourn her at all? Or just poured himself into the life that suddenly felt too enormous to fit into?

Judging by the distant waves of his gaze and the melancholy flickering over his face, too beautiful for all the sorrows, he didn't.

As much as you wanted to console him, to tell him that you hid scars like that as well, you couldn't bring yourself to do this. The lock on your heart was still impenetrable.

A bitter realisation, melting into a sour resentment that you didn't remember the last time you felt like that towards your fiancé, had your chest constricted with the weight of ache.

Instead, you tried not to dwell on it. Lifting your hand, your slightly trembling fingers grazed Gojo's hand across the table. A thick whisper followed.

"I am sorry."

Gojo's head immediately snapped up at the sound of your soft words. His eyes met yours in a moment of shared grief and quiet understanding — something he hadn't allowed himself to feel for a long time.

A silent yearning to be seen hid in the desperate twitch of his fingers as they squeezed your palm in response.

He quickly masked that momentary weakness behind a frantic clearing of throat and a casual, too casual ask.

"You lost your chain?"

Frowning a bit, you shifted your gaze to the dip of your cleavage; a sudden, shaking breath followed as you gently pulled your hand back to touch the bare skin.

Naoya's words, full of malice and icy wrath, flashed behind your closed eyelids just as if he had been throwing them at you now. He was seething with ire that morning.

You just sat there: a silent witness to irritation consuming Naoya more and more. Mentally went through every place you visited, every corner rounded, and every room attended. Still, it had no sense at all.

The ring was gone.

"Yeah."

"It must've been important."

You gritted your teeth until the muscles in your jaws twitched. Slowly, you lifted your gaze and couldn't believe the next words that left your lips, "It's okay. Something that was meant to be mine would make its way back, right?"

Gojo's eyes widened a bit at the sudden declaration. A boyish grin curled on his lips as he just shrugged in response, "I guess so."

Just in time. An alarm on your phone not so kindly informed you that your lunch was over. Oh, how you wished that it could last a small eternity longer.

Did Gojo feel that as well?

Watching his tall figure retreat to a shop nearby, you thought about the warm sea that spilt in his irises, when you reminded him that you would meet again tomorrow.

And then, as the sudden gust of wind threw your hair back into your face, you realised when you heard Gojo's surname. The sound of it had become a frequent guest of all the Zenins' outraged discussions.

But…

What did that mean to you?

ੈ✩‧₊˚

"Darling?"

Your voice sounded hesitant in the car on the way to your parents' house.

Tearing his gaze from the streets of the Denenchofu neighbourhood, adorned with lush greenery, and the rows of houses, draped in elegance and serenity, Naoya quirked his brow at you in a silent question.

With a hasty breath, you twiddled with your bag. The damn binder kept evading you like on a cue. A quiet curse left your lips as you felt Naoya's patience wearing thinner and thinner with each flimsy attempt of yours. You heard the irritated click of his tongue just as you fished the folder. Handed it to your fiancé and watched boredom on his face morphing into vague surprise and… mild interest.

"What is it?"

"It's my — uhm, you know, it's something I am doodling while not busy and —"

Nayoa interrupted you with a sharp glance, "Quit babbling."

"Right. Sorry," forcing an apologetic grin, you folded your hands on your lap. "It's my sort of portfolio. Best of my works. I just — would like to know your opinion about that."

"And why do you want me to do this?"

"One of my patients' parents is an art dealer. He noticed some pictures in my office, and we exchanged a couple of words." Naoya's eyes narrowed at your revelation; you quickly corrected yourself, "That's it, I swear!"

"Quicker," he cut you off with a wave as if you were stealing minutes of his precious time.

Your gaze briefly flicked between your hands and the binder in his hands.

There it was. Something shaping as an opportunity to share with the rest of the world what your soul ached for and your eyes saw.

With a sharp exhale, you concluded, "Anyway, his gallery is searching for some new artists for the opening of a new exhibition. I thought — I thought I might give it a try." Your voice cracked at the last words.

A low, almost indifferent hum was all you got in response.

Breath bated, you intently watched Naoya slowly opening the folder and going through the pictures with deliberate scrupulousness. Head tilted, his gaze wandered over each line and stroke. You examined every minuscule twitch in his expression just to notice the fleeting movement of his eyebrows. Something resembling bewilderment flicked across his face.

A flash of excitement faintly sparkled within you.

Only for Naoya's bewilderment contorting into disbelief, masked by cold indifference.

"You drew it?"

A glance at his face didn't stir anything suspicious in you, so you slowly nodded, lips curling into a nervous smile.

His gaze darted to your makeshift portfolio once again. And then a smirk — a quick twitch of his lips — followed. As cruel as his love for you was.

"Don't you have something more important to do than simply wasting your time?"

The splendour of excitement faded within you into a dim flare. Your smile wavered as you breathed out, "I don't under— understand."

Your distress only fed Nayoa's ego even more. He carelessly tossed the portfolio back on your lap and drawled in mock sympathy, leaning closer.

"Aw, my poor dove. You are not born yesterday, aren't you? Still so innocent and full of naive dreams. You should've known better already."

Your grip on the poor binder tightened. The wrinkled, beaming face of your little patient caught your attention; but despite the usual reluctant acceptance of his words, you felt another match put to a growing flame inside.

Raising your chin a little, you noticed with a grim satisfaction that Naoya was slightly taken aback.

"Should know better what exactly?"

His smirk sharpened into a ruthless blade.

"That the world doesn't care about the wishes of innocent little doves like you, my darling." For all your desperate attempts to stand your ground, your heart sank to your stomach. Disappointment and your own failure buzzed in your tired mind, bearing Naoya's taunting voice.

"You think that guy really wanted these drawings of yours? Oh, darling, please. He probably was just polite. After all, you are the one who can write a slightly wrong prescription for his kid out of spite and —"

Cheeks flaring at the entendre in his voice, you blinked in shock, "What? I would never in my life do that!"

Naoya peacefully hold his hands out.

"Just saying, dove. I only want the best for you." Naoya's hand came to pinch your chin as he let his gaze roam over your face. Then a fake concern flashed on his face — you lifted a heavy gaze on your fiancé. "Saving you from an inevitable disappointment. No need to worry that pretty little head of yours about anything."

And then his tone deceived you into pretending sweetness, "You said you were bored?"

You answered it with an unblinking stare, which Naoya interpreted in his own way. As usual.

"Maybe it's high time for you to step into the wedding preparations. All I hear is endless chirping about napkins and lilies and the size of your obi sash. Why don't you join it? And while musing, maybe at least try to look for your engagement ring."

With that derisive scowl, your future husband leaned over to order something for your driver. And like that, the conversation ended.

Just like your pitiful attempts to become something that you weren't. A sandcastle that you carefully built crumbled in your hands, putting all your dillusions to an end.

Naive, little dove.

That was who you were, right?

Ache travelled down your cheeks in briny tears. They hit the pieces of your heart in lines and sketches, smudging them with sadness.

As the car finally stopped in front of a big house, screaming about quiet luxury, you quickly wiped all the signs of your life quietly falling apart. And when you stepped out of the car with your hand resting leisurely in the crook of Naoya's elbow, your smile only painted the image of a happy fiancée and a nice daughter.

The portfolio in the depths of your bag told another story.

For all the heavy air and weight of disappointment following your every step like an ominous shadow, you still preferred home walls to the bars of the Zenins' cage.

At least, you were in your territory.

Naoya had never been particularly interested in stepping into that place — perhaps he regarded it as settling to your level — but much to your surprise, he always accompanied you.

Deep down, you were well aware of the true reason; it was neither his affection nor understanding. Oh, no. Quite the opposite.

Your home greeted you with polite indifference.

If it had a face, you were sure it would wear the same expressionless look you often witnessed on your parents. A deep-buried bitterness surged inside at the sight of framed photos, depicting your family. The main guest was always their most beloved child — their business, its numerous triumphs and accomplishments. Its presence had always gnawed on you at the dinner table and hovered over, akin to a skilful executioner, with the axe of their expectations behind the back.

It was a competition you could never win.

As wounding as that realisation was, you swallowed it and every sharp remark to come.

After all, those crumbs were better than facing the silence.

Your mother joyously trilled something to Naoya, who listened to her with a mild interest. You were well aware that was the closest to politeness he was able to muster. As a lot of men tended to be, your future husband had never been keen on participating in "women's useless prattle".

But not as your father studied him with a scrutiny too unfitting for someone so blazenly indifferent.

At least, that was what you believed him to be.

Because lately, every time you stole a glance at your father as he talked to Naoya, you couldn't help but notice a mocking sparkle in his eyes. As if Naoya entertained him by the mere fact of his existence. You silently wondered if he was able to sense it, because your fiancé's attempts to earn his future father-in-law's approval were met with a quick grin and a curt nod more and more.

Of course, it wounded Naoya's pride and ego. Everyone had to be enamoured with your fiancé; a few tailored compliments and seemingly soft glances were usually enough. Naoya never bothered himself trying too much, though, just because he initially treated people like someone to use and discard later.

The only exception was you at the start of your relationships. He woven himself into your life with late-night strolls, dinners at the expensive restaurants, attentive gestures, and charming smiles. Until he made sure you were on the hook of his affection and in a constant state of craving more. Playing with you, testing the limits of your obedience and his own vanity, gave him a cruel sense of satisfaction.

Either way, some flattery and asking for business advice didn't fascinate your father into actually accepting Naoya. Sometimes your fiancé's disappointment and anger burst into spiteful remarks directed at you, although they quickly morphed into distant rambles as he understood how pathetic he might've looked. Trying to earn respect from the man who was supposed to give it to him on a silver platter.

If there was one thing you were certain about Naoya, that was his absolute despise to being looked down on.

You didn't know what game your father was playing — it might be just another mind game or whatever it was called in terms of business — but you enjoyed it inwardly nonetheless.

The clink of silvery cutlery followed soon after the usual exchanges among the whispers of pristine tablecloth and rivers of elite alcohol. Nayoa's shoulder brushed against yours every time he reached for whiskey. The gradual rise of his pitch matched the growing annoyance within you. You politely waved the maid every time she walked to your side with a glass.

"Ah, darling," your mother's cheeks were already painted red from numerous portions of Roku gin. Otherwise, she wouldn't be as kind as now. "Why don't you try this Roku gin? Torii-sama sent us the premium Sakura Bloom Edition, might as well try one!"

Your mother paused to pop a cherry in her mouth. Then her eyes comically widened as she shared a few curious glances with your aunties, earning tipsy giggles. Naoya's jaw tightened. "Your fiancé might not like your drinking! Silly me."

Your plastered smile twitched for a moment before you let a fake saccharine chuckle and nodded wordlessly. You knew better after the last gathering in the Zenins' estate.

Unknown to you, not only did Naoya watch you like a master, seeing his doll take the stage for the first time, but so did your father. His calm expression wavered for a moment before a usual mask slotted back into place.

"Darling." All the voices quietened as your father spoke up. Your grip on the fork tightened as you braced yourself and slowly dragged your eyes to meet his gaze, spine involuntarily straightening under its weight.

"Father?"

"Tell us about your…work," the last word left your father rather hesitantly as he absent-mindedly twirled a lavish whiskey glass between his fingers. Saying that surprised you would be an understatement: your work, the path you chose, instead of becoming another cog in their enormous corporate machine, had long been a touchy subject in your family. Your becoming a doctor was acceptable. But a paediatrician? It evoked a couple of arguments, but that was the most you could have ever received. From that moment, your profession hid between the pauses in conversations and was swept under the rug like a useless mention.

The voices around the table came to a complete halt, and even the lone clink of your cousin's spoon against the plate sounded shocked.

Trying to ignore the bewildered glances and especially the pointed glare of your fiancé at the lack of attention to his superb persona, you smiled corteously, "Thank you for asking, father. Everything is going nicely, and the kids are as healthy as they can be. Well, you know them. You don't keep an eye on them, and the next thing you do is blow on their scraped knees."

The table remained ominously silent after your attempted little joke. You cleared your throat and carried on, feeling Naoya piercing daggers into you.

"And, uhm, our department's well-financed, surprisingly! I suppose it's Naoya's achievement. He's on the board of the shareholders, if someone doesn't know," you hastily added. The paediatrics department was buzzing with a new juicy piece of gossip, exchanging knowing looks and conspirational whispers. Just like that, your fiancé once again bathed in the glory and adoration.

Meanwhile, you weren't even completely sure he actually showed up to those meetings.

Naoya straightened a little in his seat, sending a sleazy smirk to one of your distant relatives. Her cheeks went red immediately as she cast her gaze down on the plate.

"Yeah, dove is right." Naoya's speech had long already been slurred from the alcohol, straining his breath. Your jaw twitched with effort not to grimace as it fanned over your cheek. "No wonder they had such a big problem with money. I mean, they are looking after kids. Not even real doctors, if you catch my drift."

You were so shocked and astounded that you couldn't utter a single word.

"What?" Naoya shrugged indifferently as his gaze swept across the table to notice that some people were stunned as well. He quirked a brow at you. "You said it yourself, honey. That you felt so stupid talking to surgeons sometimes."

The humiliation snaked immediately in your chest and sank its teeth into your heart, until you bled quietly on the pristine white in front of you. The silver of the fine clutter caught light, showing you a reflection of smirking Naoya, even more distorted. Your grip on it tightened, but you still played your role, sending your father a jarred grin.

However, he looked past you. His brows knitted together in confusion and something suspiciously looking like seething anger. Shivers ran down your spine as your father finally muttered.

"And who do you consider a real doctor, Naoya?"

Naoya's smirk slowly wavered before vanishing completely; his cheeks went from painfully pale to slightly pink in a span of seconds, and for a death cup like him, it equated to a crimson bloom.

Clearing his throat, your future husband threw pointed glances at you.

You remained indifferent to his silent pleas.

The sight of your fiancé, trying to make his way out of a frying pan, brought a strange kind of contentment. You hid your smirk behind the glass.

He parted his lips to answer, only to be interrupted by the maid. She bowed in an apology, saying someone was calling you,

"That must be some parent. Excuse me," you quickly stood up and hurried to another room. Ah. You wished you could see Naoya humiliating himself in front of your family a bit longer. However, you still managed to mouth "thank you" to your father, who answered you with a quick nod.

Parents' calling you all the time wasn't anything sort of an usual, but seeing Gojo appearing on your screen sent your heart stammering against your ribs. Was something wrong with Megumi? Did he feel bad again? You were just about to discharge him and —

Before the wave of overthinking consumed you, you accepted the call, thumb hesitating over the button for a few seconds longer than needed.

"Hello?"

"Hi, Doc. I am so sorry to interrupt you, really. You must be busy," Gojo chuckled nervously. You noticed with a frown that his low voice had lost its usual smoothness: he sounded genuinely… worried. You had to cut off his words before they would turn into rambling.

"Don't worry. What happened? Is Megumi alright?"

"Megs is fine, it's —," a loud bark interrupted your conversation, earning a distressed groan from Gojo. "Shiro, for the love of God! Stop that!"

The dog's barks — as you presumed, Shiro's — grew even louder, and in a couple of seconds, playful yips followed as well.

"Kuro, no, I can't play with you right now!"

As much as you would've enjoyed that chaos in every other situation, your voice took on an urgent edge, calling for Gojo's attention back.

"Gojo, I need you to focus. What's wrong?"

The sounds of the crisis on the other side of the call quietened a little, and you could finally feel Gojo's voice, coming in a nervous breath, "It's Tsumiki."

"Okay. Is she nauseous? Has a temperature? Diarrhoea? Pale, blotchy skin?"

"She threw up a couple of times. We've been at the new place near their school, and then went to an amusement park. Yeah, wrong move, I know. No diarrhoea, no. A little bit pale, though." Gojo huffed nervously. You briefly imagined him carding fingers through his hair — you picked that habit of his during Megumi's admission.

Shaking your head, you interrupted Gojo again.

"What did she eat? Did you give her some meds?"

"She had a poke bowl with tuna. Pepsi. Sugar-free, if that's important. Cotton candy. I think it's cotton candy. It should be cotton candy, 'cause we all had those damn poke bowls. Honestly, it was too sweet, even for me."

Gojo's voice turned too distant all of a sudden. You figured he was checking on Tsumiki, given the worried edge in his tone. "We went home, and I gave her Pedialyte."

"Oh, that's great. You did right, actually. She should drink a lot and have plenty of rest."

"Dunno, Doc. She's not looking very good, and I —" A deep, sharp exhale that followed twisted something in your heart.

Swallowing nervously, you tightened your grip on the phone. "I'll check on her. Just send your address. I'll be there as soon as possible."

Gojo kept silent for some time, until you heard his quiet, strangely hesitant voice. "You sure? I don't want to interrupt whatever you might have, it's a Friday evening, after all. I can call an ambulance every time."

Already putting on your light coat, you gently murmured, "No, it's okay. Don't worry about it."

"I'll send my assistant after you."

You were already familiar with Gojo's assistant, a driver, and a planner — Ijichi. The poor guy looked perpetually stressed; you genuinely didn't want to cause him even more trouble.

"I'll get a taxi."

"But —"

"By the time he gets to me, I could've already been at yours."

Gojo reluctantly agreed, not capable of fighting your logic, and dropped his address. Your brows raised in a slight surprise.

With a quiet hum, you finally called a taxi, already grimacing at Naoya's possible reaction, as you hastily texted him an apology. His face, contorted in fury, especially after a confrontation with your father, sent shivers down your spine. A thought of backing down briefly crossed your mind, but you quickly shook it away. Not only because you were always keen on keeping your promises and the poor girl involved, but…

Watching the streets of Seijo pass you in quiet green parks, tennis courts, university campuses and elite buildings, you finally admitted to yourself.

That you longed to see Gojo.

His house met you with a daunting gateway and a robotic voice, calmly telling you to proceed further. A quick, examining look around the beautiful, well-tended yard made you wonder how many people worked there, but the sight of water guns scattered over the grass, as well as the picnic blanket on the grass, gave you a much better understanding of the family living there.

After hesitating a couple of seconds, you knocked.

You fully expected Gojo to greet you right that second. Instead, you heard a couple of barks, some intelligible mumbling, and the sound of something being knocked over, until the door finally opened, revealing Gojo and a white Labrador puppy, enthusiastically chewing on the man's trouser leg.

Hardly had you opened your mouth, when another puppy — that time a black one, albeit also a Labrador — jumped on you with a joyous yip. The puppy wiggled its tail with such speed that you sincerely worried about the poor doggie launching itself into space.

A joyful chuckle left you as you petted the puppy, cooing at him, "Hello to you, too!"

Gojo finally managed to get the white one off his leg and craddled it against his chest with a loud sigh. A couple of white strands were plastered to his forehead, and he quickly wiped it with his forearm.

"Hello, Doc. Kuro, come here. Don't jump on ladies like that," he mock scolded the black one, Kuro, and flashed you a tired grin. Kuro trotted back to Gojo. "We're gonna talk about it later, I swear. With you as well, right, little guy?" Gojo murmured to the white puppy, scratching him behind the ears and nodded towards you. "Meet Shiro!"

You beamed back in response and quickly looked around. "Where's Tsumiki?"

Gojo's expression changed in an instant, a frown crossing over his handsome face. "She's upstairs. You can use the bathroom there. Wait a minute, okay?"

Nodding nervously, you found your seat near the cream sofa. A white, fluffy carpet easily swallowed the sound of your footsteps. You sank into the comfort of the armchair nearby and let your gaze drift over the dog toys on the carpet, neatly folded colouring pages on the coffee table, a half-opened pack of coloured crayons, some book about dog breeds, and… wait, was it a pastry book? Nonetheless, Cédric Grolet's? Squinting, you only got convinced more about it: the sight of familiar lemons immediately caught your eye.

Nothing strange. He was a restaurant owner, after all. Broadening a worldview was useful for everyone.

Unless…

He picked it up after you mentioned it at the cafe.

Weird warmth blossomed in your chest, spreading through your veins like sunshine, mellow and bright.

Until a sudden thought of Naoya burnt you.

"Megs, why don't you have the puppies and play with them at the yard? I'll go check on Tsumiki." Gojo's loud voice startled you out of your hazy mind. Blinking, you returned to reality and watched the grumpy kid dragging his feet to Gojo. "Oh, and say hi to Doctor-sensei. She'll look at her too."

His words had Megumi stop mid-rubbing his eyes and stare at you with mild disbelief. Waving at him, you forced a smile. You couldn't let yourself dwell on your future husband and bathe in your misery in front of a kid.

"Hi, Megumi-kun! You feeling better?"

The boy blinked as well and shrugged in response. "I guess."

As driven by the force of gravity, your eyes immediately drifted to Gojo to find him already staring at you with a curious expression. Warmth curled on his lips, but his eyes remained sharp and focused. Your cheeks heated up.

Stuffy. It was stuffy.

One of the puppies barked.

Megumi briefly glanced at the dog, and for the first time, you saw a sincere smile spreading on his face. Then, he dragged his eyes back to you with a pensive, hesitant expression and asked quietly.

"Will Tsumiki be alright?"

Your chest tightened with emotions as you kneeled before the kid. He watched you carefully, but didn't speak up.

"She is alright, from what your uncle told me. Don't worry. He takes care of her." Letting yourself look at Gojo again, you noticed something indescribable flicker over his features before he smiled back, albeit strained. A weird feeling stirred within as you added, "Both of you, actually."

Something twitched behind the stone mask that Megumi's face was. A light pink coloured his cheeks, and he dropped his gaze.

"Alrighty, Megs," Gojo held the door open, and Kuro already jumped happily outside, followed by Shiro, wiggling his tail. "But not too long! You gotta be in bed till ten, and we are going to brush teeth together this time. You're not going to fool me anymore, little punk."

Megumi rolled his eyes, but the sparkle of mischief in them was a dead giveaway. "More like you are not going to fool me like the last time you ditched the irrigator —"

Gojo swiftly cut Megumi off, "Buddy, don't expose all our bonding moments, okay?"

You watched the puppies immediately clinging to Megumi with cheerful yips as he stepped out — and looked at Gojo. Nothing in him, save only for the tension in his broad shoulders, revealed the quiet storm brewing inside.

Swallowing, you hurried to catch up to him.

"Tsumi-chan, how are you now?" Gojo's voice dropped to the gentle warmth you had yet to hear. He quietly closed the doors behind you both and walked to the girl. A little grin tugged at the corner of your lips at the sight of the barrage of meds on the bedside table.

"I feel better now, really. Thank you, Satoru-san. You don't have to worry about me so much."

"Oh, I absolutely do," huffing loudly, Gojo walked over and cleared his throat, telling Tsumiki your name. "Doctor-sensei treats Megumi."

Tsumiki murmured something to greet you, but her last words caught you off guard.

"Nice to meet you, sensei! Satoru-san told us about you."

Eyes widened, you shifted your gaze to Gojo, who was already checking Tsumiki's bunnies. "Really? Did he?"

"Oh, yeah! I know you're really good," she chuckled warmly, but then added hastily, "I don't think there's any need to check on me, I am completely fine!"

But after this, she grimaced quickly and gave up under Gojo's hardened gaze.

Tsumiki got a certain paleness to her skin as you examined her, but nothing unusual for the food poisoning, as you indeed figured it out.

"I think it was cotton candy," the girl murmured, sinking back into the bed. A quiet sigh left her lips. "It's a shame. I liked it."

"Oh, yeah," Gojo grumbled indistinctly from his place. "I'll never let you eat that stuff again, I swear."

The girl's eyes widened as she shared a startled look with you. "But you ate five portions all by yourself! It's not fair!"

Gojo shot her a quick look, though a teasing grin danced on his lips.

"It's not the same. I am an adult, and you are just a teeny tiny girl," he joked lightly, watching a white bunny devouring an applewood stick. "You're such a fatty, fella, I swear."

"Snow is not a fatty!" Tsumiki already jumped in to protect her precious pet. "Just…furry."

"Tsumi-chan, calm down a little. You'd better relax and have a rest," you murmured, while writing down recommendations for Gojo. "Your bunny's name is Snow?"

She nodded carefully, following your words, and twiddled with her fingers.

"Yes. Snow and Ball. The owners wanted to give Snow away, because, you know," she whispered and sniffled quietly. "He was not like other bunnies."

"Albino," Gojo interjected immediately. Almost absent-mindedly: his eyes were focused on the large constellation map on the wall, but you were sure he was listening more than attentively.

"So we took Snow in, and Satoru-san later brought us Ball! He lived on a Bunny Island, but now he's with us."

Your smile wavered, sinking into fragile softness as your hand squeezed Tsumiki's. Then your gaze found Gojo again, who was trying to use Tsumiki's telescope. The sight was quite funny, given Gojo's height and the telescope's design for kids.

Not looking away, you whispered, "Satoru-san is good to you."

"He is," the girl beamed at you, but then grew shy again. Clearing her throat, she asked whether you had some pets.

The bitterness instantly rose in your chest, flooding all the warmth.

Naoya didn't understand the concept of pets and anything that could steal your attention away.

That was your first big fight.

You were just a year together.

With gaze cast down, you shrugged, not aware that Gojo was watching you all the time. "Uhm, no, unfortunately, no. With my work…not quite possible."

"Oh. It's a shame," she sighed again. "But if you want to, you can come and play with my bunnies. And I am sure Megumi won't be against you playing with Kuro and Shiro. Right, Satoru-san?"

"Yeah." He answered without missing a beat. Your heart did a treacherous flip, slamming against your ribcage, and you breathed out with a weak grin.

"Thank you, Tsumi-chan. Get better soon, okay?"

"Make sure she's well-rested. I think she should feel better before Monday. A lot of drinks," you nodded at the paper in Gojo's hand. "Watch the vomit too, and basically just keep an eye on her. If there's a sudden tummy ache, call an ambulance. And call me just in case."

"Sure will do," Gojo murmured tiredly, carefully folding your note and tucking it into his notebook. A sharp pang of something you weren't ready to name yet shot through your heart. Quietly watching Gojo's brows furrow in thought as he turned the pages of his planner — probably filled with dozens of meetings, visits and even dates — you muttered your goodbyes with a full intention to slip quietly out of that lovely home.

Only to be stopped by a warm hand on your elbow.

"Where are you going to? It's late. Ijichi will drive you home."

Your phone was already buzzing with dozens of irritated texts from Naoya, and the thought of him seeing you leave another man's car made your insides churn.

Waving, you huffed a chuckle, "Ah, it's nothing, I'll take a taxi, and it's late!"

"He will be there in five minutes." Gojo casually shrugged your words off, already on its way to hold a door for you. "Come on, I'll walk you out."

The gusts of wind under the veil of tranquil twilight didn't bite you as usual; perhaps, it was Gojo's warmth shielding you from its coldness. Standing right beside him as you waited outside, you couldn't help but reminisce that evening with the British lighter.

An airy chuckle cut through the serenity between you. Gojo tore his gaze away from the star-spilt sky above, and his gentle murmur caressed the expanse of your skin. Even though he was standing a foot apart.

"What are you thinking about?"

Your smile deepened, but you shook your head in response. "Nothing much."

"Hey. Don't go shy on me, Doctor-sensei."

Despite the coldness of the evening, your cheeks flared up. "Telling about me to your kids?"

A soft smile spread on his face as he chuckled.

"Couldn't help. You're really a nice doctor."

"Well, thank you then."

He basked in a response you gave him — a widened gaze, a pink tint to your cheeks, and a little smile — until you went silent again.

Gojo tilted his head in a silent question — the harsh wind threw his white bangs all over his forehead. He didn't make any effort to brush them away; instead, he kept looking at you as if you were the only star gracing the heavens above. Beautiful. Observing.

Mysterious.

"I don't have the lighter on me now."

Startled, you abruptly burned and blinked, your huff dissolving into a light laugh. "And I don't have any cigs."

Gojo's smile deepened almost imperceptibly. Your breath caught in your throat as you felt his warmth enveloping you tighter in its embrace. Nervously, you tucked the lone hair strand behind your ear. Glanced at the sky above, glimmering indifferently.

"Tsumiki likes stars, doesn't she? A whole map and a telescope in her room?" You murmured absent-mindedly, eyes lazily wandering from one celestial body to another.

Naoya didn't like stargazing.

"Ah, yes. A little scientist. She dreams about space and visiting some planets." At the mention of his niece, Gojo's gaze turned melancholic, albeit full of tenderness. "She's a nice girl. Kind and gentle."

At the sudden pensiveness, colouring his voice, you turned around. The wind threw your hair into your face, but you chose not to see anything but Gojo. Your voice came surprisingly steady.

"And you are a nice uncle. When I said to Megumi that you took good care of them, I didn't joke."

Your words clearly stunned Gojo; his eyes widened, and the dark blue of them shone so brightly under the lamplight that you let yourself drown in them all over again.

"You think so, Doc?"

Despite the lightness in his tone, you picked up the strained edge, the hesitance, and something weirdly resembling hope.

His hand twitched a little as you stepped closer and let your fingers tentatively brush against his. Gojo went still, and your quiet yet sure words nearly undid him.

"I know, Gojo."

His chest expanded with a sharp exhale. There was no way he could contain the overwhelming fullness in his chest that came with your presence. And as the honk of Ijichi's car erupted through the silence, he finally managed to find his words again.

"Thank you for coming. I… really appreciate that."

You just shook your head with a warm smile you wore so often. A strange gleam flashed in your gaze.

"No worries. I am glad to help."

For some reason, he couldn't tear his gaze away, and just watched the lonebeam caressing your features in a way he longed to.

The black car finally stopped in front of you. Gojo stepped to open the door for you and murmured.

"Good night. See you soon, right?"

"Right. Bye, Gojo."

And seeing the car slowly disappearing into the dark, Gojo let out a breath, carding his fingers through the hair as the realisation that had been hovering over him like a sword of Damocles finally hit him.

He was so fucked.

ੈ✩‧₊˚

The clock in your office almost struck two, marking your possible fifteen minutes for a break, but you were focused on a baby on the examination table. Softly pressing on the belly, you checked for any enlarged organs, only to give the parents an assuring nod.

"No signs of a hernia as well."

Your light tickles earned soft gurgles from the kid, and you couldn't help but lean down and coo, "Aw, you're such a little talker tonight, aren't you? Looking so happy out here."

The baby babbled something again, flailing their pudgy arms, and gave you a little grin. Your hands softly brushed over the kid's legs to move them over.

"No problems with hip joints! Your baby is completely healthy." A relaxed smile made its way on your face as well, seeing the little girl's parents breathe out in relief.

"Doctor-sensei, we were thinking about introducing Kiki-chan to solid foods," Kiki-chan's mother squirmed in her seat, while her father attempted to put a pacifier in her mouth. The baby protested with a huff.

Humming under your breath, you went through the baby's medical record. "Honestly, it's better you wait a little. I will give you proper recommendations when the time comes. It's usually around 6 months. Meanwhile, remember to have the vitamin D supplement I was talking about."

"Ah, yes. I wanted to ask if 400 IU daily is alright?" Ito-san's voice sounded a bit strained, as Kiki-chan curiously attempted to tug on her mom's hair.

"Totally fine."

Shortly after answering a couple of questions more and reminding the parents to call you in case something suspicious arises, you bid your goodbyes to the family.

Exhausted, you massaged your temples and decided to take a quick nap before a meeting, only to be interrupted by the knock. No urgency, though. No hesitation.

Frowning, you called out to come in, already straightening in your seat. Might've been another emergency, since you didn't have anything more scheduled before the endless Yaga's droning.

The door opened, revealing the emergency himself. The emergency bore a smile, able to disperse any signs of an impending grimness; his hair flashed bright white under the light, and the blue of his gaze pulled you into its ripples just like the day that emergency walked into your life.

Your heart slammed against your ribs, pulse roared in your temples with deafening force, as you stared back at Gojo. Megumi had been charged some time ago, but the lie would've tasted sour if you said Gojo didn't cross your mind. Maybe something happened to Tsumiki?

Sometimes, when the evenings pinned you down with their weight of loneliness, as you stared at Naoya's back blanky, the memories flushed in your mind. You kept every smile, every glance, every bruf of fingers and every word close to your heart, akin to the precious gems.

Then, as Naoya's lips would press a claim on your skin and his fingertips would burn another into your soul, you pulled them out with the utmost care.

Somehow managing to compose yourself, you forced a grin that Gojo would find a pleasant one, at least, "Hi! What are you doing here? Oh, have a seat, would you?"

Gojo's grin deepened, and he sank into the chair in front of you.

"Long time no see, Doc. No-no, everything is okay with kids, don't worry," he hastily added, seeing concern immediately taking over your face.

"Oh." You blinked in surprise. Cleared your throat. Tried not to look as nosy as you felt. Twiddled with a kitten figurine on your table. Finally breathed out.

"Not to be rude or anything, but…what are you doing here then?"

His white brows knitted together as he managed to huff a chuckle. It slowly died under your inquiring gaze.

"You don't know?"

Briefly closing your eyes at the sense of migraine slowly crawling back to make your life even more miserable, you murmured, "Know what?"

The bright grin on Gojo's face wavered, but his voice came out surprisingly soft. As if he were trying to soothe you by the mere tone alone.

"I am on the board of shareholders now. I thought you might've known by now. But it's even better! I am telling you myself."

Brows flying to your hairline in surprise, you breathed out a quiet, shocked chuckle. The gentle sun — as bright as Gojo's radiant grin — warmed your soul in hesitant rays of fondness.

"Really? That's so great! I didn't even hear —"

Naoya didn't bother to mention it to you.

Your smile slowly vanished as the clouds of despair slowly fogged that very sun.

Gojo, who had already helped himself to a candy, suddenly looked up. "Didn't even hear…?"

If you were a lot more braver, you wouldn't let hesitance shake you to the very core. Expose you for who you truly were.

A dove. A naive, frightened dove.

The knife of Naoya's disdainful whisper slowly twisted between your ribs once again, leaving the droplets of something that used to be your affection spilling in crimson paths of sorrow and ache.

"Doc? You good?"

You would've told Gojo everything.

Instead, you gave him a jarred grin.

"Doesn't matter. So, what's the thing for you here?"

His gaze narrowed suspiciously, but he decided not to press further.

"I thought it was a good opportunity. Non-profit management, something like that. You took good care of Megumi, and I was already thinking about," his gaze swept across your room, pausing at the sweets, the examination table, the posters on the walls and the box with toys. The very same you fished Megumi's plushie from. "Contributing to society, all that jazz."

Something in his deliberately light tone told you that you weren't the one to have secrets. With a curious hum, you leaned over, tapping on your chin in mock thoughtfulness.

"Weren't you the one saying that you didn't like meetings and everything?"

Gojo paused, his eyes briefly flicking to your face to gauge your reaction; he saw none, besides an intrigue, dancing in your gaze.

Oh. That was how you wanted to play, huh?

He slowly mirrored your grin, lazily tilting his head. "I am okay if that's for the good."

"It's for the good, then?"

His smile widened, giving you a good look at his dimples.

Giving Gojo the last suspicious glance, you leaned back.

He cleared his throat.

"So, if you have something to say or ask for... you can tell me. Within reasonable limits, of course."

"I'll keep it in mind."

Your pager beeped loudly again, putting your conversation to a halt. With a heavy sigh, you hid it and rose from your seat.

"Did something happen?" Gojo inquired with the same curious, albeit soft gaze that had been silently caressing you the entire conversation.

Stifling a sigh and your urge to ditch the whole thing, you admitted begrudgingly, "No, not at all. Just the department's meeting."

"Oh," he hummed incredulously, but his gaze was still firmly set on you. You decided to get through your notes just not to feel its weight. It never failed to send shivers down your spine.

"You've already met Yaga-san, the department's director, I suppose?"

An attempt to briefly switch the topic and the nervous tone didn't go unnoticed by Gojo.

As well as the slightest twitch of your fingers, when you meticulously tucked all the notes into one neat pile.

"Yeah. He's...an interesting guy. I would say more like a businessman type. Talks about the financing and the sponsor's attraction."

Gojo's words earned an airy chuckle from you.

"Oh, he can talk about it day and night, I swear."

"That he can," he agreed, shaking his head with a small laugh. "Still, I think he cares about all of you. The finances topic is surely one of the hottest on the board meeting."

"That's why I am not really sure why you decided to join it — ah, shit!"

One clumsy turn and a misguided step — god, sometimes Naoya was right: you really felt like having two left feet — and the carefully arranged notes went scattered on your floor like birds trying to escape.

"Damn, I am so clumsy." Kneeling immediately, you murmured under your breath and stilled, feeling Gojo's finger brush gingerly against yours as he handed you one of the vaccination reports. The time completely paused around you: the thick, heavy substance enveloping both of you.

The world closed in on the blue in his eyes. Spilt heavens, simmering waves of an ocean, June sky, when the world's radiance blinded with its brightness, merged into the tint that dulled every other colour for you. Took you to another world, even just for a fleeting moment.

"Oh, look at that. Is that...wait, is that yours?"

Your head immediately snapped towards Gojo, and you saw him holding that small, pathetic makeshift portfolio — the one you probably pulled out just to throw away, but the thought slipped away from your tired mind just like usual.

The heat of humiliation, mixed with embarrassment, exploded within you in a painful red. Helplessly blinking, you forced a pathetic chuckle.

"Oh, that? No, it's — "

And then why did you carry that binder around, huh? Think, think, think!

Your mind desperately scrambled for a plausible explanation, but after some debating, you surrendered to his gaze.

"Yes. These are mine. It's nothing special, though. Some lazy, stupid doodles."

Gojo frowned instantly at the belittlement curling in your voice like a berated animal. He slowly rose to his height and murmured in bewilderment.

"You're joking, right?"

You blinked. Blinked again. Didn't think of anything better than to stare at Gojo as you had seen him for the first time. Stare at him carefully going through the binder. Stare at the light wrinkle between his brows, knitted in concentration. Stare at his lips until they parted and uttered the words that knocked all the air from your lungs.

"These are wonderful!"

The pager beeped again to remind you about the upcoming meeting, but all your being shrinked to the little folder in Gojo's hands.

Naoya's words about wasting your time immediately flared up, and you straightened as well to make a grab for the photos.

"It's nothing special. Really. Just a bunch of stuff."

Gojo dragged his shocked gaze from the portfolio back to you and let you have the damn binder. You would throw it away the first thing after the meeting.

To which, in fact, you should've hurried long ago.

"I have to go."

Gojo watched your figure moving around with the newly acquired urgency. As if you had been trying to shake any remnants of the intimacy that had just unfolded around you.

His eyes searched your face with a quiet, almost aching attention, until he finally muttered.

"Did I say something wrong?"

No.

No.

Don't say that.

Don't do that to me.

A cruel beast crawled up your veins to clutch your insides in a freezing grip, while fear and regret trapped your lone heartbeat.

Gojo didn't say anything, instead letting his eyes talk, but you were too occupied with your own thoughts to hear him.

Eventually, he stepped back with a quiet sigh, and the thinly veiled frustration in his voice caused your heart to sink.

"I am sorry. I didn't mean to go overboard in any way. I'll leave you alone."

The sight of Gojo's broad shoulders slumped in the slightest bitterness cracked something in your chest.

The pager went off again with a loud beep.

"I really have to go."

Gojo only gave you a curt nod, and all the time you were closing your office, you felt the weight of his gaze pinning you down.

A hundred words rested just on the tip of your tongue. Instead, you settled on a quiet, hesitant apology, gently grazing his elbow.

"I am sorry. It's not this. You haven't done anything wrong."

He turned almost immediately at your words, but as much as he wanted to ask more — so, so much more than you were ready to offer — he stilled. And prompted gently.

"Then what is it?"

You sucked in a sharp exhale, just to —

"Dove? There you are!"

For the reason to appear himself.

The look of pure panic on your face the second the voice reached you made Gojo frown. Then your frightened gaze flicked to him.

The crowd around you parted slightly, revealing a man. Gojo caught a couple of fond gazes shared between the nurses, but that couldn't bother him less.

The immediate self-conscious curve of your shoulders, paired with the stiffness of your moves, when the guy pulled you closer without any words, concerned Gojo way more.

"Dove. What did I say about answering my calls? I don't want to look around for you all over the hospital. I am way too busy for this."

The arrogant, disdainful voice of that prick immediately grated on Gojo's nerves. The tone was not suitable even for berating a pet, let alone talking to a human being. Someone supposedly beloved.

Gojo's jaw tightened. He was about to step in when you swiftly interjected with a grin too wide to be sincere. Your hand on the man's arm didn't promise any good.

The guy turned to Gojo's side and stilled for a moment, quirking a brow.

"Darling," your tone sounded so weird, Gojo barely recognised it — something like the plea to an executioner to give you the last glimpses of freedom. "This is Gojo Satoru. He's on the board of the shareholders as well."

The prick slowly tilted his head, dragging his gaze over Gojo in silent yet sharp examination. Then a weird gleam flushed in his eyes as they slightly widened in recognition.

That scowl and barely masked derision on his face had stirred something distant in Gojo's memory, but the whole image remained blurry. Until you introduced him as well, piercing all the pieces.

"This is Zenin Naoya. My..."

Naoya didn't appreciate your pause and flashed an arrogant smirk.

"Her fiancé."

Zenin.

Right. Of course.

The surname that was such a frequent guest at all the gatherings Gojo used to attend. He felt an immediate wave of repulsion towards that prick, but managed to mask it with a slightly narrowed gaze, simply out of respect for you.

Gojo heard a lot about the Zenins back then, when his piece carried some value in his parents' game. Even now, some rumours still managed to reach him, despite all the efforts.

If any of them were true about the young Zenin heir…

Fiancé.

Gods. He put all the details — your empty stares, self-deprecating jokes, occasional flinches, even the earlier reaction to his compliment to your drawing — with terrifying clarity.

Puzzles finally slotted into the frame that your fiancé forced you into. Everything made sense now.

Quickly closing his eyes to compose himself, Gojo immediately opened them, forced by the hesitance in your tone.

"You should've met at the board's meeting, I suppose," your gaze flickered nervously between Gojo and Naoya in an attempt to quickly assess the surroundings. The air was growing thicker with each passing second: the whispers around rose in frequency, while Gojo's gaze narrowed even more deadly, and Naoya's smirk turned maliciously sharper.

The muscle in Gojo's jaw tightened.

"It's always a great opportunity to meet another member of the respected clan," Naoya tilted his head just a tad, but the harsh look in his eyes didn't melt even for a second. "Even though he somehow busied my little dove so much, she forgot to check her phone, huh?"

The scene he would certainly cause you later flashed before your eyes. You managed to offer some apologetic murmur before Naoya cut you off with a single word.

"Quiet."

Wordlessly, you dropped your gaze. One word shaped you into a person so meek that you barely resembled the woman Gojo slowly came to know.

His blood boiled at the sight, but the look he gave Naoya was enough to freeze hell.

"Can't say the same, Zenin."

Naoya stilled. His smirk slowly wavered, but then a low, amused chuckle left him, followed by the words dipped in poison.

"Oh? I suppose other respected clans didn't care about teaching their heirs proper manners, did they, Satoru-kun?"

The crowd around went completely silent, as if someone stole their voices. Even the sounds of pagers and rhythmic taps on the keyboard quietened. A few glares landed on you, and you could already hear your colleagues clicking their tongues in annoyance.

Again, never directed at Naoya.

Nothing changed in Gojo's face as he simply raised his chin and drawled with an infuriating smirk, "Have you learnt any before talking to your future wife, huh?"

Your head snapped immediately at the sound of his voice. Your lips parted to force some excuse.

You had none.

As well as Naoya.

His cheeks paled in an instant, but the tips of his ears blushed pink. No wonder — another humiliation from a man, let alone a man, defending you.

That act of disgrace Naoya couldn't bear.

Seething inside, he surprisingly gently tugged you closer and whispered, "We'll talk about it later, sweetheart."

As Gojo watched your figures retreat, he caught the wide-eyed gaze you sent him over your shoulder, full of so much remorse, that it twisted something violently in his chest.

@alygator77 @man1cslut @p3talswayingindesun @xunquish-blog @mitchskiii @anothergojostan @cridtiins @gyarujo @aurievalley @alebrasil0101 @nanahach1 @renfangirls247 @secretsofchance @kranktruther @megumuro @angierb05 @wgucigu @erenyeagerflatass @dazaisdogsblog @sauraaaa @tbzzluvr @ayookeikooo @kanekisheart @fisusaurus @yoonmindds @anujah9 @ikeirrr @little-precious-baby

a/n: ik this part is not very big on events, still i like it :) comments and reblogs are appreciated, let me know your thoughts!

The concern in Nakai-san's eyes only deepened, and the prospect of digging into your gigantic lunchbox and drinking the hot latte from the coffee machine in the doctors' lounge (it had the best coffee in the entire hospital, and you were gonna die on that hill!) vanished like a mist in the morning April day.

You bit back a groan, but the squirming baby in her mother's arms came to the rescue.

"Mommy, wanna go ho-o-me."

"Shh, dear, Mommy is speaking, wait a little and — "

Oh no. The little girl didn't get a hint. She blinked a couple of times before her squishy face crumpled with a truly disheartening expression. Your insides went cold: you were well aware of what was going to happen next.

3, 2, 1…

A cry that you would describe as nothing but a disastrous wail filled your office, bouncing off the walls and hitting your ears until you wanted to smack your head against the desk. You always wondered how a person that tiny could cry so loudly that it rivalled the jet engines of a plane?

Before going completely deaf at that point, you hastily reached for a bright red lollipop in the bowl, reserved for little patients.

"Hey-hey, Mao-chan, no more crying, okay?" The girl's weeping slowly morphed into soft sobs as she quieted down, eyeing the lollipop. Her little arms slowly reached for the candy, and you handed it to her with no hesitation in the long-awaited silence, smiling warmly.

"Yes, Nakai-san, I am waiting for you for the shots. And yes, I already filled out the forms, no need to worry about anything." You assured the worried lady as best as you could before she would come up with another question you certainly had answered by now — you swore, gears in her mind were working non-stop. Not like you didn't understand her. She was just a mother, after all.

"Have a nice day and get well soon, Mao-chan!" Chirping gleefully, you finally released a breath. Eyes squeezed shut, and forehead pressed against the door, you tried to gather your bearings. The headache unabashedly pounded at your temples with a renewed force, causing you to grimace in pain. The desk rattled as you harshly tugged the top drawer, only to see the empty blister pack.

Oh, fuck. Of course, you ran out of naratriptan, and the only anti-migraine pills available were some ibuprofen in the depths of your bag.

Cursing yourself mentally for forgetfulness, you managed to quickly fish the pills, hoping they might bring some relief, since you certainly weren't in the mood to ask or look for another medicine, downing them in one gulp. The world slowly regained clarity, giving you a chance to breathe freely.

The clock on the wall showed 2:40 p.m.: if you hurried, you could still manage to grab lunch, and given the next break wasn't quite soon…You really should get moving.

Of course, that was never bound to happen.

An urgent, loud knock pulled you back to reality.

Goodbye, lunch.

"Come in!" you called out, already pulling the mask back and hurried to open the door. One of your younger residents, Nobara, apologetically glanced at you. She seemed slightly out of breath, and you knitted your brows together in concern.

"Nobara?"

"Sorry, Doc, but we have an emergency here." A flipboard in her hands grabbed your attention, and you took it, already scanning the text. A sharp pain in your right temple, as if you were stabbed, almost made a cry slip out of your mouth, but you only squeezed your eyes shut. There was no time for that.

"Fushiguro Megumi, five-year-old, dry cough, congested nose, high fever. Difficulty breathing. Possible RSV, suspicion of pneumonia. Was hospitalised at 6 months with RSV as well."

"Where's a patient?"

"Oh, yes," Nobara hastily stepped aside and craned her neck to look for someone in the crowd.

"Here she is! Don't worry, your kid is in very good hands."

Your head snapped up at the sound of steps approaching, ready to meet another worried mom, only for all words to leave your mind as if they had never even been there in the first place.

Nothing. Blank space.

You were staring at a man. No. The man. Probably the most gorgeous man you were blessed to witness.

His height was the first thing that caught your eye. He was tall, like really tall — effortlessly standing out in the sea of patients. The white of his hair captured the fluorescent light in the corridor, more resembling the bright snow under the sparkling moonlight than the actual hair colour, but it was his eyes that immediately stole your breath and any coherent thought away.

You weren't even sure there was a proper word to describe the shade of them; the dark waves of a stormy ocean and the brightness of a clear sky collided together, brewing into a violent storm that threatened to send your heart into a gallop. Something between the endless blue fractals whispered into the depths of your soul.

God, look away. Look away, look away, look away!

A nagging voice wormed its way into the creaks of your tired mind, suspiciously sounding like your beloved fiancé. "You shouldn't gawk at other men like this, dove. What if it angered me? You don't want to see me all worked up, do you?"

Your gaze cast downwards and landed on the kid in the man's arms — ah, that should be Fushiguro Megumi. The boy's cheeks were of a particularly pale, sickly colour, and the dullness in his eyes gave away illness.

A wave of guilt washed over you; what a great job, Doc, not only staring at another man, while being chained with future matrimony, but also prolonging the little boy's sufferings.

"Of course, come in!"

You forcefully tore your gaze away and cleared your throat, letting the man with the kid step into your office. Nobara slipped inside as well, and you let her start the examination. The words died at the tip of your tongue — you didn't trust yourself to speak up. Instead, you focused on meticulously typing the symptoms in Fushiguro Megumi's electronic record, your eyes already darting between the previous illnesses and the medical history of the kid. Nobara's pager eventually beeped, and you wordlessly let her go.

Stiffling a sigh, you put the stethoscope away from the slightly trembling child. "I am sorry to say it, but the hospitalisation of Megumi-kun is required at that point."

"Is everything this serious?" The man's voice cut throught the tension in the office like waves piercing the cliffs.

You sat at the desk — a measly attempt to put a barrier between your ardent interest and common sense — and clasped your hands together.

"Megumi-kun has a respiratory syncytial virus. While it causes mild symptoms in most people, it can be rather severe for children. I suspect this RSV to be type A, but further monitoring is needed. We can't afford the risk of pneumonia, especially given your son's medical history," a few clicks on the screen to confirm your words, "bronchiolitis from the mistreated RSV as well, at six months. I am afraid it is needed, Fushiguro-san."

The man dragged his hand down his face and lightly pinched the bridge of his nose before softly squeezing the boy's shoulders.

"I see. Well, we can't go against the doctor's orders, can we, Gumi?"

A small sparkle of hope that gleamed in the child's eyes dulled in an instant at the prospect of staying in the hospital. He subconsciously shifted closer to his father, a small arm reaching for support. That sight never failed to tug on the strings of your heart, and you hastily looked around to see what could bring Megumi-kun a glimpse of comfort. Your gaze eventually landed on the small plushie of a dog, safely tucked in a box at the corner, and after a moment of inner debate, you handed the toy to the kid.

"I know staying in the hospital is not like walking on a rainbow. Smell is not good, and food might be, well, you know, too hospital," you chuckled softly, but schooled your expression immediately as the boy's face remained unreadable. The man's lips, however, curled into a quick grin, urging you to continue. "But I promise it won't be so long, so just your nose won't be as runny and your throat won't be so sore. Deal?"

The boy blinked a couple of times at your kneeling form and hesitantly reached for the plushie. The dog nestled in his arms as it had always belonged there.

"Alrighty," you pushed yourself to stand up and put on a usual grin in an attempt to sound enthusiastic at the sight of the most handsome man that office (or your hospital) had seen. "I need you to sign some forms before, Fushiguro-san, and then we can proceed with Megumi-kun's admission."

"Yes, Doc. But it's Gojo, actually. Gojo Satoru."

"Huh?" Your gaze flicked between the flipboard and the boy's electronic medical record. Brows knitted in confusion, you shook your head after a few clicks. "My apologies, Gojo-san. The system might be outdated, since it shows "Fushiguro" as a surname. I'll have it fixed as soon as possible."

The man, Gojo, huffed an airy chuckle that sent goosebumps down your spine and waved his hand. "No need for that. Megumi's my nephew."

"Oh. Uhm. I see. Thank you for clearing it, Gojo-san."

You waited until Gojo signed the papers in bold, sprawling handwriting — you sincerely tried not to stare at the way his hand flexed with each gesture — and he finally stood up, offering to pick up Megumi again. You neatly folded the papers, despite the erratic pulse, and couldn't help but smile at the sight of a grumpy boy insisting on walking on his own. He grabbed the man's hand with reluctance and mumbled quietly, hiding his gaze.

"Bye, Doc."

An amused grin tugged at the corner of your lips, though the mask covered it, so you sent Megumi a quick wink.

"See you soon, Megumi-kun!"

Gojo, who watched that scene with barely concealed mirth, mouthed to you with a bright smile before finally leaving your office.

"Someone's got shy of the Doctor."

Your cheeks flared up in a pinkish tinge, and you covered your mouth with the folder.

The door closed, leaving you on your own with the swarm of thoughts. The corners of your lips twitched before curling downwards, and you dragged a hand down your face, taking off your mask in exhaustion. Drifting down, your thumb grazed the emerald of your engagement ring, which you wore on a chain while at work.

You took a deep breath to gather your bearings.

You still had patients to attend.

˙⋆✮

The hum of the coffee machine filled the doctor's lounge with beeping and the pleasant aroma; obviously, you were focused on the latter. Unpatiently tapping on the floor, you waited in the queue and threw glances at your lunch, which, as you suspected, had gone cold lo-o-ng ago. The fact that you only had 10 minutes left before the meeting didn't help at all.

"What's taking them so long, huh?" Standing on tiptoes, you craned your neck to peer through the commotion, only to notice with a quiet groan that the whole chaos was caused by the pediatric department nurse, Akari, chirping with her colleague Miwa; normally, you would listen to them talking — there was no better way to learn all the gossip that the hospital buzzed with like a beehive — but judging by another loud grumbling from your stomache, your organism wasn't the biggest fan of that idea.

As soon as you were about to yell "FIRE HAZARD!" (desperate times called for desperate measures), something caught Miwa's gaze, and she tugged Akari to the side, with a smile too wide, cheeks too flushed and a gaze too sparkly; you didn't even pay attention to the subtle glances they kept throwing at you, too busy with securing a place at the coffee machine.

Nothing, nothing, brought you more happiness and joy like the freshly made latte: your mouth watered at the thought of finally drinking the coffee and digging into the lunch after the 12-hour shift, when the quiet voice pulled you back to reality.

"Nice to see you, dove."

You turned so abruptly that the coffee from the cup almost spilt on your fiancé's jacket. The man quickly dropped his gaze before curling his lips in slight disgust.

"If you are going to drink coffee, then at least not from that disastrous machine."

Naoya took your cup and mindlessly put it somewhere on the table before you could even voice a protest. His hand rested on the small of your back — touch burning even through the coat — and pulled you closer. You briefly closed your eyes as his lips grazed your cheek, and the warm breath ghosted against it; you caught a faint smell of alcohol and forced a smile that looked more like a grimace to a knowing eye.

"Ah, darling, what are you doing here? I thought you were going to be busy all night today with your partners?" Your voice, that excessively saccharine tone, sounded like a chalkboard being scraped, but your fiancé's smile turned even sharper. You knew Naoya's nature.

"We finished earlier," he murmured with an indifferent shrug. His hand lazily played with one of the locks that managed to escape the ponytail, twirling the strand between the fingers before sharply tugging on it. "Dove, you need to look more presentable. What did I say about it?"

The protest died at the tip of your tongue, and you fought the snarky remark that almost spilt out of your lips, as Naoya examined you with his head tilted — a hunter watching his prey. Your cheeks already hurt from smiling.

"I remember, Naoya. Sorry about it."

His fingers came to pinch your chin, turning your face, so he could glance better at you. The surprising gentleness with which he tucked the lone strand behind your ear caught you off guard, but the cold, detached voice quickly brought you back to Earth.

"Fix it before dinner. I'll pick you up after your meeting. To celebrate the deal, just the two of us."

And just like that. Not asking. Just stating the obvious, as if you were one of the entries on his schedule to be ticked off.

You chewed on the inside of your cheek. God, all you wanted after that long ass shift was to run a bath and curl up under the blanket, rewatching "Friends" for the nth time, since your fiancé kindly informed you he was going to be busy. Honestly, you could've already tasted the greasy Big Mac on your tongue when all your plans went down the drain. The way Naoya's gaze narrowed as he waited for your response didn't give you much of a hope, so you just nodded, a smile too tight.

"Missing the celebration is mauvais ton, darling," a nasty nagging voice at the back of your mind, suspiciously sounding like your mother's, never failed to lose power over you: you straightened involuntarily and pushed your shoulders back, trying to ignore the very obvious strain in your neck.

"Of course, honey."

The corner of Naoya's mouth curled up with satisfaction as he leaned down to press a kiss on your cheek. Swallowing, you suppressed the urge to wipe it immediately.

"See you at 6."

When his figure finally disappeared from your sight, a tight knot in your chest finally seemed to loosen. You reached for the coffee that had long turned lukewarm, and downed it in one single gulp before hearing a string of stifled giggles and sighs. Hardly had you realised what was going on, when Akari appeared right by your side, a dreamy look on her face, and drawled, pointedly glancing at Miwa.

"Ah, Zenin-sama is so gallant and handsome! Checking up on you at work! Isn't it romantic, Miwa?"

Confusion flickered across your face as you slowly remembered that everyone in that hospital was practically enamoured with your future husband. "Zenin-sama asked me how my day was!" or "Zenin-sama complimented my make-up, do you think I should wear my eyeliner thicker?" and streams of fluttery you had to endure, which seemed to be truly endless due to his constant presence at the hospital. His family was a part of the board of shareholders. Or whatever it was.

His family. Soon to be your family too, right?

You never had it against the nurses or anyone at that point: Naoya, unfortunately, knew how to be charming and honed that skill long ago.

Blinking away confusion from your gaze, you attempted to laugh heartily and waved your hand. "That he is. I really don't deserve him."

Miwa only nudged your side slightly. "You're so lucky, Doc."

Your smile now resembled more of a scowl. "Thank you, Miwa."

As soon as Akari opened her mouth to sweet-talk Naoya even more, the God descended his mercy on you in the disguise of a beeping pager. You had never fished it out of your pockets as quickly as now.

"Whoopsie, gotta go, ladies!"

Nakai-san was clearly onto something while telling you about the flu in the Miyagi Prefecture, because a possible upcoming wave in Tokyo was one of the topics discussed at the meeting. Luckily, little Mao-chan only had a cold.

Meetings weren't your favourite part of the workday, that was for sure, but not the worst either. At least, you could pretend to fall asleep behind the broad back of Nanami, who, albeit all the grumbling, always shifted his chair to hide you. In turn, you shared a sourdough bread with him whenever you had a chance to bake it. You were lucky to have at least someone who didn't talk about Naoya all the time and was polite enough to hear your occasional rumblings, despite Naoya's words about you not being interesting. They glimmered in your mind like a warning sign all the time.

You lazily doodled in your notepad, stifling a yawn as the head of the department, Yaga, launched into his endless rambling about attracting new sponsors. You mentally checked out for your own sake.

Your pencil quickly darted over the page, aimlessly drawing something, until you noticed the casual sketches started to resemble one profile. Sharp jawline. Tufts of hair falling over the forehead. If only you could colour it white, somehow…

Wait.

What? No, who were you drawing?

You straightened in your seat so fast the poor notebook nearly fell from your lap, causing Nanami to turn around with a questioning look. You sent him a quick smile and quickly dropped your gaze back to the page.

Well, you weren't a modern-day da Vinci, but the resemblance was kind of uncanny. Certainly not that Bridgerton actor, whose face was everywhere in your timeline, and surely not your fiancé.

Tapping your pencil without any thought, you couldn't help but think about that man. Was it his height that immediately caught your attention? Lazy, confident grin tugging at his lips? Concern, hardening his gaze, when it came to his nephew? That goddamn blue gaze?

You didn't know, but everything about Gojo commanded your attention.

You didn't know why you were thinking about one of your patients' relatives when you were supposed to meet Naoya in a couple of hours.

The thought left a bitter aftertaste in your mouth.

You closed the notebook with a quiet thud.

˙⋆✮

The sharp gust of wind tossed your hair in your face, causing you to curse under your breath. Glad, just what you wanted under fixing it for 10 minutes. Magnificent. Cold slowly crept up your figure, and you pulled your coat tighter, desperately wishing for a steaming cup of tea under the blanket. But, alas…

Tapping at your pockets for the phone to call your fiancé, you breathed out in frustration, "Where's the damn phone, I swear, I —"

You froze at your place as your hand reached for a small rectangular piece in the inner pocket. Certainly not the phone.

"I thought I threw all of them, huh…"

You knitted your brows in confusion, but nothing could hide a frantic little flip your heart did as your fingers lovingly traced the familiar "Lucky Strike."

Cherry-flavoured. Your favourite. Damn it!

A red logo brought back the unwanted memories with Naoya battling your so-called addiction. Or maybe not so-called. Residency had you working your fingers to the bone. Honestly, you didn't even remember much from that time, besides the never-ending exhaustion in your bones, four hours of sleep in two days (if the luck was on your side), as well as tons of caffeine. Not to mention Naoya's nagging. God forbid a girl had something to blow off steam.

Could've been something worse.

You thumped your feet to get a little warmer, finally calling Naoya after finding your phone in the depths of the bag. The third call, rolled directly to voicemail, had you angrily kicking a random stone, and the sight of your almost numb fingers almost made you rush back to the hospital. You nervously flicked the cigarette pack until your patience finally snapped.

After carefully looking around for a possible sight of Naoya's sleek Porsche and making sure no one was in sight, you snuck a glance at the smoking corner and slipped inside. Opening the pack, you almost huffed a disbelieving chuckle. One thing left. Nothing was harmful in indulging in your little rebellion act, wasn't it?

In the end, you had certainly smelled a faint scent of whiskey coming from Naoya earlier. You hated drunk people and made it abundantly clear to him.

"Well, isn't it a sign from heaven?" you mumbled under your breath, tucking the lone cig, which might've felt like an oasis for a traveller in the desert, between your lips. Mouth almost watering at the taste, you frantically searched for a lighter, only to groan in frustration. Of course. Of-fucking-course.

Your arms helplessly fell back to your sides as you tilted your head back to look at the darkening sky and sighed.

"God, why me? I am not your strongest soldier."

"Need a hand?"

The deep, smooth voice returned you to reality. You quickly turned around, pulling the cigarette out to hide it. Well, just in case.

Your heart stilled at the familiar sight of Gojo before picking up speed. What was he doing there? Did you daydream enough to imagine him or what?

His blue gaze lazily darted over your figure and landed on the poor cig tucked in your hand as he nodded towards it with an infuriating grin.

"Aren't you supposed to be the beacons of health or whatever?"

You gave him a quick, tired shrug and sighed inwardly. You were shivering, exhausted after the shift, probably stood up by your future husband, so embarrassing yourself in front of one of your patients' parents (with that sharp jawline and that ridiculously tall figure) was just a cherry on top.

Closing your eyes for a brief moment to compose yourself, you murmured a quick apology, "Sorry. I am not usually like that. Smoking, I mean."

Not alone and miserable.

His grin softened into something that sent shivers down your spine.

Might've been the wind.

"Relax, I am joking," Gojo stepped closer and tilted his head to further examine you. You tugged the coat tighter. "What, you often get lectured about it by some goody two-shoes?"

Your huff was so loud it might've reached the hospital backyard you used to hide. "You can't even imagine."

"Wasn't gonna. Anyway," Gojo tapped at the pocket of his leather jacket and pulled an old metallic lighter with a British flag on it. The corners of your lips twitched with a smile.

"Union Jack? Really? God save the King, send him — eh, sorry, don't remember much."

Gojo just rolled his eyes and pretended to put the only thing that might give much-needed joy and warmth away. "And here I thought you wanted to smoke. My apologies, Doc."

You absent-mindedly reached to grab his sleeve, but Gojo only lifted his hand higher. Damn his height.

"Give me the damn lighter."

"Say the magic word, Doc," he seemingly enjoyed taunting you.

An annoyingly smug grin that broke on his face not only sent your heart into a freefall but also urged you to wipe it off. You pressed your lips into a thin line. You were above this. Certainly. Calm, collected, and cool —

You stomped your feet together at another tug of wind and murmured begrudgingly.

"Please, give me the damn lighter."

"Ah, here you go. Wasn't that hard, was it?"

Sending Gojo a grimace with the damn cig hanging between your lips, you leaned closer. He didn't move; your gaze briefly flicked to his, and you arched your brow impatiently.

Gojo blinked a couple of times, his long eyelashes kissing his cheeks. He parted his lips, probably to say something, but only a lone, sharp exhale left his mouth. A vapour of cold air briefly dissolved in the space between you. The weather didn't show any signs of mercy, whipping harshly at your hair, and you didn't see the way Gojo's dropped to your lips for one brief moment.

Grumbling under your breath, you finally managed to harness the wind, "I swear I am gonna cut it off one day."

Gojo's breathy chuckle tickled your ear as he lit the cigarette up, but you were too focused on getting your nicotine fix or whatever. And certainly not the way his raspy murmur sent your heart thumping against your ribcage.

You shouldn't feel that way towards him. You shouldn't feel that way towards anyone: you were engaged, for Christ's sake!

Your ring was still hidden beneath your blouse, on a chain. Your phone was still dead silent. Your fiancé's car was still not even in sight.

Trembling fingers curling around the cig, you took the first drag. Deep and long, until it filled your lungs with the long-forgotten euphoria, and you slowly exhaled the smoke into the air.

Gojo wrinkled his nose for a brief moment. "Cherry?"

Blinking through the haze, you slowly dragged your gaze to land on his face and nodded.

"My favourite."

Maybe it was a game of light, your fuzzy mind or the magical moment of sharing a cigarette with a stranger (at least, technically), but the night and the smoke, curling between you, gave him some kind of grunge air. That leather jacket, mercilessly ruffled white hair, and the Union Jack on the lighter didn't make the situation better.

A dopey, slow grin broke on your face as you chuckled under your breath. Gojo immediately turned to your side, brushing away a few strands of his forehead, revealing the pale skin.

"You were saying?"

Shaking your head in response, you bounced on your heels. Childish, as Naoya would say.

You rocked back harder, smiling from ear to ear.

The nicotine mixed with adrenaline and the taste of rebellion blended into something dangerously light-hearted, and you finally decided to ask Gojo what the hell he was doing there at almost eight o'clock in the evening.

He scratched the back of his neck sheepishly.

"We've forgotten something special for Megumi. Well, technically, I." Gojo's grimace made you chuckle and cough immediately after. Not a force of habit.

The way he heaved the last words, although in a tone undeniably light, made your brows furrow.

Flicking the ashes quietly, you decided not to press further. "I see." Then, you suddenly remembered about the so-called etiquette and offered Gojo to make a puff.

The man let out an amused snort and stepped back with his hands lifted in mock surrender as if you suggested robbing a bank. "Oh, no. Thank you, of course, but I don't smoke."

Your brows knitted in confusion. "Why do you have a lighter on you, then?"

"What, to flirt with girls like me this way, huh?" Your tired mind kindly offered you that incredible jab, but some part of you didn't want to hear Gojo admitting that, so you just took another long drag, probably the last one, given you could've almost seen the butt of the cig.

Ehh. You would remember those wonderful minutes forever.

"That's for my friend. She smokes like a chimney, so I am always prepared. Just in case."

"A friend, huh?" Despite your feigned nonchalance, something you didn't even want to name sheepishly peeked through the cracks, masked as an indifferent glance.

"Yep," popping a "p" in the word, Gojo studied you with his head tilted, casually taking in the way the poor cig hung between your lips, bright eyes, almost shimmering in the light of the lamp, pinkish hue on the apples of your cheeks, and your hair fanning over your face that you stubbornly kept moving out of the way.

Unconsciously, his lips curled into a smile softer than for the doctor, who would treat his nephew soon. Or an insanely pretty woman in the dark of the night with the dire need of a lighter.

You mirrored his move, stepping closer, until Gojo's gaze suddenly widened, and he nodded at the hospital behind you. You followed the direction of it, because, well, what else were you supposed to do?

"Actually, you might know her! She worked here. Ieiri, Shoko Ieri." When he didn't notice even an ounce of recognition in your eyes, he tried to describe the mysterious woman. "Short dark hair, big brown eyes, permanent eye bags."

"Oh, yeah," your dry sarcasm only earned Gojo's flat gaze. "Very distinctive feature for a doctor."

Shoulders dropping, he tried to call to your memory for the last time, drawling hesitantly, "A couple of years ago? A surgeon resident? Oh! She also had this lighter!"

His last words had finally stirred some remnants of memories within your tired mind, because yes, you indeed shared a few cigarettes with a girl who had cracked a lot of jokes about her British lighter. She was very easy to talk to: didn't ask unnecessary questions but often offered her shoulder to vent in a cramped space. But as a lot of things in adulthood were, she became a vague figure in your memories, having finished her residency. Some bitterness settled in your chest as you recalled the shared moments between the smoke in the hidden hospital yard.

"Yeah. I remember now. How's she now?" You gave Gojo a quick, thin smile around the edges. His eyes narrowed as he observed the way it didn't reach your eyes, and he just shrugged in response.

"She's good! Well, as good as an overworked surgeon can be."

You bit back a chuckle, but your grin turned undeniably warmer. "Say hello to Ieiri from me. If she remembers me, of course."

"Sure will do."

Silence settled between you, interrupted only by occasional honks from the cars nearby and busy people hurrying to the nearby bus or subway stations to get home. Cook dinner, watch an episode from their favourite show, feed a cat. An ordinary life. Yet, somehow, still unreachable for you.

At least, they were looking forward to it.

You squished the cigarette butt in the nearby ashtray with more force than necessary. Gojo didn't comment on it; instead, he stepped closer and murmured in a quieter tone.

"Are you waiting for someone? If not, I can drive you home. It's getting darker and colder, you know. Not the best place to spend your evening."

For some long, unnecessarily long moment, you wished there was actually no one you were waiting for. Because, among all other things, Gojo was right.

He might've interpreted your silence in another way, because his tone turned slightly apologetic, and he offered you a quick grin. "No advances. Don't worry."

You bit your lip not to have some stupid, almost daring "What if I wanted it to be?" slip, instead settling on a half-truth.

"Ah, no, that's completely okay! I am waiting for my friend! She's just recently got her license, so, you know," you chirped gleefully, maybe too gleefully, because Gojo slightly arched his eyebrow, "still navigating through the streets. Extra careful."

Your rambling still had Gojo staring suspiciously; however, he didn't have another choice but to believe you. Curtly nodding, he stepped outside the smoking booth and offered you a wave.

"Okay then. See you tomorrow, Doc."

"Yeah. Bye."

Seeing his tall figure retreating, long legs striding easily, hands in the pockets of his leather jacket, something gnawed at the back of your throat with an unexplainable urge to see him again.

Your chest expanded with a shaky exhale before you gave in to the urge.

"Hey, Gojo!"

He stilled for a moment and turned almost immediately.

"Yeah?"

Swallowing nervously, you remembered the way Gojo's smile looked tighter once he spoke about Megumi.

"Don't worry about Megumi-kun. I'll make sure he will be alright! We are not slacking off there," you nodded towards the hospital with a light grin.

Gojo blinked in response — he couldn't say that your words didn't catch him off guard, but a warm feeling that bloomed in his chest was undeniable.

"I know you're the best, Doc."

Now it was your turn to wave back. You followed Gojo's figure as he walked into the hospital and finally made your way out of the booth. Just in time: you unblocked your phone to call for Uber, when Naoya's name appeared on your screen, and the ringtone cut through the peaceful silence. Your grip on the phone tightened.

Taking a few deep breaths, you finally pressed the green button, bracing yourself for inevitable grumbling from Naoya — he hated it when you answered him after three beeps.

"Yes, darling?"

"I've called you two times already," Naoya's voice sounded pretty flat, but you knew him long enough to pick up the undercurrents of rising irritation. "Why aren't you answering?"

Immediately, you cast your gaze down, as if his mere tone were enough to loom like a shadow over you. Scrambling to find a suitable explanation, you just heaved out a small "sorry."

He only huffed something unintelligible in response before speaking matter-of-factly, his tone laced with cold indifference.

"Don't ever do that again."

"I won't. Promise."

"I know you won't. You are a nice little dove, after all." The indifference in Naoya's voice gave in to the slight irony. You kept silent, unsure whether it was the right time to quip in, so he just ended the call. "I am gonna be at your hospital in 5 minutes."

Exhaling slowly, as if the weight of the world had been lifted off your shoulders, you put the phone back in your coat and rummaged through the inner pockets to find some sweets — one of the things that came with being a paediatrician was the endless supply of sweets in all your clothes — so you could mask the scent of cigarettes.

You almost popped a peppery mint candy in before…throwing it in your bag. A sudden, stubborn thought that might cause you a massive problem later — but at that fleeting moment, you didn't want to care.

The headlights of the familiar Porsche cast sharp beams on the road exactly five minutes later — talk about punctuality, huh? — and you stepped closer, shoulders pushed back in a routine stance, plastering a smile that your future husband would hopefully buy as loving and charming.

Naoya stopped bothering to open a door for you long ago; instead, he slightly pushed it ajar. Slipping in, you wondered if Gojo held the door open for you, would you take on his offer?

The same suffocating smell of cardamom mixed with a heavy scent of leather washed over you immediately as Naoya leaned over to press a kiss on your cheek. You briefly scrunched your nose in dislike, thinking whether it was a universal thing for men to have a horrible taste for perfumes.

Was Gojo one of them as well?

You bit your lip. Why on Earth were you thinking about another man, sitting in your fiancé's car, who seemingly grew more annoyed with each second as you ignored him?

"Dove, do you hear me at all?"

"Huh?"

Naoya had long started the car, and the engine came to life with a gentle purr, ready to hit the road. Your lack of attention had him pressing his lips in a thin line.

"I don't like it when you're dismissive like that."

You kept your gaze on the road ahead, not sure whether you were allowed to answer. But as the nauseous scent of amber and moss hit your nostrils again, you had no choice but to begrudgingly turn to Naoya.

"What's got into you today, huh?" His brown eyes sharply pierced into you, scanning all over, until he caught a whiff of a cigarette. A bitter cherry that used to linger on your form as a perfume.

Naoya's gaze dangerously narrowed as his hand cupped your cheek. No love. No gentleness. Rather, a subtle possessiveness. Or not even subtle.

"Have you smoked again, sweetheart?" Though his voice dropped to a whisper, you didn't let yourself be fooled — Naoya was seething inside. Your silence grated on his nerves, and he sharply tugged you forward till his breath filled your lungs.

Your heart beat like a caged bird inside your ribs. The insecurities in the back of your head reared their heads to talk you out of disobeying Naoya, but the momentary sense of rebellion from a thing that he was so adamant on prohibiting — like you were a lap dog or anything — had you stubbornly raise your chin. Or maybe it was some sort of adrenaline kicking in.

"No. I was just standing in the smoking corner, talking to a colleague."

Naoya tilted his head slowly, studying your face as if even the most minuscule expressions could give you away. Your blood roared in your ears so loud that it muted the voices of the insecurities. Breath bated, you forced yourself to keep your gaze steady until he finally offered you a curt nod and leaned back in his seat with a dismissive huff.

Discreetly massaging your chin from his grip, you immediately cast your gaze down to hide the relief flooding it.

"I hope you're telling the truth, dove. Otherwise, I would be greatly upset."

"Of course, darling. Why wouldn't I?" The lie tasted heavy on your lips, curled up in a forced smile — the one you had long mastered. Still slightly shaking, you clasped your hands on your lap.

"I hope it wasn't one of those nurses. Miwa, or whatever her name is," his lips quickly curved in a sharp scowl. You were well aware that beneath a handsome facade, Naoya hid acid bitterness.

"I knew something was wrong with her, and of course, it had to be something like it." The car finally rolled on the road, and you rested your head on the window, watching lazily the streets passing in a blur. "Doesn't she know men don't like kissing ashtrays? Nothing new, huh. Women's logic. "

That raised the flood of irritation in you, and you chewed on the inside of your cheek so as not to burst with anger. Though you briefly considered telling that no, it was a man, you internally winced at an inevitable round of investigation and the bursts of jealousy, and decided to leave it as it was.

You threw him a glance, trying to keep the annoyance at bay. "I am a woman too, Naoya."

"Oh, of that I am well-aware". Your eyes briefly met in the rearview mirror, the boredom and barely concealed disdain lurking behind his gaze, before your future husband attempted to joke. "You never fail to remind me of that."

Whatever that was supposed to mean. You decided not to dignify it with a response.

"But it would be better if you didn't talk much to her. You never know what ideas might be in a pretty head like hers. God forbid, if she's one of these feminists," he spat the last word as if it alone had personally offended him — and, probably, it had, at some point. You sincerely hoped he wouldn't delve into the same old "What rights do these women want, huh? Aren't we already living in a matriarchy? I am saying that men are oppressed now", but he settled on telling you about his day, so you were spared that evening.

You hummed in the right places as Naoya proceeded to talk your ear off. Eventually, seeing that his mood had gradually improved, you forced a weak smile.

"Darling, I have been waiting for you longer than you asked. Not like I mind!" You hastily added, seeing a deep frown crossing his face. He slowly turned to you, and the sharpness of his gaze cut you like a blade. "But the last time it happened, you said you would let me know and —"

"Where is your ring?"

You blinked, distracted. "Huh?"

Naoya closed his eyes for a moment — probably counting to ten, not to unleash at you for your stupidity — and as he opened them, the anger brewing stripped you of any words and any confidence. That goddamn cigarette now felt stupid and so childish.

How could you ever think you had some power yourself?

"Your ring. Where is it?" He clicked his tongue in irritation as you sluggishly unbuttoned your coat and reached for the chain under the blouse just to show it.

"You know I put it there, so I wouldn't lose it. You know how forgetful I am," you offered a deprecating joke, hoping for Naoya's relentment. He kept silent for so long that your pulse roared in your head.

Finally, he decided to spare you. The next gritted words felt more like indulgence.

"Put it back."

"But I —"

"Now."

Like a cold stream, that drowned any ounce of protest you had. The clasp kept stubbornly evading your clumsy fingers, but in the end, you managed to do what he said.

"That's better," Naoya gave you a short nod. You weren't sure you were allowed to talk, so you just stared at him with a blank look, despite the growing heat in your veins.

"But we have to do something with your forgetfulness. I strictly told you that I would pick you up at 8 p.m. Maybe it's your work. Aw, my poor dove," he sighed in exaggeration and tilted his head in mock sympathy, "It's just before the wedding. Working at the hospital is not suitable for Madame Zenin."

Your work — Naoya's stumbling block — had been a silent guest at all your dinners, whose presence loomed over you like an unsettling shadow; a bitter aftertaste after family meetings, where pretentiously dressed vultures chirped their concerns; a thought, persistent as an annoying fly, that kept creeping between the cracks of your relationship. And a quiet witness to all the times you bled after Naoya's heartless words took you apart with the precision of a devious surgeon — he had truly sharpened the blade of his conceit and vanity to cut into the vulnerability of yours.

Perhaps moulding you into an obedient wife, a docile spouse, and a future devoted mother, someone who wordlessly walked three steps behind him and kept her head bowed — perfect you, erase any flaw that made you you — was Naoya's twisted way of showing his love to you.

If there was any of it left.

Your eyelashes fluttered as you closed your eyes, too exhausted; Naoya's voice carried on as if nothing had happened. As if your presence were a suitable background to the triumph of his day.

"I booked a table in my favourite restaurant. Ah, can't wait to have their lobsters. Oh, maybe we could try otoru tuna today? Or hirame? What do you think, honey? It is a special occasion, after all. Not every day I close deals like these."

You didn't even bother to remind Naoya — not like he actually listened to you — that you didn't even like fish. That all you wanted after that long day was to get somewhere, just not home.

"Sure, honey."

˙⋆✮

Your pager seemed relentless the next day, beeping every five minutes, if not more often. Hardly had you made your way to check on the patients in the day hospital when a sudden message almost startled you.

"Callback NOW re: head CT for Inumaki, Toge, x3452."

Your heart almost jumped out of your chest, and you hastily handed the clipboard with the patient's data to Nobara, who followed your retreating figure with eyes slightly widened.

"What's that, Doc?"

"Brain haemorrhage or even aneurysm, going to the PICU," briefly giving Nobara a glance over your shoulder, you tapped on the elevator button, mind already racing with all possible outcomes. The scan was clean just yesterday!

You barely managed to squeeze into the elevator, which reminded you of a can packed with sardines, albeit the sardines were doctors and nurses — no wonder, it was always that way in the early mornings, and you sincerely hoped no one would attempt to small-talk with you.

The universe seemed to have something against you, since on the next floor, the elevator beeped as its doors opened, revealing the head of the surgery department, Gakuganji-san, as old as time itself. Rumour had it that he witnessed the building of that hospital himself. Some days, you tended to believe that was true.

You wormed your way back into the crowd and closed your eyes in an attempt to merge with the wall: for some reason, Gakuganji seemed fond of you. Maybe you resembled his granddaughter, who knew. Usually, you indulged in the old man's antics, but today wasn't that day. That damn page kept wailing at the back of your mind. Worry crept under your skin like a pervasive itch; mindlessly, your hand flew to scratch your arm. An old habit.

"Ah, my lovely girl." The crowd quickly parted before Gakuganji, and the squeaky voice beside you eventually pulled you back to reality. Despite your growing anxiety, you managed to offer a polite smile.

"Gakuganji-san! It's nice to see you all healthy and striving. You're gonna outlive all of us at that point!"

The old man slowly shook his head as some screechy sounds that you suspected to be laughter left his mouth.

"You're all sleeping and seeing it, huh? Not today, though. Someone has to put these young rascals of residents in their place! The sheer audacity." Ah, good ol' "it used to be better" talk. Couldn't say you missed it.

Giving Gakuganji-san curt nods, you hummed between the pauses of his rambling. Your pager went off again, and finally, after what felt like an eternity, the elevator beeped at your floor.

"It was nice to see you, Gakuganji-san!" you managed to mutter through the noise of the crowd, only to see that the old man had already found a new victim. Huffing under your breath, you successfully made your way out.

Expectedly, the pediatric intensive care unit buzzed with noise. The sterile scent of an antiseptic clung to your skin like a perfume, the concern of worried parents lingered in the air, and the doctors' barking orders filled the corridor as you beelined to the reception desk. Slightly out of breath, you pulled the mask off your face; your voice came in an urgent command.

"Yorozu, I've got your page. What's wrong with Inumaki's scan?"

Yorozu slowly dragged her tired gaze from the papers she was filling in and loudly popped a bubblegum to lazily drawl.

"What page?"

You clicked your tongue in irritation and fished your pager to show it in her face. "That one."

Her eyes scanned the screen, dare you say, at the snail's pace, before her shoulders dropped in a lazy shrug.

"Ah, this. We have a duplicate order for this head CT. You have to discontinue a new order, so we won't mix them. You know the rules."

Briefly closing your eyes, you attempted to recall the breathing exercises to calm down. Breathe in, breathe out, breathe in —

Ah, fuck it.

"Yorozu." The anger in your voice caught the nurse's attention as you gritted your teeth and tapped your finger on her files in accusation. She blinked at you, mastering the most innocent expression possible. "You should fucking learn the proper pager etiquette. I am not gonna run like an idiot every time you pull a shit like that. Am I clear?"

Yorozu's eyes widened at your irritation, and she quickly nodded, not as sluggish as before. You probably were in for another lecture from Yaga about formal communication in the hospital setting, because Yorozu clearly had some grudge against you.

"And stop chewing the gum, for God's sake. This is a hospital and not a club." You turned on your heels and couldn't help but throw that off-handed comment. Rude? Maybe.

She threw you the last offended gaze before smacking the gum in the trash bin and mumbled under her breath, "What a bitch."

Fuck her twice.

"I think I might have a brain bleed now," a murmur left you as you hurried back to the elevator, mentally running throught the list of things to do: discontinue the duplicate order for the scan, check the saturation of a kid that was admitted just in the morning, and confirm the amoxicillin dose —

SLAM!

The impact of your bump into one's chest — a sturdy one, you might say — forced you to step back.

"Oh, I am sorry, I didn't see you— Gojo?"

"Hello to you too, Doc." His hands immediately flew to stabilise you; the warmth from them seemed to seep even through your uniform. Your heart skipped a beat as you lifted your head to see Gojo peering down at you, his shades perched on the bridge of his nose. "You okay?"

Blinking to gather your bearings, you eventually stepped away with a quick smile. He towered over you with an effortless grace and seemed to occupy all the space around you with his impossible height. The simple black slacks made his legs even longer, and the white dress shirt did nothing to hide the broadness of his shoulders. Your eyes involuntarily drifted to the smooth expanse of his skin with the roadmap of veins, as the shirt's sleeves were rolled up. They slowly climbed higher past the toned arm to the set of the collarbones, peeking out of the sinfully unbuttoned collar. Even a glimpse of them felt shamelessly sinful in the confines of the corridor.

Then your gazes finally met again — unobscured now, as Gojo's glasses rested on top of his fluffy white hair — and the apologetic mirth in them caught you even more off guard.

Clearing your throat, you rolled your shoulders to gain some confidence.

"Ah, yeah. I am good. Sorry for bumping into you. What are you doing here?"

"It's okay. You, doctors, are always busy." Gojo gave you a casual shrug, and a lazy grin tugged at the corner of his lips. You dropped your gaze, not to gawk, only to see Megumi holding Gojo's hand. The boy's fingers twitched in the begrudging hold, and his face was laced with boredom, but the moment your eyes met, a light pink dusted his cheeks.

"Hello, Doctor."

"Hello, Megumi-kun," you smiled at the boy and leaned a bit so as not to loom menacingly over the kid. You figured he wasn't the one who would like it. "How do you feel tonight?"

Megumi blinked and shot a quick, unreadable glance up at his uncle, whose grin grew even wider. Damn. The kid was a tough nut to crack. Gojo lightly nudged his nephew to answer.

"Aw, Megumi, don't be shy."

A light frown flickered on the boy's face as he shrugged. "Better now."

"I see. That's good then! Mind telling me what you are doing here?"

Megumi's communication window seemed to close up as he dropped his gaze to examine the floor, and Gojo sighed, his broad shoulders rising in a shrug.

"Don't mind it. He's still under the weather. We were going to his room, but then Megumi said he wanted those dinosaur-shaped crackers and — "

"I didn't say that!" Megumi immediately interfered, and Gojo frowned down at him.

"But you totally did! You ate two packs yesterday after the hospital. One that was Tsumiki's, by the way." At your questionable look, Gojo explained quickly, "That's his older sister. My niece."

Megumi gave him a flat look (that looked pretty impressive for a five-year-old) and briefly glanced up at you before mumbling, "Whatever."

The corners of your mouth twitched with a warm smile.

"Great!" A strange kind of nervousness engulfed you every time Gojo's bright, sharp gaze landed on you, and twisted your tone into a high-pitched cadence that grated on your nerves like a piece of chalk on the board. You wondered if Gojo had noticed as well, or if it was just your hypervigilance. "I'll walk you then!"

Gojo's eyes narrowed with unease for a moment as he examined you, before a polite calm rolled back into their blue. He gestured towards the elevator with exaggerated grandeur and a boyish grin on his face. "As you say, ma'am."

You huffed a chuckle. Megumi rolled his eyes, but obediently dragged his little feet to the elevator as well. Pressing a button, you noticed that Gojo kept sneaking glances at the boy, and sent you a knowing wink as your eyes met, before playfully drawling, "Unless someone really wants these crunchy yummy dinosaur-shaped crackers that are waiting for us in that precious vending machine —"

Megumi's face went from bored to hesitant in a matter of seconds, and he finally grumbled reluctantly, "Okay."

And then — as he briefly looked up at you — a quiet, "They are really good."

Your pager persistently chirped again, urging you to hurry up to your floor, but you really couldn't tear your gaze away from Gojo, who teasefully bantered with his nephew near the damn vending machine. Something about his relaxed posture, that confident stride, the lazy grin, and, most importantly, the concern in his gaze, that dangerously started melting into thinly veiled tenderness, called — no, demanded your attention.

When he finally stood beside you — effortlessly filling all the cramped space in the elevator — you remembered the deep laugh that cut through your loneliness yesterday. The flick of the lighter that lit your darkness up. The eyes, as blue as the crystal clear sea, that welcomed you in its waves.

And then the acidness of your future husband's remarks, adding another drop of venom in your poisoned mind. The scent of his perfume that churned your insides into something bitter, something stinging. The weight of his palm on the small of your back that lingered like a print you couldn't get rid of. Probably never would.

Luckily, the previous pages could be answered straight away, and you quickly typed the answers to the radiology department and the day hospital, until Gojo's smooth voice distracted you.

"Did you get home safe yesterday?"

Your thumbs hovered over the last message — discharging orders for the little patient — as you blinked in surprise and glanced up at Gojo.

"Huh?"

"It was pretty dark yesterday," he stole a T-Rex-shaped cracker from Megumi's pack, earning the boy's scowl, and popped it in his mouth without any care. "Did your friend pick you up?"

Parting your lips, you felt completely dumbfounded. What friend was Gojo talking about? You had been waiting for Naoya that entire evening, and —

Oh. Oh.

Offering a forced grin — too strained around the edges — you quickly nodded, "Ah. Yeah. Of course. She…she was busy, and — you know," a nervous shrug, "I was late but safe. Thanks for asking!"

The weight of your lies settled at your chest as heavy as your engagement ring under the uniform. Your hand mindlessly climbed upward and gingerly brushed against your neck and the golden chain. The ring, the chain — was there any difference to keep you in place?

Gojo didn't dare disrupt the atmosphere in the elevator, but your absent-minded fidgeting caught his eye, as well as the sudden hollowness in your gaze. Where did that girl with a sharp tongue and a bright gaze disappear? His brows furrowed for a moment: was it because you were at work now? Was it him mentioning yesterday that shook you up so much? Your friend?

His hand, which leisurely rested on Megumi's shoulders, tightened imperceptibly. Despite the growing worry, he attempted to soothe the atmosphere.

"You changed your blouse? Pink really suits you."

If you were shocked by his attention earlier, now you were truly stunned. The heat flared up your cheeks, but your brain already scrambled for a usual downplayed explanation.

"Uh, it's nothing! Laundry day."

"Still," his grin was as persistent as the weight in his voice. "You look nice."

Astounded, you stared up at him until the beep of the elevator finally announced the end of the ride, jerking you both out of that strange conversation. Megumi kept chewing.

At your department, things went pretty smoothly, despite Miwa's staring at Gojo with hearts in her eyes.

You couldn't blame her, honestly; you were pretty sure that he would appear as a new potential heartthrob in the hospital's gossipy chronicles. Lucky you. From your future husband to the man who sent your pulse racing.

You couldn't help but wonder about the last conversation with Gojo, his words and a casual compliment.

"He was just being polite," you kept reminding yourself while filling papers for Megumi, though a desperate wish for them to be true, hidden in the deepest corner of your heart, betrayed your actual thoughts.

Your gaze lingered on the neatly typed "Gojo Satoru" in the line dedicated to a parent of a patient (a guardian, in that case) for more seconds than needed, but you couldn't help yourself.

The emerald of your ring caught the light as you took it out to remind you that you were engaged, for God's sake. The thought of other men shouldn't even cross your mind, let alone smiling at their jokes and basking in their compliments.

You were a bad person.

Maybe Naoya was right. Maybe his love was the only way to carve treacherous thoughts out of you.

˙⋆✮

You glanced at your reflection, and the woman with the loneliness carved into her like a mask stared back. The woman carefully brushed along the ornate emeralds in the golden frame — Naoya's apology for a missed anniversary, wrapped in earrings.

Then the reflection's hand swept over his reluctant excuse for another disgrace, that time veiled in the golden chain around your neck. And the last — the symbol of his undying love for you — stayed put on your ring finger. Another gold. Another emerald in the same cut. Another burden for you to carry. The colour of his hair. The colour of his clan. Branding, marking you as another item in a collection.

The woman in the mirror blinked at you, her eyes carefully examining your form. The exhaustion in her eyes changed into a barely concealed mirth as her gaze travelled down to your little act of rebellion — an anklet.

A silver anklet.

Who were you turning into? Firstly, a lone Lucky Strike cig. Then this. What next?

You didn't even spare a glance as the door quietly creaked, letting Naoya inside. The Persian carpet easily swallowed the sounds of his steps; you flinched a bit as he announced himself behind you with a heavy thud. Your hands travelled down the silk of the expensive dress, smoothing the fabric, and your eyes met Naoya's in the mirror with a slight dare, carefully masked as expectation.

"Are you really going to wear this, dove?"

The third strike.

"Yes," his eyes swept across the line of your shoulders as they raised in a slow shrug. You carefully turned a little, slowly dragging your gaze up to Naoya's face. "Is something wrong?"

Tilting his head slightly, he assessed you again.

"What, why?" The fake concern in his voice was too much even for Naoya. "Unless you want to catch the attention of everyone at the dinner."

"In what way?" Your voice inevitably cracked at the last syllable, no matter how hard you tried to stand your ground.

Naoya's hand brushed across the silk of your short sleeve and drifted downwards to rest on the curve of your hip.

The cruelty that hooked into the corner of his mouth had told you everything before his lips even parted. "Up to you." A light kiss on your nape followed his words.

You closed your eyes in defeat before opening them again and letting the assessing gaze travel over the reflection in the mirror, nitpicking every detail. Was it the dress? Was it the hairstyle? Was it the makeup? The jewellery? The arms that peeked out of the sleeves?

Or was it just…you?

Your confidence was thrown to the ground, buried beneath the silk of Naoya's pretend concern.

The woman in the mirror was tugging on the hem of the dress, her fingers trembling and her hold wavering. The insecurities in her eyes dimmed the sparkle of bravery.

Naoya slowly stepped back, lazily walked to the chair, and carelessly threw his legs over the piano — the loud sound of keys coming to life in a disorganised mess startled you — pouring a glass of whiskey to watch you in front of the mirror. As if he were dressing a doll.

"Should I change?" your voice came quietly. Hesitantly. The gold on your frame seemed strained by the ugliness you bore; the hideosity you hid muddied the emeralds.

"As you wish, dove."

Dove. The usual petname didn't mend any damage Naoya had already caused; instead, you felt as if the sharp blade of his words cut your wings.

You hastily shook the dress off your trembling frame. Naoya's satisfied gaze was your only reward.

The rest of the dinner went as miserably as dressing up.

Naoya escorted you to the Zenin Estate with the same courtesy that might've been saved for a chopping block.

Firstly, the excited sparkle of being welcomed in your boyfriend's house shimmered brightly within you. Then, it ignited into a radiant desire to earn at least something besides sharp glances and fake disdainful smiles. Lastly, the resentment doused the bitter flames.

The soot of boredom clogged your throat ever since.

Roaming the opulent floors of the hall with your fiancé's hand on your waistline like a stamp, you felt no more like a souvenir on his arm. A doll whose dress was carefully picked, hair curled and a smile plastered alongside an unblinking gaze. Only to be put back on the shelf.

Again. Again. And again.

You had long lost count of the fake, well-rehearsed "That's so great's" and "We're so happy for you's" that slipped out of your mouth between the expectant glances of guests. However, the moment your smile turned a tad tighter, and the tilt of your head resembled more of a mockery than an interest, Naoya's fingers dug harder in the small of your back. Your spine would straighten just after that.

The doll whose joints had been pulled on.

"Aren't you having a little bit too much fun out there, hm?"

Naoya's voice found you in one of the corners near the balcony, just where the bright light of the flashy chandelier didn't reach. A sudden thought that the amber gemstones were fake — you remembered Naoya's grumbling about a scammer — made you snort in a flute of champagne.

Naoya's eyes dangerously narrowed. He looked around to make sure the guests were too busy pretending to enjoy each other's company and sharply tugged you by the elbow.

"I think you might have enough, little dove." His tensed whisper dripped with venom, while the print of his fingers carved into your skin with no care at all. "You don't want to embarrass us, do you?"

Your fingers twitched around the delicate stem of the glass. Something sharp and painful curled up in your chest, urging you to retreat into your shell like a turtle, but the alcohol in your blood gave you an unexpected boldness.

"Us? Or just you?"

His muddy eyes widened with shock at your disobedience and then narrowed with something resembling humiliation. The strange feeling — though entirely pleasant — coursed through your veins and exploded in your hazy mind like a small firework at his reaction.

"Don't forget yourself, honey," Naoya's whiskey breath fanned over your ear as his hand climbed down to the dip of your waist. The weight of it felt so heavy it might've stripped you of any breath. "Or I will have to remind you, then."

Your smile faltered slightly before completely vanishing into the void that your soul was.

"And clearly you've had enough of it," Naoya swiftly took your flute and curled his lips in disdain after taking a sip. "Gods, what a dog's piss. No wonder you, women, act so pissy after it."

The drunk, ugly laugh left his lips. You fought the urge to roll your eyes and ask him how he knew its taste, but you swallowed all your words.

"Gojo didn't look like a man who would joke about it," a sudden thought — totally unwelcome and totally intrusive — rooted you to your spot.

He probably would offer polite nods and interesting glances. His hand would set your being ablaze even through the dress, and his fingers would bring you a myriad of sparkles as they brushed along your arm as he would take your glass away with a charming grin.

Goosebumps erupted on your skin at the mere image, and a harsh breath left you.

It was a champagne. Of course it was! That or you just watched too much of the "Bridgertons."

Albeit you weren't a pretty lady, and Gojo wasn't a viscount to save you.

"Naoya-san, I am so glad to meet you here!" A high-pitched, too sweet in its tone voice, roughly jerked you back to reality. A tight smile made its way back on your face as your hand slotted back into the crook of your fiancé's elbow.

The old lady with an obnoxious feather boa — it took all your politeness and the remnants of your sober mind not to let your eyebrows raise — chirped joyously to Naoya. You noticed with satisfaction that he was stunned as well — that might've been the only thing you got to share that night.

After a little while, the lady finally decided to turn to you, and the sharp assessing look immediately crossed her face as she eyed you down.

That time you couldn't help yourself and gave her a slight arch of your brow. Did you spit in her soup or what? Stole a respectable, influential man just under her daughter's nose?

If she only knew. All that glittered was not gold.

"And you, my darling, — ''

Were you?

" — Naoya-san mentioned you still work," she said, and the last word sounded shocked and even slightly offended — as if the mere possibility of a woman and the future Madame Zenin actually doing something had startled her. "What are you doing?"

Before Naoya's hand would dig a warning into your skin, you heard yourself answering, "Oh, I am a doctor. Working with kids."

"A doctor?" the lady repeated incredulously with her grey thin eyebrows soaring up to her hairline. The lady's gaze involuntarily flickered to Naoya, gauging his reaction, and as she got none, her eyelashes fluttered. "Isn't it a bit tiresome for a pretty thing like you, my darling?"

You could visibly feel the waves of Naoya's irritation rolling around the sea of people, and waived your hand with a loud laugh, "Oh no, no at all! I find it pretty fun, actually."

Naoya's fingers twitched on your skin, and you cut yourself off with a sharp exhale.

"Naoya lets me work before the wedding." Your grin turned sharper. "He's really the sweetest!"

Lifting your head to look at his face, you noticed the muscle in his jaw jump in barely concealed irritation. The heat of panic surged through you at the alarming speed and settled heavily in your chest. You tried to reassess every interaction, every glance and twitch of your lips. What did you do wrong?

You swallowed with effort. Maybe you had pushed it too far that time.

When the lady left, you watched Naoya's face for any clue that might've given away his true feelings.

He gave you none besides the last dismissive glance and the cruel nod, "We're leaving."

"I don't —," his gaze immediately silenced you. "Yes, darling."

Heels hastily clicking on the marble, your grip on the purse tightening, the fabric of the dress slightly bunching in your hand, you hurried to catch your future husband up.

He didn't spare you so much of a glance on the way home. Sitting in the backseat, sipping on another glass of whiskey and keeping his eyes on the blur of motions behind the windows.

You kept your hands on your lap and tried to blend into the seats as much as possible, not to provoke Naoya further. But the anxiety that had been quietly bubbling within you all the evening finally surged through the lid, churning your insides into a twisted knot and clawing at the back of your throat. The suspicious lump started forming in it, and you swallowed with effort, blinking away your tears.

Naoya hated when you cried.

"Will you tell me what I have done wrong?"

Your quiet voice cut through the silence of the car, nauseating to the point that it became unbearable. The panic that rattled your body was on the other tip of the scales, and your choice was obvious.

Naoya slowly turned his gaze, unblinking. Narrowed his eyes as if assessing whether you were ready for the mercy of his revelation.

"Please," your voice dipped into a desperate whisper. "Just tell me."

After what felt like an eternity, Naoya finally released a dismissive huff, "You humiliated me."

You sat completely still. Licked your lips and breathed out hastily.

"I didn't mean to, really, it was just silly women's talk, you know that!"

His tone dropped to something dangerous, laced with intent to inject his anger into you even more.

"Doesn't matter. That old hag can't hold her tongue for her life, and then would blab around, so now everyone will know the future Zenin-sama can't even keep in check his future wife," the disdain in his voice smacked your face with a hot wave of humiliation, "not talking about business."

"Naoya, I am really sorry. I didn't think, I — " You watched the grim taking over his face and judging by the twitch of his eye, he was close to snapping, so you quickly scrambled for an answer. "I can send her a card! Or, or — invite her to the dinner and tell her she didn't understand it right!"

The moment your words left your mouth, you instantly regretted them.

Naoya put the whiskey glass with such a force that it had you flinching and looking at the driver to gauge his reaction. Luckily, the partition did its thing.

Anxiety coursed through your veins, akin to blood and settled in your bones with an unshakable cold, as Naoya tugged on your dress to yank you sharply forward.

"Don't you fucking dare," he gritted through his teeth. "Do you hear me? Haven't I done enough for you? Letting you —," pressing his lips into a thin line, Naoya spat another venom, "slacking around that shitty hospital of yours. The least you could do was to be grateful for it. But no."

He leaned back and angrily hooked the thumb in to loosen the bow tie — which was usually your job — and it fell another victim to his growing irritation.

The hot waves of humiliation commanded you to keep your head bowed. You bit on the inside of your cheek not to let tears and any protest spill; instead, you took a deep breath and looked up with a smile so strained it felt like the last pleading to an executioner.

"I just didn't think. I guess it was champagne. I am so sorry, Naoya."

Your begging look might've softened something in his brown gaze — or that was a game of light — but the hand that slowly reached to cup your face was surprisingly gentle. Just like a deer under the flashlights, you stilled and released a soft breath.

"Ah, my pretty dove. Have I scared you?"

The smile on your face faltered but then stretched into something similar to a mask as you forced it.

His gaze, glossed with the alcohol, wandered over your face. Deliberately observant. And after a few seconds, Naoya's lips finally grazed your forehead.

You weren't completely sure whether the storm between you had settled, but you were more than lucky to grasp for any zephyr of calm.

Lying under the lavish canopy of your bed, you let your mind wander.

Was it always like that with Naoya?

When was the exact moment his tender kisses began to feel more like silent claimings? When did his loving arms become dismissive brushes? When did the affection in his gaze give way to disdain? When his fingers, which used to silently trace your skin, curled around your wrists like chains? When did the tender words turn into poisoned arrows he shot at you?

When did sharing your life with him start to mean denying your own? And when his love slowly shaped you into someone you failed to recognise more and more with every passing day?

What would happen when the waves of his suffocating love would erase every evidence of you?

Would they swallow you whole or crash into cliffs?

The next morning met you with an enormous bouquet of roses, resting just near your bed. Alongside was the card that simply read, "That distressed look doesn't suit you, dove. The flowers might cheer you up."

The giant beast that had your heart in its claws reluctantly released its grip, allowing you a short breath. You pressed the card to your chest; the fact that you didn't even like roses didn't bother you as long as you had Naoya's affection back.

@alygator77 @man1cslut @p3talswayingindesun @xunquish-blog

@mitchskiii @anothergojostan @cridtiins @gyarujo

a/n: hello lovelies!! i am so excited and anxious to start my first mini-series! this work is not gonna be the lightest and i do not expect a lot, but i would gladly hear your thoughts!!

It had been oblivious to you that Satoru had been cheating on you.

He'd come home intoxicated and reeked the smell of alcohol. Oftentimes , he'd puke all over your living room carpet.

"Toru , are you feeling okay m'love?" you'd ask in such a caring way. That soft sweet voice of yours — enough to make even the toughest of rocks break.

To which , he's reply with a simple — "Ugh, I'm good. Can you stop being so whiny for fuck's sake? Gosh , you're driving me nuts." The raw pain and filth in his voice sounded disgusting to anyone who heard.

Yet — you still remained patient , talking so sweetly to him. Unaware that he was cheating on you. Pouring all your love and affection on him —only to be betrayed by a girl he met in a party.

⋆⁺｡˚⋆˙‧₊☽ ◯ ☾₊‧˙⋆˚｡⁺⋆

You had been over the moon over the couple of days. The reason for that was you and Satoru's 10 month anniversary. You'd been planning for it months in advance.

Hell — you'd even booked the fanciest restaurant in Tokyo. It was all planned perfectly in your head but bringing it to real life was the turning point in your relationship.

⋆⁺｡˚⋆˙‧₊☽ ◯ ☾₊‧˙⋆˚｡⁺⋆

The day of the anniversary.

You woke up at the crack of dawn — planning out your whole day perfectly. You were so eager — wasting all your precious time on such a scumbag like him.

The clock struck 2:00pm.

You hurriedly arrived at Satoru's office — planning to be the good obedient girlfriend you are and pick him up yourself today.

Your pair of heels clicked the glossy floor tiles — strutting your way inside Satoru's office room.

Creek. The door opened.

Euphoria was replaced with horror. Your face went pale. Your blood ran cold. no. no. This couldn't be happening.

You saw Satoru bending his female assistant over his table and fucking her from behind.

Filthy moans echoed the room.

Suddenly , Satoru turned his head towards you with the 'babe-i-can-explain' expression. He pushed her aside and headed towards you.

"Babe , please. I can explain-" he pleaded. You cut him off before he could.

"Enough , I am done with you. I spent 10 months wasting my love on someone who doesn't even care for me." you argued.

You stormed off while Satoru chased after you , asking you to 'give him a chance.'

You felt stupid — stupid for believing his words. for believing he loved you. for believing you were the only one. for everything.

He lied to you in front of your face . making you believe "she is just an assistant , nothing more".

And now , you were done. done forever.

You slammed your apartment door — rushing to your bedroom. Then tears fell down your face. You were sobbing.

You were so mentally and emotionally drained that you couldn't even get out of your bed. Only that night did you realise — things weren't what they seemed to be.

─── ⋆⋅ ♰ ⋅⋆ ────── ⋆⋅ ♰ ⋅⋆ ────── ⋆⋅ ♰ ⋅⋆ ────── ⋆⋅ ♰ ⋅⋆ ───

(A/N - TYSMMM YA'LL FOR READING TS. LOVE YA <3 this is my first ever fic and i'm lwk kinda woried ts may flop... anyways thanks for sticking till the end :3)

03. KNEADLESSLY IN LOVE

Gojo Satoru can bake. He's actually pretty good at it. But tonight, he's not trying to impress you — he's trying to make you laugh. (The flour is everywhere. The cookies are burnt and are practically charcoal. He's never been happier.)

04. I'LL FIND YOU (I ALWAYS WILL)

You're tired of being his second priority. Tired of loving someone who's never there. So you leave — into the cold, into the rain, into the dark. He follows. He always follows. But this time, he's scared he won't find you in time.

05. AISLE BE THERE FOR YOU (IN THE SNACK AISLE)

You brought him for emotional support. You forgot he's the reason you need emotional support. Grocery shopping with Satoru was supposed to be quick. Thirty minutes, in and out. That was an hour ago. He's put pudding cups in the cart three times. You've taken them out three times. He's now fake-crying in the frozen foods aisle. You're dating a toddler. You wouldn't trade him for anything.

06. GOLDEN HOUR (AND SALTWATER KISSES)

The beach at 2 AM is empty, quiet, and yours. Satoru drags you there to wait for the sunrise — but somehow, you spend more time watching him. (He pretends not to notice. He's lying.)

07. I'M FINALLY HOME

He's been gone for weeks. Missions, meetings, responsibilities — always something. You miss him. He misses you. And then one Saturday, you come home to find a dress you've never seen before, and a man who's been trying to find his way back to you.

08. CARRY ME HOME

Gojo Satoru carries you to bed when you fall asleep on the couch. You mumble "love you," in your half-asleep haze. He doesn't forget. The next morning, he teases you about it — and you both end up laughing, blushing, and tucked back into each other's arms.

09. GOJO SATORU'S GUIDE ON HOW TO SURVIVE A FAMILY DINNER

It's the first time you're bringing Gojo Satoru home to meet your family. They have no idea he's a sorcerer. You know. He thinks he's being subtle. He's not. ("The baby photos are worth it!" he says.)

10. HOPELESS (FOR YOU)

Gojo Satoru is absolutely useless at folding laundry, but he's an expert at stealing your heart. ♡

11. THE STARS YOU LIKED

Gojo Satoru pretends to forget your one-year anniversary. You try not to be hurt. He's been planning this all along. (He remembers everything.)

12. JUST BECAUSE (I LOVE YOU)

Gojo Satoru's been working on this for weeks. Late nights, crumpled paper, messing up the folding, starting over. He wanted to give you something that showed how much you mattered. (He's never been more nervous in his life.)

13. A STUDY IN SAYING "I LOVE YOU" (Part 2 of "Just Because (I Love You)"

Gojo Satoru spends three weeks writing you a letter — 520 reasons, pipe cleaner flowers, gifts and all the words he couldn't say out loud. A letter about love as something you can hold.

MORE COMING SOON . . .

Swallowing past the dryness in your throat, you swung your legs over the edge of the mattress. Your knees felt weak as you walked to the door. You took a deep breath and pulled it open.

Zuko was leaning against the doorframe.He was a mess. His hair was loose, tumbling over his shoulders, his tunic was half unbuttoned at the collar, revealing the flush of heat painting the skin of his throat and chest. He looked exactly as maddeningly handsome as you'd feared.

“Fire Lord,” you said, crossing your arms.

“Director,” he replied, his voice a raspy rumble.

“To what do I owe the pleasure?” you asked, blinking up at him through your lashes.

Zuko let out a short breath through his nose, his knuckles white where his hand gripped the wood of the doorframe. “If you’ll indulge me, I’d ask you one thing...”

You narrowed your eyes. “Make it count.”

“Why did you…?” His eyes trailed down your body, choosing for silence.

“Why did I what?” You raised your eyebrows in impatience, your fingers dug into the silk of your sleeves. “Do finish your question, Fire Lord.”

Truthfully, he had too many questions standing before him.

For example: why were you looking so exquisite this late at night? Were you solely thinking of him, or had the thought of him risen enough while you were pleasuring yourself that you felt the need to say his name? Were you hoping he’d come at your door afterwards or he still had the ability of surprising you?

Was he being an inconsiderate douchbag by joining you after all he put you through? No, to that one he knew the answer, and it was yes.

“Oh. Maybe you mean to ask about the terrible crime of enjoying the comfort of my own guest room?” you asked, moving your weight to one leg. “I think I have every right to do that.”

Zuko held your gaze.

“Is shouting my name part of that right?”

“I wasn't shouting,” you said, taking a step forward.

“No?” He matched it.

“No.”

Step for step, you kept going until neither of you could move without touching.

“Then the Beifong walls are thinner than I thought.”

You pressed a finger to his chest, making him pull back.

“Perhaps the Fire Lord has an exceptionally vivid imagination,” you said, your fingertips wandering down the front of his chest.

“I don’t.” Zuko’s jaw tightened, his gaze dropping to your mouth before snapping back up.

“That’s awfully convenient,” you gave him half a smile, “don’t you think?”

“Just like you wearing the hairpin.” He said, his hand dropped back to his side. “Invite me in, Director. We shouldn't bother the rest of the estate.”

You glanced past his broad shoulder at the empty hallway. If Zuko had heard you through the wall, then anyone wandering could hear the two of you now, even if the other guests were on a different floor.

You stepped aside and moved back into the dark of your room. He followed, and you clicked the door shut behind him.

Turning around, you braced your lower back against the door.

“I have a lot of hairpins, Fire Lord. You’ll have to be more specific.”

“The ironwood one,” he said standing in the middle of the room. “The one I carved after you complained the silver comb kept slipping out whenever you wore your hair loose.”

You gasped. It was such a small memory, you'd long since assumed it had belonged to you alone.

“You sat on that fallen log for nearly two hours,” Zuko murmured, his eyes dropping to the floorboards between you. “While I ruined three perfectly good branches trying to make one that wouldn’t snag your hair.”

His golden eyes snapped back up, searching yours with a fire that made your knees feel weak.

“You laughed because I cut my palm in the dumbest way… before curing it, that is.”

He lifted his left hand, his thumb rubbing over the inside of his palm to show he remembered the place.

“I still have the scar.”

You hadn’t thought about that afternoon in years, not because it wasn't important, but because the memory tasted like ash.

“You were right.” Zuko admitted.

“About what?” You said, lifting your weight from the door to walk slowly towards him, a bit spellbound by his recollection.

“You told me I’d regret giving you something handmade because I’d never be able to look at another piece of ironwood without thinking of you. So you were right.”

You stopped your step and looked away first. Your gaze landed on the candle on your nightstand, anything to avoid the absolute sincerity in his face.

“How touching… but it is a little too late,” you replied, refolding your arms across your chest, your skin warming up in embarrassment. “I’ll be sure to look forward to the explanation for the breakup sometime around the next solar eclipse.”

Surprisingly, there was no sharp retort in response. He didn’t try to defend his pride.

You walked back toward the door and grabbed the handle.

“Now if that’s all you came to say, I’d suggest you—“

“Nothing about tonight makes sense anymore.”

Your hands left the handle.

“You keep telling me you’re over me, so I believe you, but then you compliment me in the garden, avoid me, escape from the touch of my hand, wear the hairpin, and moan my name loud enough for me to hear,” he said, taking one final step into your space, abandoning the safe distance.

Before you could speak again, he reached for you. His fingers stopped at the loose silk of your sleeve, brushing the fabric at your wrist without quite touching your skin.

“But I know you, and I know whatever you’re trying to do is no longer working the way you wanted it to.”

“I’m sorry I’m so confusing, Fire Lord.” You yanked your arm back, clearing the distance between his fingers and your clothes. “It must feel very bad to not understand the motives behind someone else’s actions. Believe me, I know the feeling. After a while, you stop expecting explanations. You realize they're overrated. If you won't leave, then I will. Enjoy the rest of your stay.”

You made it only a step before his hand found your wrist.

“What do you think happened?” he asked.

“What?” You didn't turn around.

“When we broke up. What do you—”

“I don’t know, Zuko! That’s the worst part… don’t you get it?” You spun around, using the force of the turn to twist your wrist out of his grip.

His fingers slipped free, but his gaze didn't leave your face.

“I had no explanation whatsoever. And like I said—”

“You must have thought something.”

A bitter laugh escaped you. “Oh, now you’re interested?”

His face didn’t change. The stubborn set of his jaw only tightened.

“I need to hear it.”

“No.” You shook your head, your chin tilting up defensively.

“What do you think happened?” He swallowed. “Why do you think I let you go?”

He reached for you again, his palm open. You stepped back, the door met your back before you realized you'd reached it.

“I…” Your hands curled into your palms until your knuckles blanched. “I need you to leave.”

He seemed to want to listen at first by a movement that came from his chest, but his feet remained in place.

“Please.”

“You are in no position to ask me for anything, Zuko! Get out!” You said pointing to the door. He didn’t move. “Fine. I’m not talking to you,” you said, going to your bed and sitting on it, your back to him, “get out.”

After so much time, there was no way you’d confessed how bad he made you feel. The image of the stupid note refused to leave your mind: it’d been a piece of parchment that made you feel excited at first, thinking Zuko leaving it on your bed meant he’d finally invite you to one of his royal duties, the disappointment you felt after reading his cruel words was still stinging your chest.

Tears started spilling out of your eyes. You made an effort to hide it, pressing a hand to them and then your mouth to avoid the sobs. But it didn’t work. You never thought the next time you saw Zuko would be like this, you thought he’d be crawling at your feet or that he’d be the one crying, but the fact that it was you was… unexpected. And you never appreciated the unexpected.

You didn’t realize he had walked through the room until you felt his weight on the bed. You hugged yourself, trying to say something.

“Zuko… don’t even… think…”

His hand found your back, moving in slow motion up and down. He scooted closer, you were just seconds away from stopping this nonsense of yours when he reached for your arms.

“I thought I wasn’t enough” You confessed. “I wondered If you had simply… outgrown me. I clawed through every single conversation we ever had trying to find the exact moment you realized I wasn’t worth a goodbye.”

The tears came all at once, years of careful composure dissolving before you could gather it back together. Your shoulders trembled with each uneven breath.

Zuko drew you into him, and the moment your forehead found the curve of his neck on his scarred side, the sob you'd spent years swallowing escaped. His arms came around you, holding you.

“I thought you just stopped loving me,” you said. It was a simple, flat admission, stripped of any drama.

Zuko flinched as if the words physically stung. “No. Never.”

A tearful laugh escaped you. “Don't do that, Zuko.”

You drew back just enough to look at him. Your eyes were rimmed with red, your cheeks still damp with tears.

“You have done enough.”

He didn’t argue. His eyes fell shut before he leaned in, resting his forehead against yours.

“I can’t change what those three years did to you.” He said as a tear slid down his own cheek. “I would if I could.”

His thumb brushed beneath your eye, hesitant, asking permission before wiping away another tear.

“But if there is one thing I cannot let you carry for another minute… it’s the idea that you were at fault.” His eyes searched for yours desperately. He shook his head. “Not for a single heartbeat. I loved you too much to watch them use you against me. So I made the worst decision I’ve ever made.” His jaw trembled. “I decided for you. I never asked what you wanted….” A tear of his own fell over his scar.“And I have hated myself for that every day since.”

You searched his face, looking for the smallest hint that he was telling you what he thought you needed to hear.

You found none.

“You really thought you got to decide that?”

Zuko lowered his gaze. “I thought I was keeping you safe.”

“No.” You shook your head, retreating onto the bed on your knees. “Don’t dress it up as a favor, Zuko. You looked at our life together, at me, and decided you knew what was best without asking me a single question?”

He mirrored your position on the mattress, every trace of certainty gone from his face. “I didn't think I had a choice.”

“You took away my choice,” you said, shoving his shoulders.

“I know.”

“You took away my future with you,” you pushed him again, harder.

“I did…”

“You took away my dignity,” you drove your palms into his chest, forcing him down against the mattress. “Because you were terrified.”

He flinched, looking up at you from where he lay, offering no resistance.

“I had to read that stupid note by myself,” you said, your body on top of his. “I had to explain to everyone why I’d suddenly left the Fire Nation.”

You planted your hands on either side of his head, pinning him to the pillows.

“Tell me…” You lowered your face toward his. “…how you convinced yourself I would’ve wanted that.”

“I didn’t.”

You frowned.

“I convinced myself it didn’t matter what you wanted.” Zuko reached up, his palm cupping your cheek. You stilled beneath his hand. “I was so terrified of losing you…”

His eyes filled again.

“…that I… became the person who did.”

You looked down at him, and the impossible puzzle you'd carried for years came apart. There had been no hidden scheme, no careful cruelty or impossible choice made for reasons beyond your reach. Only Zuko being foolish enough to mistake love for something that could be protected by leaving it behind.

“…You idiot.” The words came out in such a whisper they almost sounded affectionate. “You absolute, unbelievable idiot.”

You were already so close, that the only reasonable option left was to press your lips against his.

Zuko’s hand caught and slid from your jaw, his fingers tangling deep into your loose hair to hold you, while your opposite hand climbed the solid breadth of his shoulder to cup the side of his neck.

He proceeded to pull his legs around, sitting cross legged on the mattress and gathering you into his lap. The breath stealing kisses gradually lost their urgency, punctuated by lingering pecks that tasted of salt and smoke.

Finally, you pulled back, pressing your forehead against his, your eyes closed tight as you let your hands rest against the unbuttoned collar of his tunic.

“You’re not forgiven,” you whispered, your breath hitching. “Not yet.”

His forehead pressed back against yours, his hands resting against your waist. He nodded.

“I shouldn’t be,” he murmured. “I understand I can’t undo the last few years in one night. But I can’t allow myself to walk back into my room knowing you still think I ever stopped loving you. I need you to know that I never did.”

You let out a ragged sigh.

“I tried so hard to stop,” you confessed, your voice in a thread. “I don’t know how.”

A tear traced the scarred side of his face. Even so, the corners of his mouth bent into the smallest of smiles.

“Neither do I.”

He leaned in, catching your mouth in another peck. He pulled away just enough for you to notice the unsteady rise and fall of his breathing.

“For the record… “You made me a better man long before I deserved it..”

A laugh broke through your tears as your fingers lightly swatted the back of his neck.

“You are still terrible at compliments…”

“If you’ll let me,” he said, his thumbs rising to trace the line of your cheekbones. “I’d like to spend whatever time you’ll give me trying to do better at them, and everything else, incluiding not choosing for you. If you’re generous enough to give me years…” He brushed another stray tear away from your eye. “I’d do anything.”

You searched his face.

“Anything?” you asked suspiciously.

“Anything.”

You shook your head, smiling despite yourself.

“Well, Zu, you can start by shutting up…”

Zuko blinked.

“… and once in your life…” You leaned closer, your fingers sliding up into his loose hair until your noses brushed. “…just kiss me.”

He didn't need to be told twice. He kissed you. True to form, he couldn’t resist interpreting your instructions rather generously. His hands slid down your back, feeling the curve of your spine through the silk robe, while your fingers trailed down to his chest.

Right against your mouth, Zuko let out a hushed laugh.

You pulled back. “What?” You asked, allowing your fingers to trace his jawline.

“I’ve wanted to do that again for so long,” he rumbled.

You rolled your eyes. “You’ve become unbelievably sentimental, Fire Lord. Was it three years or fifty?”

He laughed.

“I like to think I’ve become more honest.”

You smiled. “…About time.”

You leaned down and kissed him again. Unlike the times before, the kiss stretched out, deepening as the two of you got even closer. Zuko’s hands tightened on your waist, and with a tilt of his hips, he guided you backward onto the mattress, his frame rising over you as you sank into the sheets. His forearms came down to bracket your head so he didn't crush you.

Your fingers moved up, threading through the strands scattering across his shoulders. “It’s longer,” you whispered.

He smiled down at you. “So is yours. You look beautiful.”

Your hand slid to his face, your thumb tracing his scar. Under your touch, he realized there had never truly been a time when he wasn’t yours.

Zuko turned his head into the touch, pressing a kiss right into the palm of your hand.

As he pulled his head back, his eyes caught the light reflecting on your wet cheeks.

“Hey…”

You swiped at your eye. “Stop saying things I’ve wanted to hear again.”

He gave you a radiant smile that reached all the way to his eyes, and looked down at you, studying your features in the glow of the candle. “You’re still the most extraordinary woman I’ve ever known,” he said.

You snorted, a deep blush immediately warming your cheeks. “You can try again.”

He shook his head slowly.

“I saw you in the reception tonight… “ he looked up at you, “and I forgot how to breathe.”

Your blush deepened, your hands sliding up to cover his mouth out of overwhelmed embarrassment.

“Spirits…”

He nipped shorty at the edge of your palm until you dropped your hand, his eyes dancing triumphantly.

“It happens to be true,” he whispered, leaning down to press a kiss to the tip of your nose.

Zuko’s eyes traveled from your own down to the loosened robe. His hands, that were still bracketing your head, slid down to rest against the skin of your collarbones.

He didn’t move any farther.

“Zuko,” you breathed, your fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt, pulling him down.

He caught his breath, his eyes locking onto yours. “Are you sure?” he whispered. “I can just hold you all night. I don’t want to take anything from you again.”

“I’m glad you’re learning, but don’t worry. You won’t.”

Your hands slid up his chest, your fingers wrapping around the backs of his elbows where his arms were locked to hold his weight up, and with a pull, you buckled his arms outward, breaking his balance.

Zuko let out a gasp as his chest met yours at last. The sudden impact forced his hips down, making you feel the rigid length of him press hard against your thigh. Your arms wrapped around his neck, trapping him there as your lips brushed the shell of his ear.

“This is my choice,” you whispered.

He shuddered before his mouth met yours.

His hands moved to the tie of your robe. They unknotted the silk, parting the fabric to reveal your bare shoulders. His lips moved from your jaw down to your throat, reacquainting himself with the taste of your skin.

“I cannot believe I have the honor to hold you close,” he murmured against your skin, his hands smoothing down your waist, tracing the curve of your hip making your body melt into the mattress. He smiled against your neck. “Aren’t you… the most valuable asset of the enterprise?”

You couldn’t help but laugh, your fingers threading curling into his hair. “Zuko—”

“You settled three rival guilds before sunset,” Zuko teased, his thumbs tracing the line of your ribs. “And every major guild in the Earth Kingdom knows your name. No wonder everyone looks at you the way they do. You make everyone want to surrender.”

“You are ridiculous,” you gasped, you said with a breath of laughter, your head tipping back into the pillow as his fingers drew the silk from your shoulders.

“I’m just stating facts, Director,” he whispered, moving between your thighs. He looked down at you, a curl of steam rising from his skin, floating in the background.

“I believe, most importantly…” Zuko leaned down, his forehead resting against yours and his hands sliding up to frame your face. “…you’re the woman who still owns every single thought I have… every piece of my heart… and every inch of me.”

You arched your hips, your heels digging firmly into the small of his back, pulling him flush against you and urging him to close the distance between your bodies.

“Every inch, huh?” you murmured, your voice a sultry challenge.

Zuko nodded, his face drawing closer until he reached for your mouth, desperate to lose himself in another kiss.

But before his lips could touch yours, you brought your hands up, holding his face by his jaw, and keeping him just a breathless millimeter away.

“Careful, Fire Lord,” you whispered, earning the curve of his mouth. “You know how meticulous I am with my assets. I’ll be measuring if they’re enough.”

Zuko’s breath hitched, a growl catching in his throat at the audacity of your words.

You released his jaw and sank your fingers into his shoulders just as he drove forward, sliding inside you in a deep motion.

An equally shared and fractured moan tore from both of your throats, swallowed by the bruising kiss that followed as your rhythms locked back together.

When he began to move into you, you closed your eyes, your mouth falling open while soft noises spilled from it involuntarily at every thrust. Your palms slid up the wide expanse of his back to press him close, your body adjusting to his size moving in and out.

His face pulled away from yours to hide next to your neck, a moan vibrating right against your ear before he whispered, “Is it enough?”

“I’m still deciding…” you panted, “and adjusting”, your breath catching as the sensation overwhelmed you.

“You can take it…”

The words served as a warning as he plunged in and out a fraction faster. His mouth found yours again in a messy kiss that didn’t quiet your moans but muffled them. Your inability to stop the noises made him thrust harder and deeper, angling his hips until they met the sudden hook of your legs, pulling him down once again.

“Did you get another freckle on your neck?” he asked, buried deep inside of you, pausing momentarily.

“I don’t… know,” you gasped, every coherent thought entirely wiped from your mind.

His fingertip hovered over the spot in your skin instead of touching it. “I would’ve remembered,” he murmured, his brow furrowing deep in thought.

“Spirits, Zuko,” you grunted, arching against him. “Keep going, please.”

He laughed right as his movements restarted. His length made you feel incredibly full, leaving no room for anything that wasn’t him.

You kept moaning as you stared into his face. His eyebrow pulled inward, tense, his mouth open as he drew heavy breaths at every thrust that turned increasingly urgent. One of his strong arms slid beneath you as you squirmed, while his other hand remained braced next to your head, his thumb lightly caressing your cheek as your head pressed back into the mattress.

He kissed the opposite side of your neck, his pace faltering as your walls tightened around him. You pressed one hand to his back and gripped his thigh, urging him to go deeper. He obeyed without hesitation, his head pulling away from your neck only to fall next to yours, your hair tangling together from the friction.

“Don’t stop, Zuko…”

“Wouldn’t even dream of it,” he rasped.

He dived in deeper than before, hypnotized by the way your mouth parted and your eyes rolled every time he moved.

Deciding the view wasn’t enough, he hoisted his weight upward without breaking the rhythm. Bracing himself on one hand, he used the other to gather both of your arms above your head. He pinned your wrists together beneath his palm, the new angle allowing him to move faster than before.

When you looked up, his jaw was tight with concentration at the sight of you under him, the pleasure noises leaving your lips nonstop as your body moved in time with his. But when his gaze dropped between you, a sharp gasp caught in his throat.

You dared to look down to the place your bodies joined. The sight of sweat running down his abs, flexing at every movement, guided your view to where he ran thick and wet into you. It was enough to push you over the edge. Your spine arched off the mattress once again as your muscles gripped him. At the sensation, Zuko dropped back down to your mouth, the hand that held your wrists freeing itself to tangle in your hair, keeping your head angled to receive his mouth over yours.

You came around him, your cries muffled by his lips. His own thrusts became ragged and desperate as he followed your climax. He drove into you just a few more times before pulling out, collapsing into the space beside you.

The sheets tangled around your legs as Zuko settled beside you, spent. He didn't say a word, but his hand sought yours, weaving his fingers through your smaller ones and pressing them flat against his chest, right over his heartbeat.

He leaned over, pressing his lips to your temple, then to your cheek, and finally to the corner of your mouth. Each one entirely devoid of demand and feeling the closest to a vow.

You looked up at him.

"I'm right here," he whispered into the room filled with steam, his thumb tracing the back of your hand. "I'm not going anywhere."

You nodded, your forehead drifting down to rest against his shoulder. You just held onto him, matching his breath until the dark turned to dawn.

𐙚₊˚⊹♡ ⋆𐙚₊˚

Your eyes snapped open to the bright sunlight piercing through the window screen. For a disorienting second, the room felt unfamiliar, making your chest rise with anxiety. The export shipping manifests, the supply chain deadlines… your mind scrambled to grab the logistics of the day, panic rising in your throat as you wondered if you had left Lao Beifong’s entire board of directors waiting at the estate gates.

A pair of lips brushed against your bare shoulder blade, working wonders you’d only experienced drinking one of Iroh’s calming teas.

Zuko’s broad arm crossed your waist to drag you back against his chest. He buried his face into the crook of your neck, letting out a sleepy breath that woke your skin.

“You’re thinking too loud,” he mumbled, his voice a gravelly morning rasp.

You let out a shaky breath, your hands coming up to grasp his forearm, melting into the solid mass of him. “The factory tour. Zuko, I was supposed to—”

“Toph came an hour ago,” he said against your skin, his grip relaxing just enough to let his fingers stroke your stomach. “Before everyone left.”

You froze, your eyes widening. “She came here? To the door?”

You felt him smile before he spoke. “I opened it. She didn’t say anything, she just grinned, punched my arm, and told everyone in the hallway that the Director was taking a personal rest day.”

The relief of knowing the day had been cleared allowed your shoulders to drop, even if you knew you weren’t going to be spared the continuing “I told you’s” from Toph.

The daylight forced the reality of the last three years back into the room. Zuko’s hand slowed its movement against your skin, his fingers coming to rest flat over your ribs.

“Do you know what the worst part was?” he asked.

You didn’t answer. You kept your back to him, staring at the dust motes dancing in the sun.

“Every time something good happened…” Zuko swallowed, and you felt the next breath he drew. “…you were the first person I wanted to tell. The day the treaty with the Southern Water Tribe was signed, the night the new schools opened in the lower districts... Every single victory felt completely hollow because I’d turn around to look for you, and the room was empty.”

His forehead pressed against your shoulder blade.

"The first years on that throne... I was drowning," he admitted out loud, his words coming in an unpolished rush. "Every morning I sat in that council chamber surrounded by the same ministers who had funded my father's war, watching them smile while trying to figure out how to manipulate me. I had to learn to sleep with a dagger under my pillow. I had to look at my own family’s history, and all I could see was a cycle of cruelty that destroys everything good. You were the only whole, uncorrupted part of my life. I became so consumed by the fear that the crown would force me to become someone dangerous… someone who would eventually drag you into the line of fire for a throne you never asked for… that I panicked. I thought if I kept you near me, the palace would swallow you whole, just like it did everyone else. And you didn’t deserve that. You still don’t.”

You turned around in his arms, forcing him to look at you. His eyes were clear in the daylight, shadowed by exhaustion.

“Do you know what I would’ve chosen, Zuko?” you asked.

Zuko searched your face, already preparing himself to deserve whatever came next.

“You,” you declared. “I would’ve chosen the old men on the council, the targets on our backs… Zuko, I would’ve chosen all of it if it meant choosing you. You never gave me the chance.”

The realization did what you knew it would. It destroyed the last of his self-inflicted martyrdom, confirming that his grand sacrifice had been nothing but a theft of your agency. A tear left his scarred eye.

Your thumb rose to catch the dampness on his cheek.

“I’m still angry,” you whispered, your fingers staying against his cheek.

Zuko nodded, his hand rising to cover yours, pressing your palm to him harder. “I wouldn’t ask you to feel any other way.”

“I’m probably going to wake up angry tomorrow, too,” you warned him. “We can't just erase these past few years in one night, Zuko. It doesn't work that way.”

“Then I’ll be there tomorrow,” he answered. He leaned in, his nose brushing yours. “And the day after that. I’ll take every bit of your anger for as long as you need to throw it.”

After hearing your words the night before, Zuko knew that whether you welcomed him back or closed the door on him once more, he would meet your answer instead of running from it.

“I understand why you did it. Even if I don’t agree with your ways, I understand. And from now on, you can rest assured you don’t need to decide for me.”

“I wouldn’t dare to believe that anymore,” he said, brushing strand of hair away from your cheek with the back of his fingers. “Losing you was the worst mistake in my life.”

You bit your lip.

“Every inch, remember?”

His knuckles grazed the side of your neck on their way to your waist, where his hand drew you back onto the bed.

He didn't go for your mouth right away. Instead, he slid down the length of your body until his head was positioned between your thighs.

Your fingers gathered the sheets around you. Zuko wet his lips, his eyes tracing the line of your hips. He slid his thumbs over the inside of your thighs.

“I used to think about this every single morning,” he murmured while he looked up the length of your body. “Just watching the sun find you. I forgot how much it completely ruins me…”

You tapped a finger against his collarbone. “Then I suggest you focus, Fire Lord. You’re currently operating on Earthen Fire time, and my schedule is exceptionally demanding.”

“I’ll ensure my performance meets your highest standards, Director,” he rumbled, his grip tightening.

Zuko looked up at you from between your thighs before his mouth descended to your pelvis first, leaving a kiss right against your skin, exactly like he always used to.

𐙚₊˚⊹♡ ⋆𐙚₊˚

The estate doors groaned as Zuko pushed them open, stepping out into the crisp afternoon air with you right at his side… Three years had taught you how to walk alone. It took only a few steps to remember how to walk together.

Sokka, who had been in the middle of an animated gesture while explaining something to Katara near Appa’s tail, froze mid stride. Katara’s jaw dropped, her eyes darting from your face to Zuko’s. Even Aang, who was adjusting Appa's saddle, paused to blink down at the two of you in realization.

"Uh..." Sokka blinked rapidly, pointing a finger between you both. "Did the sky fall while we were at the factory or am I hallucinating? Are you two... not trying to glare each other into ash anymore?"

"They’re fine, Snoozles," Toph interrupted, leaning against a nearby stone pillar with a grin on her face. She didn't even turn her head as she added, "I stuck ’em on the same floor for a reason. What happened after that? Not my problem.”

Zuko coughed into his fist, clearing his throat trying to look anywhere but at your laughing friends.

"Toph," you warned.

"Just keeping everyone updated," she cackled, pushing off the pillar and strolling toward you. She dropped her voice enough for the two of you to hear, tossing a friendly elbow into your side. "Glad you finally stopped overthinking your logistics, Director. You were getting unbearable to work with."

Before you could offer a suitably corporate retort, Lao Beifong marched in, flanked by three assistants buried beneath towering stacks of leather bound ledgers, manifests, and inkwells.

“By the way, you’re taking vacations. Also on my account.”

“I’m taking what?” You asked.

Lao’s face lit up the moment his eyes landed on you, settling the matter before Toph could speak.

"Ah! There she is!" Lao said, waving his hand to dismiss his helpers, who scurried to stack the paperwork on a nearby stone bench. He stepped forward, taking your hands in his with excitement. "Toph told me the news when we met at the tour this morning. I cannot tell you how incredibly relieved I am that you are finally taking some personal vacation time!"

"Thank you, Lao," you said, with a grateful smile. Whatever Toph had planned for you, you had learned to accept. Your professional instincts did flare as your eyes drifted to the massive stacks of paper. "But you know I can’t completely disappear, the Omashu guild agreement is still waiting on my revisions, and I promised the arbitration committee I’d review the shipping contracts before the end of the week. I can finish them while—”

"Absolutely not,” Lao interrupted, raising a hand. “Yes, I brought the paperwork because I knew you wouldn’t sleep without checking the final registry. But you are not to worry about company business for the next month.” He smiled. “Earthen Fire Industries will survive without its finest asset for a few weeks.” His voice got lower. “Please… you deserve to be happy.”

Lao gave your hands a squeeze before stepping back toward his assistants, leaving you a moment of space.

You looked up at Zuko, who had moved closer and was watching the exchange with an immense respect for the life you had built entirely on your own. His hand found the small of your back, his thumb tracing a comforting circle through the fabric of your coat.

"And where exactly would those vacations be spent?" Zuko asked, a teasing smile touching his lips. "Because I happen to know a place or two in the Fire Nation that have changed quite a bit since you left. Besides..." He leaned down. "...a certain dragon has been terrorizing the palace guards because he misses his favorite handler."

You tilted your chin up, smiling by the thought of seeing Druk again.

“I don’t know," you murmured playfully. "I'm not sure if the Fire Lord would be particularly fond of me spending all my time at his palace…”

Zuko reached around, your hand fitting neatly within his. "The Fire Lord would gladly hand you the keys to the entire nation if it kept you there," he replied, his voice earnest.

Across the yard, Lao smiled at the sight of your happiness, while Toph made a dramatic gagging noise from her pillar.

"Oh, thank the spirits," Sokka groaned, throwing his arms up in the air and marching toward Appa's mounting ramp. "My favorite couple is finally back together! I couldn't take another day of the brooding. To be fully honest, It was ruining the vibe."

Katara rolled her eyes, giving you a supportive nod as she climbed up the sky bison's side.

"Seriously, please board Appa immediately," Sokka continued, gesturing for you both to get in the saddle. "We will deliver ya right to the palace ourselves so you can go back to your royal stuff, make your little fire bending babies, and live your grand Fire Nation life. Just no more pining. I'm begging you."

Aang laughed, settling into the driver's seat and grabbing the reins. "Are you guys coming, or do you need another personal rest day?"

Zuko looked down at you, his thumb brushing across your knuckles. He didn’t answer his friends. His attention remained on you.

You smiled and gave his hand a tug.

“Let’s go home.”

note: i hope you enjoyed this! i’ve been looking forward to finishing both parts so you wouldn’t have to wait for me… i guess all the waiting happened before the release instead lol. thank you so much for reading ♡ requests are always welcome (just processed very, very slowly). also, taylor is allegedly getting married today/tomorrow (what??????). if so, happy wedding to my personal friend taylor swift wherever she is! xx

There was a buzz of conversation filling the room. Nobles and Earth Kingdom delegates mingled in clusters holding crystal chalices.

"I have a nation to run, Sokka,” Zuko muttered. The defense felt weak even to his own ears.

"Yeah, yeah. It’s fine, I honestly didn't expect you to come at all," Sokka said, waving a half-eaten skewer. He paused, squinting at Zuko with suspicion. "Why did you, by the way? I thought Toph’s family wasn’t a matter royal enough for the Fire Lord."

Zuko forced his shoulders back. "Well... I figured I'd accept Lao's invitation this once. It felt... appropriate."

"Appropriate?" Sokka barked out a laugh as Toph strolled over, grinning from ear to ear.

"Oh, lay off him, Captain Boomerang," Toph chimed in, leaning her weight onto one heel. She tilted her head toward Zuko with unmistakable satisfaction. "Though, funny thing... the second he walked through those doors, his heart started hammering like a loose piston. What's the matter, Sparky? Intimidated by a room full of merchants?"

Zuko remained quiet.

He had known there was a chance you’d be there. Before making the journey to the Earth Kingdom, he had requested a list of the evening’s guests. Your name had appeared exactly where he’d feared it would.

He had spent the last three days rehearsing exactly what he would say in his head… assuming you even wanted to speak to him, which didn't seem likely.

Not after the silence he had left you with when he broke your heart.

"Just for your information," Sokka added with a grin, gesturing over his shoulder toward a seating area near the balcony, "she arrived here first. I’ve been keeping her company, but don't worry, you're still my favorite... uhh... firebender, of course."

Zuko’s throat went dry.

"Who did?" he asked, if only to postpone hearing your name aloud.

"Ah, Fire Lord Zuko! Welcome to my family’s Yu Dao estate," an aristocratic voice interrupted.

Lao Beifong stepped into their circle, smoothing his green and gold silks. He offered a bow.

"We were just enjoying some refreshments before heading into the dining hall," Lao continued, gesturing toward the rest of his guests. "I believe you are already familiar with my brilliant Director of Legal Affairs and Guild Relations?"

Zuko’s eyes snapped to where Lao was pointing.

You were standing near the balcony with a glass of wine resting between your fingers. After the breakup, you had fled the Fire Nation, and he had made no attempt to stop you. Toph, in her own blunt, protective way of showing affection had made her father hire you into the family business. You had thrown yourself into the mercantile world of the Earth Kingdom, climbing the ranks of Earthen Fire Industries until you earned a permanent place at the company's highest table.

And, Agni, did it show. The dress you wore was an elegant Earth Kingdom cut, but it was tailored perfectly, fitting like a glove, tracing lines of your body that Zuko used to know by heart. The soft look of youth he remembered was completely gone, replaced by nothing else but a breathtaking elegance.

You didn't look at him right away. You simply swirled the wine in your glass, already aware of his arrival, and that his entire cosmos had just rearranged. 

Zuko thought it wouldn't be impolite at all to turn around, all of a sudden. It was getting more and more tempting to walk out the door and jump off the nearest balcony… 

Sokka let out a nervous cough, his eyes darted between Zuko's pale face and your unbothered posture. Before Lao could frown at the Fire Lord's lack of manners, Toph laughed and leaned on her heel, tilting her head toward her father.

"Come on, Dad, shouldn't we be having dinner by now? If we keep waiting on the formalities, the food's going to turn as cold as the Fire Lord's conversation."

Lao cleared his throat. "You’re right." He clapped his hands together. "Dinner is served. This way, everyone." 

If the mere sight of you across a crowded room (while you were presumably unaware) had been enough to hollow him out entirely, how was he to survive the agonizing hours of a banquet right before your eyes?

𐙚₊˚⊹♡ ⋆𐙚₊˚

You seemed like you were enjoying the way his hands shook every time someone asked to lend them something, or the way his eyes couldn’t help but take quick glances at you when pretending to drink from his glass.

You were probably enjoying the fact that the sound of your voice alone made him start rounds on top of rounds of suffocating small talk with Aang, who was more than uncomfortable by the sudden barrage of political pleasantries. And if you weren’t enjoying the merciless and luring effect your presence had on him, you sure looked like it: every so often moving your hair, tracing your collarbone and the bare skin close to your chest with a brush of your fingers, smiling at everyone who asked for your time with those perfectly painted red lips. Lips he had devoured before, and that kept dragging him back to the memory of it… mercilessly so.

He didn’t hate to see you happy. But he hated not being the source of that happiness, and he hated himself even more because he had been the one who willfully walked away from it.

"Zuko," Aang whispered, leaning over his empty plate. "Just talk to her."

Zuko’s fingers locked around the stem of his chalice. "What do you mean? Talk to whom?"

"Yes, to whom, Fire Lord?" Lao Beifong inquired from the head of the table. "I was unaware there remained anyone in my delegation you wished to speak with."

Across the table, you had to press a hand to your mouth, a finger shielding the suppressed laugh that threatened to spill past your red lips.

Oh, your red lips… 

He felt warmth climb the back of his neck. Clearing his throat, he reached for his glass. 

"To all of you," he declared. "For an exceptionally fine evening, and for the continued prosperity between the Fire Nation and the grand enterprises of the Earth Kingdom."

The toast was met with a lot of polite assent and the clink of porcelain and crystal. Lao offered a nod and turned his attention back to a guest seated to his right.

Because the banquet table stretched nearly the length of the hall, the conversation fractured into two different worlds. At the head of the table, Lao and the older guests remained locked  in discussions regarding shipping tariffs and harbor borders. But at the far end, out of the merchant’s earshot, Sokka started a conversation with the movement of his chopsticks. 

“Okay, now that the official stuff is out of the way, we need to finish what we started in the hall before Zuko arrived. If we were all creatures of the four nations, what are we dealing with here?"

"Well, if we're talking about Zuko," Katara began, her blue eyes lighting up as she leaned on her elbows, "he's clearly a shirshu. Rigid, always on the hunt for something to be stressed about..."

"And if you get too close when he's cranky, he paralyzes you with a glare," Sokka added, pointing a chopstick at Zuko.

The table chuckled, but Zuko only scoffed.

"I am not a shirshu. If anything, I'm a dragon-moose. Majestic. Territorial. Highly sophisticated."

You let out an involuntary huff of a laugh. It wasn't the chuckle you had given the merchants earlier; it was an equally real and breathless sound that creased the corners of your eyes.

You had laughed. At him. The room lost its importance. He was sixteen again, desperate to prove he could keep up, and wondering if he could make you laugh again. 

"Oh, please, Sparky," Toph smirked, throwing a peanut into the air and catching it in her mouth. "You're about as majestic as a flying bison trying to squeeze through a palace window."

"Hey! Appa is very majestic," Aang defended.

"Aang, you're more of a turtle-duck," Zuko countered, leaning back into his chair, his voice adopting the tone he usually reserved for strategy meetings. "Mild-mannered, terrified of conflict, and you spend half your time floating around in circles hoping everyone just decides to get along."

Sokka laughed, slapping his hand against the table.

"A direct hit! What about Katara?"

Zuko turned his gaze to the waterbender, his smirk growing. "A platypus-bear. Protective to a fault, but the second someone messes with her routines, she turns into a beast that could rip a man's arm off."

Katara huffed in mock offense. "I am not a creature!" she protested.

Zuko was riding high on the rhythm of it now. He felt in control, even more so knowing that you found his comments amusing rather than irritating or unbearable.

Sokka’s eyes danced back across the table, landing on you.

"Alright, Fire Lord Hotman, you're on a roll," Sokka grinned, leaning back and crossing his arms. "What about our director, right here?"

Zuko leaned forward, resting his forearms against the table. And if he had managed it once, perhaps, just perhaps, he could coax another smile from you. 

And, if the spirits were feeling particularly generous, the two of you could share a more amicable conversation than the one he had originally envisioned.

"A turtle duck," Zuko stated, his eyes locking onto yours. “Because every time she's upset she dives underwater and pretends the rest of us don't exist.”

Sokka let out an ooh, eagerly turning his head to see the reaction.

You didn't flinch. You merely had a tragically beautiful smile spreading across your lips.

"A creative assessment, Lord Zuko," you replied. "I must say I agree with Katara... I’ve always found the shirshu far more accurate for you." 

Zuko’s smirk faltered. "The... shirshu?"

"Yes," you said, looking at no one else but him. "Katara mentioned earlier how they are always hunting for something to be stressed about. But we forget the most important part: when a shirshu gets overwhelmed by a scent, it doesn't really stay to face it. It strikes blindly, paralyzes the only thing close to it, and flees, leaving whatever it broke to rot."

Sokka's booming laughter rolled through the room, oblivious to the undercurrent. Katara chuckled into her wine, and even Aang offered a grin at the sharp wit.

His hands, previously resting loose and confident on top of the table, retreated into his lap, fingers curling into fists beneath the tabletop to hide the tremor in his knuckles.

On your seat, you had already resumed your meal as though you hadn’t just summarized the worst decision of his life in a single metaphor.

“Well! Since the Earth Kingdom obviously wins this round of the draft,” Sokka beamed, "can somebody pass the dumplings?”

Aang began explaining a bizarre Air Nomad festival tradition to one of the guild representatives, using his hands to describe ancient kites. Beside him, Katara and Toph started arguing over whether badger-moles or saber-toothed moose-lions would win in a fight.

The world kept spinning.

Zuko stared into the untouched tea in his cup, watching his own hollow reflection ripple against the green ceramic. He had foolishly allowed himself to believe, if only for a second, that talking to you might be simple.

It was agonizingly clear what he had to do next: he had to run.

Lao Beifong had generously offered every guest a room in the eastern wing of the estate, knowing most of his guests had traveled far, and a formal tour of the factory was already scheduled for the following morning. But Zuko knew he couldn't stay, not when every accidental meeting of your eyes carried the promise of a blaze. Whether it would end in ashes or light was no longer his to decide. 

Perhaps he should thank Lao for his hospitality, fabricate some excuse about urgent matters in the capital, and be gone before sunrise. The conversation with you he’d rehearsed a thousand times during the journey there now seemed about as achievable as convincing Appa to sneak unnoticed through the halls of his palace. And why should he even try? Why should he attempt to bridge the chasm he had built, when it was painfully evident that you had flourished in the soil of his rejection, with your life so complete there was no place left for him in?

He knew he had forfeited the right to be part of that life the day he’d walked away. Perhaps the kindest thing he could do now… was leave it undisturbed.

𐙚₊˚⊹♡ ⋆𐙚₊˚

Zuko tracked the older merchant to the edge of the courtyard, but as he drew near, Lao’s voice carried over the din of the departing guests who wouldn't join the tour.

"—an invaluable asset to the family's enterprise. Three rival guilds had spent the better part of a decade refusing to sit at the same table. She had them signing the same agreement before sunset," Lao was saying to a prominent magistrate. "I confess, I had hoped a match with the young Minister's son would secure her future in the Earth Kingdom permanently. She declined the proposal before I'd even finished telling her about it." He chuckled, shaking his head. "Said she had no intention of abandoning the company while there were still guilds left to win over. I've been trying to convince her to take a proper break for a while now." 

Zuko stopped dead in his tracks. You rejected a proposal. 

The magistrate nodded.

"A rare sort of dedication."

"She is a rare sort of woman," Lao admitted. "Every major guild in the Earth Kingdom knows her by name. Half our legal disputes never reach arbitration because she settles them before they become problems. The contracts she drafts have become the standard others imitate." His smile widened with paternal pride. "Frankly, Earthen Fire Industries would be a far poorer company without her. Did I ever tell you what she accomplished in Ba Sing Se?" 

Before he could hear more, a hushed dispute caught his attention a few paces away.

Near a stone pillar, you were standing face-to-face with Toph. Your shoulders were rigid, your arms crossed. Toph was leaning in.

"You're lying to yourself if you think you hid it," Toph muttered, her voice as low as Toph could, its protectiveness impossible to miss. "I could feel your pulse from across the room the second he—“

"I am not talking about this, Toph," you snapped.

Without waiting for a response, you turned on your heel, your skirts sweeping against the polished tile as you hurried past the archway and vanished into the moonlit sanctuary of the Beifong gardens. Toph stood still, letting out a frustrated sigh when the vibrations of your footsteps disappeared beneath her feet. 

Zuko decided his conversation with Lao could wait. Stepping past the pillar, he made his way to the arched bridge overlooking the koi pond. He caught a glimpse of you before you realized he was there.

Your shoulders shook. You were breaking apart. But the moment your ears caught his hesitant step, you… transformed. 

By the time you turned around, you had rebuilt your walls.

Zuko stopped a few paces back on the crest of the bridge, his hands tucked into his sleeves. The closer he stood, the harder it became to remember why he’d convinced himself he could live without you. You were, quite simply, magnificent. The girl he’d left behind in the Caldera had disappeared somewhere along the years, replaced by a woman whose very presence demanded his attention.

"I saw you walk out. I wanted to make sure you were okay."

You let out a humorless laugh. Instead of retreating, you moved into his space without hesitation.

"Did you, Fire Lord? I assure you, I am perfectly fine. I’m sure there are more people inside who’d be pleased to hear one of your creature comparisons.”

"Don't do that," he muttered, his mind already scrambling under the sudden whiplash of your proximity. "Don’t act like we're strangers. I didn’t mean to offend you at dinner, I just… I just want to explain myself."

"Oh, Zuko." You said, your eyes reflecting the cool silver of the moon as you looked him up and down. "Whatever explanation you’ve been carrying around in your head all these years... you can keep it. I might have needed those answers years ago, when I was packing my bags to leave the Fire Nation. But now? I don't need them. And you don’t have to keep pretending we’re on good terms.”

He frowned.

“I’m not pretending.”

“No?” You smiled in a hollow expression as you brushed an stray strand of hair behind your ear, looking past him toward the water. “I assumed you were doing this for everyone’s benefit. Now, if you’ll excuse me…”

You took a small step backward to sweep past him, but your heel caught on the uneven masonry of the bridge's edge. You gasped, losing your balance for a second as you began to tilt toward the dark water below.

He reached you in a single stride, one arm circling your waist as he pulled you against him. You collided with his chest, your hands finding his shoulders on instinct while his grip held you fast.

Neither of you made the first move to step away. You still fit against him. 

Your pulse fluttered against his palm, matching the quiet betrayal of his own. So much for the careful distance you’d both spent the evening pretending to keep. 

You looked up at him, close enough that the air between you no longer belonged to either of you. There was the faintest curve to your lips and you leaned closer until your words found his ear instead of the space between you.

“You’ve changed, you know. You’ve become very handsome,” you murmured.

His fingers flexed against your waist. He was utterly confused by the type of poison you were offering to him.

“I suppose ruling a nation agrees with you…” Your gaze didn’t leave his. “It certainly agrees with your ability to leave things unresolved.”

"Just allow me to explain, I—"

“I promise you, I’m fine, Zuko.” You said as you steadied yourself.  

“You rejected proposals,” he blurted. “Why?”

You laughed against his collarbone before you eased back just enough to meet his gaze, your fingertips brushing the front of his tunic as his hands remained at your hips.

“Is it not clear enough? I’m busy. If you heard about my personal life- which you have no right to even think about,” you emphasized, pressing a finger to his chest, “you surely must’ve heard what I mean to the company. I don’t have time for love. Not yours, not anyone’s. And I’m absolutely fine with that.”

“I don’t think it has anything to do with me," Zuko whispered, as he refused to break eye contact. "But I came here hoping we could—“

"I don’t want to talk. There’s nothing I want to hear from you," you interrupted. "You made your decision, and even if I didn’t understand it, I don’t need to know why you did.”

Your hand lifted of its own accord, straightening the collar of his robes.

“I don't feel mad at you anymore. Because I don't feel anything for you at all."

You gently pushed against his shoulders, signaling him to let go.

Zuko released his grip, stepping back. He had imagined this reunion a thousand different ways over the years: he had braced himself for your hatred, had absurdly prayed for your forgiveness, and had even prepared for the possibility that you might just pretend he wasn’t there at all. But this dizzying, volatile, ivy growing game, had not been in the list at all.The cruelty of your words wrapped in the intoxicating heat of your proximity... he couldn't make sense of either, let alone both at once. 

He opened his mouth to challenge your lie, but as you stood beneath the moonlight with your head tilted back in defiant victory, the light caught on the intricate ornaments pinned into your hair.

Nestled subtly beneath the expensive gold of House Beifong, was a small piece of polished wood. The old and imperfect hairpin he had clumsily carved for you with a pocket knife years ago, back when you were just two teenagers trying to survive.

It was hidden, but he'd have known it anywhere.

Your hairpin contradicted every word you’d spoken... and he wasn't leaving this estate until he figured out exactly what you were trying to do.

Zuko gave a single nod. "Alright. Goodnight, Director." 

You turned on your heel, your gown sweeping the stone tiles as you walked back toward the pavilion, leaving him standing alone on the crest of the bridge. He smoothed the front of his formal robes, turning to walk back toward the reception hall. Lao Beifong was still standing near the archway, offering a smile.

Zuko tore his gaze from the doorway where you had just disappeared and turned back to Lao.

"My apologies, Lao," he said with an incline of his head. "It can wait until tomorrow. I was wondering, however... would you mind showing me to my room?"

𐙚₊˚⊹♡ ⋆𐙚₊˚

Who did Zuko think he was?

Other than the first boy to break your heart, the keeper of your first kiss, your first love, your youth, your Fire Nation dreams, and far too many sleepless nights…

Who did he think he was?

From the moment you had seen him walk into the reception hall, you knew he was planning something. You'd known it in the space between the two beats your heart had skipped at the sight of him.

What you had told him on the bridge was a lie. You weren’t fine at all, obviously. You had spent years agonizing over the wreckage he left behind, drowning in late night questions with no answers. Had you stopped being enough the moment he became Fire Lord? Had he outgrown the girl who knew him before? Had your love just been an inconvenient relic of a war he wanted to forget? For years, you had spilled those exact, bitter questions to Toph, a safe harbor for the ugly truths you couldn’t tell anyone else.

Oh, Toph. That woman had proven to be an absolute traitor.

You remembered the exchange near the stone pillar just before you had fled to the garden. You had been trying to steady your breathing, your fingers worrying at one another, when Toph intercepted you.

“Not in the mood for a lecture, Toph.”

“Good, 'cause I don't give 'em,” she scoffed, crossing her arms. “I'm just pointing out the obvious: you’re not over him. I told you we could've just had my dad scratch his name off the guest list, but no, you had to be stubborn!”

“I told you—”

She caught you by the arm. 

“... And what did that get you? You're treating him like an unexploded blasting jelly crate. For a fancy director, you’re acting pretty dumb. The guy is practically vibrating out of his boots just looking at you. There’s gotta be a reason he did what he did.”

“No, Toph. You’re not defending him. Not now, not after everything we’ve discussed,” you hissed, pulling away from her grasp and stepping closer to her, your voice a furious whisper. “What happened to ‘the day you see him again, you’re gonna make him regret breathing Fire Nation air’?”

Toph let out a mocking laugh. “That was when I assumed you could keep your cool! Right now, you're a mess, Sparky is a mess, and maybe it wouldn’t be the end of the world if you just shut up and heard him out.”

"I'm handling it and hiding it, Toph. He doesn't get to see otherwise." 

"You're lying to yourself if you think you hid it," Toph had muttered. "I could feel your pulse from across the room the second he—"

"I am not talking about this, Toph," you snapped before you turned and walked away.

The only real truth you had given him tonight was the compliment. He had changed, indeed. He looked every inch the Fire Lord now, broader in the shoulders, carrying himself with a magnetic gravity that made it impossible to look anywhere else when he was in the room. It infuriated you how easily he still drew you within his reach.

Your thoughts were still a chaotic storm as you followed the estate servant guiding you toward your quarters. When she unlocked the door to your room, you glanced down the empty corridor. Every other door on this level was firmly shut.

"Where are the rest of the guests staying?" you inquired.

"The rest of the delegation is accommodated on the first floor, Lady Beifong's orders," the servant replied politely, bowing her head. "Only you and one other guest will be occupying this floor tonight. If you require anything at all, please feel free to ring the bell and someone will come up shortly."

Before you could even process the weight of suspicion dropping into your stomach, the sound of footsteps caught your attention. You turned your head just as another servant rounded the corner, carrying a set of fine linens. Walking right behind him, his formal red robes casting shadows under the light, was Zuko.

You turned back to the attendant before she could slip away, gesturing down the empty corridor.

“Is this the only room available? I hate to say it, but I’m the director of—”

The servant extended a folded piece of parchment your way.

“Lady Beifong sent this along in anticipation of your objection. Excuse me, Miss.”

She bowed and hurried down the stairs, leaving you stranded in the hall.

You snapped the parchment open. Written in incredibly messy and uneven ink (obviously dictated by Toph but written by a very enthusiastic hand) were a few blunt sentences:

‘Don’t complain and listen to Shifu Toph.

Get him back, however that might be for you. And yes, Sokka helped me write this (Hi!!!!) 

— T (& S).’

You stared at the page, you felt your eye twitching before you folded the parchment and squeezed it in your palm.

The attendant guiding the Fire Lord frowned down at the neatly folded bundle in his arms before looking between the two doors.

“My apologies,” he said. “It appears we’re short one set of bath linens. I'll have another brought up at once." 

“There’s no need,” you replied at the same time Zuko said, “It’s alright.”

The servant hesitated, his gaze darting back and forth. “If one of you wouldn’t mind waiting just a moment—”

“I’ll take it tomorrow, don’t worry,” you said, extending a hand to dismiss them.

“So will I,” Zuko answered, matching your stride.

You reached for the bundle together, your fingertips grazing for the briefest moment.

Both of you pulled back on instinct. The folded linens tumbled from your grasp, scattering across the floorboards. The attendant looked horrified, his hands dropping to his sides.

“I am terribly sorry—”

“It’s alright,” you and Zuko said in unison.

Before you could even think to bend down, Zuko was already dropping to one knee, gathering the scattered fabric with careful hands. The gesture was so instinctive, so ordinary that it caught you completely off guard.

Zuko was kneeling. Right at your feet. Smoothing the wrinkles from a stack of borrowed towels with his thumbs as though it were the most important duty he’d been given all evening.

He looked up, and your breath caught in your throat. He held the folded linens up toward you.

You stared down at him, your fingers curling into the fabric of your gown just to keep them steady.

A loose strand of dark hair had escaped the neat tie at the nape of his neck, falling over his forehead. He didn’t look like the Fire Lord you wished to hate, he looked like the boy who used to build campfires with you in the middle of nowhere.

“They’re yours,” you managed.

“They’re ours, apparently.”

A corner of his mouth lifted. It was the same smile that used to arrive right before he laughed.

The servant returned around the corner, breathing a little heavily and carrying a second bundle.

“Oh! Wonderful,” he said. “I found another set.”

You blindly reached out and accepted the fresh linens, clutching them to your chest.

“Thank you. Goodnight.”

Without looking back down at Zuko, you stepped backward into your room and shut the door. Only once the metal latch clicked firmly into place did you allow your shoulders to drop, pressing your back against the door. You exhaled and closed your eyes.

You had spent years preparing for the day you saw Zuko again.

You hadn’t prepared for him to smile.

𐙚₊˚⊹♡ ⋆𐙚₊˚

You had stripped out of the formal gown and the intricate ornaments, leaving your hair to fall loosely around your shoulders. Last came the old wooden hairpin. You traced around the worn carving before you set it beside the rest.

Clad only in a green sleeping robe, you lay staring up at the canopy of the bed. You had expected to feel a sense of triumph after the garden. You had held your ground. You had delivered your lines flawlessly…

Instead, every time you closed your eyes, the back of your eyelids played a cruel loop of the evening.

The way he’d walked into the reception hall, the jokes he’d traded with Sokka, the steady grip of his hands around the stem of his chalice- the same hands that had found your waist on the bridge.

You rolled onto your side, dragging a pillow into your chest, but it did nothing.

It was normal to miss him, right? You had done that more than you would admit, but seeing him after the time you spent apart- Agni, the paintings and posters you’d seen through the years did him no justice. 

His hair had grown longer, his jaw had sharpened, his body had filled into itself, broader now beneath those impossibly formal robes. Even through the thick material, you’d noticed the difference. You wondered how they’d feel without all those layers between you…

You squeezed your eyes shut. 

It really shouldn’t have mattered. After everything he’d done, everything he’d never explained, it shouldn’t have mattered that he’d become even more beautiful than the version your memory had stubbornly preserved.

Weirdly enough, wanting him wasn’t making you feel guilty. If anything, what felt woefully wrong was pretending you didn’t for longer than necessary.

Your hands found their way through your underwear… What harm could indulging in a few thoughts of him do? 

A muffled sound from the other side of the wall made you snatch your hand away.

The creak of floorboards followed. A moment later, the metallic sound of something being set down on a washbasin confirmed what you feared: Zuko was awake. 

You lay still, now aware of just how thin the wall between your rooms really was. Less than a foot of wood and plaster separated you, and judging by the layout of the guest wing, his bed was most likely situated on the opposite side of the wall from yours.

Your thoughts waltzed into dangerous territory.

He was, most likely, undoing the stiff collar of his robes, running both hands through his hair, pacing the room unable to sleep just like you. 

You hated that the thought comforted you, but that didn’t stop the wave of heat that bloomed in your chest, radiating outward until the tips of your fingers tingled. Your hand drifted over the silk gathered at your waist, slipping lower for the second time…

You stopped. 

This was getting ridiculous. He didn’t deserve another moment of your thoughts, let alone another sleepless night.

“Get him back, however that might be for you,” Toph had written- well, Sokka had, signing Toph’s name.

An idea came to your mind.

Your fingers went back between your legs, straight to your clit, beginning a movement in slow circles that turned into faster and wider ones the wetter you grew. 

You let out a whimper as you rolled your hips against your hand which just made you press harder and let a sharp gasp spill freely into the dark room. Every sound you made grew louder on purpose, pitched just right to cut through the walls. You wanted him to know exactly what he was doing to your sanity.

On the other side of the plaster, Zuko was trapped.

When your first whimper hit his ears, he had frozen on the center of his bed. He tried to tell himself to move, to cover his ears, to pace to the other side of the room, but his body flatly refused. 

The sound of your voice broke his defenses in a second, sending a rush of blood straight to his groin.

With trembling fingers, he reached into his trousers, his palm closing around the thick length of his cock. It was already leaking, stiff and desperate.

He didn't make a sound. He refused to give you the satisfaction after your wicked games, so he clamped his jaw shut, his teeth grinding together so hard his muscles ached, trying to keep his breathing silent as he began to stroke himself. 

He worked his hand faster, trying and failing to keep some kind of control. He was completely losing his mind. Agni, he shouldn't be doing this. He knew it, but hearing you sound so small and desperate for him? That was a temptation he’d never been able to fight.

Through the wall, the silence from his side only pushed you harder. The lack of a response made you shameless. Your voice climbed higher, raw and distressed, your hips rocking faster as you let the pleasure show in every ragged cry. You imagined his hands on you, imagined him looking up at you exactly how he had in the hallway. You could almost feel his mouth hovering over your center, his breath hot, his heavy hands keeping you pinned against the mattress as his lips closed around you.

“Zuko!” you moaned, to his surprise… and yours too.

You wondered if he could even hear you at all over the roaring in your own ears. But on the other side, Zuko pressed his eyes shut, throwing his head back into the pillow as the sound of his name leaving your lips worked its way beneath his skin.

One of your hands traveled to your chest, squeezing your breast over your robe. You wondered… would he slurp? Would he start licking you?

One thing was for sure: he would’ve changed the way he used to eat you out when you were dating. There was no way he’d spent these years without perfecting the skill looking the way he did. He used to be a bit clumsy back then- which you actually liked, just so eager to taste you, but he would always leave a kiss in the curves of your pelvis every single time before diving in, a mere ritual to pretend he was composed.

You bit your lip at the memory. Moving the hand from your chest, you slipped two fingers inside your slick warmth while your other hand kept circling your clit.

And two things were for certain: he would look astonishing looking up at you right before his tongue took you under. Your rhythm accelerated at the mental image of your fingers guiding him, threading through those now longer strands of hair to hold him against you. 

Of all the things your mind could have chosen by now, it settled on th private lift of his lips from the hallway. That devastating smile… but right there between your thighs. 

That alone pushed you straight over the precipice.

Your whole body trembled, and a  sobbing moan ripped from your throat as your climax crashed over you, repeating his name over and over again. 

The sound of your undoing was the exact moment Zuko’s control shattered into ash. A deep grunt ripped straight from the back of his throat, heavy and unchecked as he came, his fist working frantically to catch the spills of his release.

It was your turn to freeze against your sheets, your chest heaving.

He had been doing it too. He had heard everything, and he had just broken.

On the other side, Zuko sat in the dark, his breathing ragged, his hand still slick. He had given himself away.

The song of jade crickets outside filled the space of both rooms in the rash absence of moans and whimpers. Your hands folded on top of your robe as your thoughts began to race: What if he thought you were insane? What were you thinking, touching yourself for him to hear?

Zuko rearranged his trousers, his breath still recovering. What if you thought he was insane? What was he thinking, touching himself to the sounds you were making in the privacy of your own room?

A bigger, and truthfully, upsetting question arose: What were the two of you even doing?

Through the wall, the floorboards in his room creaked. Footsteps crossed his floor. Right when you thought those footsteps would run, as you were used to him doing, they moved out into the corridor instead.

Three sharp knocks sounded against your bedroom door.

Part 2.

It was something you knew from the start of the relationship, one day he would get tired and leave. This message just confirmed it all for you. 

You just didn't expect a guy like him to break up over text, of all the things. The conversation you two had was normal and out of nowhere he brought up that you two needed to talk, Broke up, and that was that.

Your eyes were teary, in all honesty Kuroo was someone you let into your life. You let him become this huge part of your life and now he was the one to break up over text. 

You knew better than to cry but it could not be helped, you love him and nothing would fix that in an instant. When someone breaks up that love doesn't go away instantly. It fades over time. 

You weren't sure how much time it would take you to get over him.

The second it was confirmed and he had said his final words. You knew school life would be a mess having to face him in person. 

His final words stuck to you, they really did.

“you really are an amazing beautiful person, I want you to know that” 

“Im sorry”

“You'll find someone soon trust”

As if the main concern is to look for a partner after a break up. Sure for most it's their ideal comeback after a break up. But you knew that wasn't what you needed. You needed to heal first or else you would just end up hurting someone else by not providing genuine feelings into that relationship.

The fact that he mentioned that stuck to you the whole night. 

The next morning you woke up recalling what had happened the night before and in all honesty you were debating on just going back to bed.

Despite the tempting thoughts you decided to get ready and head to school. 

On the walk you felt someone run up behind you. You turned around to see a tired Kenma from running. You were a bit confused at what was going on.

“Hey I know you probably don't want to you know this about Kuroo but hes–”

“We broke up” 

“Wait what?” He said confused. 

“He broke up with me last night, saying we were better off as friends.”

“Last night I found out he had been talking to these other girls while you two were dating.” 

You couldn't accept it, I mean kuroo had been the perfect boyfriend up until recently. Could it be that he did not feel interested because he found someone else?

This was too much to take in the morning, you felt the familiar burn in your eyes. You blinked a couple times not sure how to reply. 

“How did you find out?” was all you were able to muster up.

“He left his phone on and I'm guessing he knew I saw it and figured to break up with you before you found out from me.” Kenma shrugged.

“Thank you, honestly I was going to keep up with the whole “just friends” thing but I'm not sure anymore” you said looking ahead at the entrance gate. 

“no problem, I didn't know he was going to act this fast but I needed to tell you what I had witnessed”

After arriving at school, you felt a jumbled mess. You thought you were prepared to face him but then you learn what he had done while you two were together, it mixed up all these emotions deep within you.

You felt betrayed, mad that you didn't realize sooner, and sad that he of all people did this to you. Someone you trusted completely with your life.

While you arrived at class you scrolled through Instagram, you looked through stories from other friends. Most from your school's volleyball club, a few from others like Fukurodani and Karasuno.

You got a message from someone, you'd recognized him instantly. Tsukishima.

It was impossible to not know him, you’d met briefly during the training camp. His height makes it impossible to not notice him in a room.

He was a year younger than you, a first year from Karasuno and a middle blocker. Which didn't surprise you given his height.

He was nice and respectful towards you unlike what most of the volleyball club members say about his attitude. You got to see a bit of it when he was around his teammates, his snarky comments and constant teasing of Hinata and Kageyama during matches.

You found it silly how he can look so serious but also manage to laugh while bickering with teammates. 

So when most of the Karasuno team followed you on Instagram, you were very shocked to say the least when he also had followed you.

But now he’d finally worked up the courage to message you.

You were about to open the message before your best friend wrapped her arm around you. 

“Ooo who’s that?” she asked, looking over your phone. You turned off your phone. 

“Someone from volleyball, anyways what's up” you said trying to shift the conversation around.

“Is something wrong? You look sad. Your eyes” she said looking at you.

“Well uhh Kuroo broke up with me last night” you said looking away from her, once the words finally registered, she gasped.

“HE WHAT?” 

Thinking back on that day, you should've told her what Kenma had told you, or maybe she knew and thought he wouldn't do that to her too.

Tsukishima on the other hand was irritated, it was almost the end of the day and you still didn't respond, you haven't even opened the message. There's no way Hinata lied that Kuroo had broken up with you, he said Kenma was the one that told him. 

Apparently that giant rooster head was talking to other people while he was dating you. 

He wouldn't be as bothered, if you didn't help him during the training camp. When he was struggling to realize his potential. Hidden by the envy he had of Hinata during that time.  

Yet you had noticed from just glancing at the situation once, he didn't know why you bothered. Afterall you were just someone from Nekoma. You shouldn't be helping him if you're rooting for the other side right?

Or  maybe that's just who you are, someone who helps others.

He was grateful. 

The next day he was about to thank you for having that talk with him, that was when he noticed the way Kuroo would tug you away from the crowd and pull you into a kiss. 

He didn't feel bothered, after all you only talked to him once. But that entire week of training camp, he noticed the little things you did for Nekoma, and the other teams there. You weren't a manager but you still met with the managers and helped them out with the water bottles and towels.

When it was time for lunch and food, you also helped with preparing and handing out the food. 

He saw these sides to you that made him want to get to know you, it was stupid he thought to himself. 

He was about to put the phone down when he finally received a notification from instagram.

 “I'm okay, thank you tho for worrying about me.” 

He sighed he shouldn't get involved.

That's what he told himself but after that message, the two of you ended up talking the whole night about what had happened. You told him how you felt. Throughout the day you would update him.

“I just walked past him”

“Didnt feel anything”

He would respond

“Good”

“He doesn't deserve your attention”

Two weeks had passed since you and Tsukishima became close friends. And you thought nothing related to Kuroo would affect you. Until you saw the message he left you.

“y/n”

“Can I talk to you”

“I was talking to your friend…I was wondering if you'd be fine with me yk being with her?

You wanted to ask. Why would he do this when you guys broke up not that long ago. 

You replied 

“I don't really mind but thank you for asking”

He only liked the message.

That night you called Tsukishima. You felt awful leaning on him when you clearly don't have your feelings sorted out. 

But like always Tsukishima didn't mind, he told you he was okay with it.

Your friend finally messaged you. On fucking valentines day. 

Asking about Kuroo. Was he really a player? And what had happened. 

You told her no, she should know what he was like if she was talking to him right?

It wasn't until later that night when she messaged you again.

“GIRL YK WHAT KUROO ASKED ME”

You were so tired of playing along, irritated was exactly what you felt.

Did she have no shame?

“What did he ask”

“He asked me out!” she unsent the message a few seconds after making sure you read it. 

“What did you say?”

“Yes” she also unsent this message. 

“Ill just play along to see where it ends”

After reading that message you knew she was already too far gone. She also fell for him. 

After that you would see them in the halls, holding hands and the usual pda that Kuroo would when he was with you too.

The pain soon disappeared as new feelings began to blossom. 

Tsukishima was always there for you when you needed someone most. The two of you clearly liked each other. 

During the battle of the dumpster. You finally got to see tsukishima again in person. It wasn't through video call but he was actually there. 

Despite attending Nekoma, you stood on Karusano's side, cheering them on. 

You saw how hard they worked on improving to beat Nekoma and all their work paid off in the end. 

After the match finally had finished you ran to Tsukishima.

It was weird to see him in person after you've spent the last few months only seeing and hearing him on your phone. 

“Hey” you said looking up at him.

“Hey is all I get?” he said, narrowing his eyes on you.

“I'm nervous okay.?” You said taking his hand. 

He stiffened at your touch, his ears showing just how much it was affecting him. 

“Whatever,” he said, trying to look away. 

“JUST KISS ALREADY!!” You can hear his teammates yell out.

His face looked annoyed but once he looked back at you it disappeared. 

His hand grabbed your face, his other hand placed on your hip. 

 He finally leaned in and kissed you softly. 

You could hear the cheering from Karusano on the side. It was a bit embarrassing but you weren't alone.

One he broke the kiss he put his head on your shoulder, definitely trying to hide. 

“Its hard to hide when you're that tall” You said as your hand went through his hair. 

“Shut up and just stay like this,” he said. Earning a laugh from you.

“Okay I’ll be quiet now”

Things might've been awful for you at the start but you've learned that things happen for a reason. If you didn't go through that, you wouldn't have ended up here embracing tsukishima. 

In the end everything ended up good, you found someone who loves you. 

And most importantly someone you love.

a/n: this was inspired by my ex and ex friend lmao, anyways I do recommend you guys to go to TikTok for Lena's version she very much cooked on her part!! Thank you everyone for reading. I love you all so much.

For years you have worked in a factory but what credit do you - You stopped yourself. There was no use going down that route. You owed everything to Mable’s family. 

Your aunt said your name, her accent dripping with honey. “Mable isn’t feeling well. Could you make her some chicken and dumplings?” Her cherry red lips were stretched into a smile that didn’t touch her eyes. You gave her the little girl smile she liked you to wear, all gums and wide eyes. And you nodded saying, “Yes ma’am.” 

You had been at the factory since four in the morning, you got off at six, took the bus and walked part of the way, only to get home at six-forty. But Mable, beautiful Mable came first. The chicken and dumplings would just be for her. Your aunt’s supper consisted of a bowl of broth and a cigarette unless there was company. There rarely was since Mable’s husband’s death. Heavy black drapery covered the windows and the furniture in the company parlor. You made your way to the kitchen, every step heavier than the last.

  You made the dough for the dumplings first, rolling it out, and cutting it in thick strips. Then you made the broth. There was no actual chicken left, but you did have some bones and canned stock. You chopped celery, each movement of the knife landing with a satisfying thwack. Your feet ached and you longed for a bath. To sink into the hot water, to wash away the grime and sweat of the day.  

When it was done, you put it in a bowl on a tray to carry up to Mable. Your knees ached as you went up the winding staircase to Mable’s room on the second floor. You found her curled up in bed. She sat up when you reached the edge of her bed. She blinked, the whites of her eyes were a horrible reddish colour. 

“Just set it on the vanity,” she drawled out, her voice slightly hoarse. 

  “Alright.” You didn’t look at her. You saw the perfume bottles and makeup canisters lined up on her vanity, the vases overflowing with flowers. If I sat home all day and entertained bored soldiers, I’d have that too. But you had never been called beautiful, or graceful, or stunning, like Mable had been since girlhood. Only pretty. Pretty is common, slightly above average, comfortable. Pretty isn’t the face men think of before they die or go off to war. Pretty is the girl men marry when they can’t achieve beautiful. Pretty is in the eyes of the beholder, while beautiful will always be universal. 

She says your name. Something about the way she says your name feels like boney white hands around your neck. “Why do you hate me?” 

You stopped, the tray clenched in your fingers. “Why would you say that?” You don’t recognize the voice leaving your body. 

She laughs, false and beautiful. “The way you look at me.” She pauses and you can hear her shifting in the sheets. “Like you want to wear my skin.”

“Not everything is about you, Mable.” 

You placed the tray on the vanity with a heavy thud. You walked to the door, still not looking at perfect Mable. 

That night you sank into a bath that you had made, Amelia, the maid, had already gone home, so you had to pump the water and carry it upstairs yourself. You had rinsed and wiped off the visible dirt downstairs, so the bath would just clean what that hadn’t gotten. The water was warm. It would have been wise to use cold water, but you have never been able to do that. The day the city finally got air conditioning would be a relief. But the war had paused the manufacturing of air conditioners. 

 The water felt good. The soap you had made a few months before scented the air like magnolias. Combined with the scent of the old house and the damp city air, it brought you back to your younger days. You could remember being a teenager, in Mable’s hand me downs, following just outside the group while Mable and Satoru Gojo mesmerized the group of teenagers. 

Satoru Gojo. You thought of him, his shockingly white hair, as white as snow. You had only seen snow once, when your uncle took the family skiing up North. Eyes as blue as a clear sky. He lived in your memory like a wintery northern god. You hoped he was still alive. But if he had been captured, you hoped he had died quickly. You had heard what they had done to those captured pilots. You winced. You couldn’t believe that he was alive. He burned too brightly to live a long life. Surely Satoru Gojo was dead at the bottom of the ocean. 

A few months before, somewhere in the Pacific. 

 It had been a day like any other, the day Satoru Gojo crashed. He had been briefed with the other pilots and he was ready to engage the enemy. He remembered Gunny, his air gunner, a buck-toothed kid from the footheels of the Tennessee mountains, swaggering over to him. “You ready to take our lady dancing?” He said grinning. His accent always reminded Satoru of peanut brittle, sweet, bumpy, with a touch of coarseness. 

  “She’s been getting a lot of dancing,” Gojo responds, glancing up at his girl. The Honoured One, in all her caustic beauty glared down at him. God, she was beautiful. Painted on her side was a leggy woman sitting seductively. The woman looked suspiciously like the female version of Gojo. When the ground crew showed him the painting, grinning and snickering, he had laughed. He rather liked the rendition of himself on The Honoured One. 

   They take flight and he can feel his blood pumping. Earth passes away as he enters the heavens. He always feels alone until they fulfill the mission, even though he knows his crew is around him. Alone on earth, alone in the sky. But when has he not been alone? Even since he was a child, he has known he was different, that he wasn’t like the others. That heaven had mandated him a separate path.

It doesn’t take long before the enemy swarms upon him. Then the first engine goes out, then his tail is shot off. He can hear Gunny, he can hear the cussing, the roar of his engine. Then he is falling and all he can think about is Lucifer falling from Heaven. How did it go?  Like lightning from heaven? Why couldn’t he remember it? Why did it matter? He was going to die -  he was going to die? 

The water cuts into his bones. He hears screaming - no, he is screaming. Something is wrong, his legs he thinks, they must be broken. Artillery hits the water. The bastards are still shooting at them, he realizes. A few minutes later, the shooting stops. The other airmen must have chased away the enemy fighter pilots. But then water is on fire - no, it's the spilled engine oil. And he hears more screaming, except this time it's not coming from him.

Only three of them are alive. Gunny died. Gunny is dead, he thinks numbly. The kid was heading back home in June. Happy goodnatured Gunny is dead. Gunny who had never looked at him differently because of his race. Gunny who had looked up to him. Three out of ten men are alive. 

The inflatable boat they rest on does little to keep the water out. But it’s better than being in the water. They can see the sharks circling, feasting on their dead crewmates. They blister in the sun, dying of thirst. Hakari breaks down sobbing and drinks the salt water, Satoru and Whit try to stop him. He died two days later. Then it was only Whit and Satoru. 

He does not remember what happened in the ensuing days. Maybe he cannot or will not face it. But he does remember her - the girl who gave him the stars. She sits at the edge of the boat too, so really there is three of them still.

When the enemy navy picks them up, it almost seems like heaven had sent them. It hadn't.

For a year he is formed again. His captors molding and breaking parts of Satoru he didn’t know existed. They were going to kill him two days after the war ended for an escape attempt. But by grace he is saved by the war ending. 

It takes a few months for him to get home. He is about to leave the bus, when the driver, an older soldier (probably reserves) stops him. He stands ramrod straight, raising his hand in a sharp salute. Gojo copies his motion and salutes. 

The old soldier breathes in smiling. “Welcome home, airman,” he says. 

Something wet presses at the corner of Gojo's eyes. He nods. The lump in his throat won't allow him to speak. 

He walks the streets, passing reuniting couples and families. The city is celebrating together. He distantly thinks of his great uncle. But he moves through the city alone. He stops at a few bars, his drinks are paid for, girls grin up at him. But he doesn't care. Nothing matters. Even if Star Girl herself walked up to him he wouldn't care. 

Star Girl. That was her. He recognized her moving through the crowd. He pushes through the bodies until he reaches her. 

He grins down at her. He couldn't let her see the man he's become. He has to be the hero she expects him to be. 

“Long time no see.” 

She gapes up at him. Good. He sees it now. He won’t be alone. He’ll have her. Satoru doesn’t care if she’s married or doesn’t remember him. She’s his. 

The air smells like victory or piss and heady perfume the day you see Satoru Gojo alive. You had crept out of the house alone. Your aunt was too busy consoling Mable, and Mable was too grief stricken to join the city's celebration, and your uncle was all the way up North on a business trip. So you stand alone as you face him.He’s thinner but just as handsome as he had been before. 

He says your name. “It’s me, I’m Satoru, I’ve come home.” 

The corridor outside the court lady's chambers was freezing in the particular, settling way stone gets when the night has overstayed its welcome. You had been standing in the dark for hours. Again. Quite frequently lately — to the point that the nightly babysitting had to be partly redelegated to a few trusted soldiers who were used to guarding his chambers on the nights you had the courtesy of actually sleeping.

The torches had burned down to spitting embers, and a pale, unforgiving grey was beginning to creep through the narrow window at the far end of the hall. Dawn.

He usually left before the sun rose. The fact that he hadn't was a deviation from the pattern — a pattern he hated but still abided by. It made you nervous, a paranoia that had nothing to do with exhaustion, or perhaps it had everything to do with it. You tried to think about his demeanors and endeavors less than strictly necessary. He was a steady path toward an early grave and you were running out of patience for the journey.

You waited another ten minutes, watching the light shift against the dust motes. Nothing. No movement. No sound from beyond the oak.

You stepped forward, the leather of your boots loud in the empty corridor, and raised your hand.

Your knuckles struck the wood. Three sharp raps. The sound felt absurdly loud at this ungodly hour, a violent intrusion into whatever he was doing, but you were past caring about that. If he was dead, you needed to know.

A long moment passed.

The latch finally clicked. The door swung inward just a fraction, but it wasn't the prince who answered it.

The court lady stood in the narrow gap, clutching a sheer silk sheet to her chest. Her hair was a tangled mess, her skin flushed in the specific, heated way that confirmed the prince was certainly not asleep. She blinked at you — fully armed, exhausted, and silently furious — caught completely off guard by the sight of you waiting outside her apartment. Definitely not an expected development in her delightful evening, pardon, morning.

"Is he alive?" you asked. Flat. Devoid of any polite preamble or tact.

She stammered, her flush deepening rapidly down her neck. "He is — yes. He is very vigorous, actually. We were just resting. In between—"

"Good," you said, cutting off whatever intimate detail she was about to spill. These people were apparently far too comfortable sharing their explicit thoughts here and there — and you'd always thought it was just the prince who lacked any ounce of dignity.

You turned around, presenting your back to the door, and resumed your post.

The door clicked shut behind you. Hurried. Embarrassed.

When he finally emerged a half hour later, his eyes found you immediately. His expression went entirely blank — not the lazy contempt you'd become fluent in, something flatter than that, something that had stopped bothering to perform. He didn't speak. You didn't speak. Just as you were both newly used to.

He made a quiet, dismissive sound in the back of his throat and stepped out into the corridor. You fell into step behind him, watching the back of his unbuttoned shirt — keeping your distance, this time walking perhaps a little further back than required, perhaps out of pettiness, or perhaps because you could feel the trailing scent of the court lady's rose perfume drifting off him.

The day had only just begun.

And it always followed the same shape. Him moving through the castle like something with a low-grade fever — present in body, absent in every other sense. Deliberately, maybe. You had stopped caring about the reason. It was the restlessness of someone who had too much energy and nowhere clean to put it.

The silence between you had settled into something almost structural by now, like a wall neither of you had officially agreed to build but both of you were maintaining with quiet, stubborn diligence.

He was invited everywhere. And more so after the argument — as if fate had a cruel idea of how to punish you even further. It was the particular cruelty of his position: the court kept extending its invitations regardless of whether he deserved them, regardless of what he'd done to the last room he'd been placed in, because he was the heir, and the heir's presence at your gathering meant proximity to the crown. It meant social optics.

You attended everything he attended. You stood behind every chair he sat in. You watched every room recalibrate itself around him, feeling the secondhand embarrassment of his ruthless, childish behavior — behavior he had oh so enjoyed displaying ever since you'd closed that door behind you. But you had to stand through all of it. You weren't regretting the fight. You were regretting losing your composure. Regretting that the prince had lost his. And this was the outcome — a chasm wide between you, further from each other than you had ever been, no acknowledgment from either side. Petulant, both of you. In your own specific, stubborn ways.

You said nothing. You couldn't. Wouldn't. Shouldn't. You only filed everything, and the drawer's wood had stopped splintering and started simply — giving.

You accompanied the prince to Lord Geto's gathering. A small thing, by the court's standards. A private affair in Geto's receiving rooms. Twenty people, perhaps less, the kind of number that suggested intimacy rather than spectacle.

You'd stood your post near the door as the room filled, keeping your distance out of particular distaste rather than duty, watching the usual choreography of courtiers arranging themselves into their preferred proximities, noting exits, noting faces, noting the way people danced around each other. 

He'd been fine for the first hour. Relatively. Fine, in his current definition of the word, which meant he was drinking at a pace that concerned you mildly rather than acutely, and directing his restlessness at Lord Geto's wine collection rather than at any specific person in the room. You'd watched him work through two glasses and then a third, his high-neck tie getting progressively looser, the stiffness in his shoulders disappearing by degrees, the performed ease of the early evening giving way to something less managed and more genuine — genuine in the way he was always genuine, which was to say that it stopped being a performance and started being a problem.

Somewhere around the fourth glass, the room had gotten warm.

The courtiers had been inside perhaps too long, the air becoming a bit suffocating, the candles adding their own heat to the press of bodies and conversation, someone eventually gravitating toward the tall glass doors at the far end of the room and pushing one open.

The cold air came in like a relief. And the prince gravitated toward the open door like a moth to a lamp.

The balcony was narrow and stone-flagged and entirely unfit for a late autumn evening, the kind of outdoor space that existed more as architectural detail than functional use once the season turned. The cold hit immediately. Three or four men had drifted out with him, enough to constitute a small audience, not enough to constitute a crowd. Someone had thought to bring their wine. Someone else had not thought to bring a coat. The prince on the loose, and his garments apparently on the loose too — the neck tie long forgotten, his jerkin abandoned somewhere inside Lord Geto's apartment.

He was leaning against the railing.

Not thinking about the physics of his own body, one elbow hooked over the stone, his weight distributed with the careless confidence of someone in thoroughly mindless spirits. The courtiers around him were laughing at something, the easy performed laughter in the presence of the heir. He was not particularly cold, or if he was, he had decided not to be — which with him amounted to the same thing.

You were cold. Very cold. Your ensemble had not accounted for possible outdoor outings — a short pourpoint being entirely insufficient for this particular brand of late autumn cruelty. For this bloody weather, you would have done anything for a cloak like the wiser gentlemen around you.

The autumn air found every gap in your garment as if it had been waiting for the opportunity.

The prince, apparently, took the opportunity as well — leaning further over the railing, as though whatever he was watching on the ground below would become much much clearer the closer he got to it. The courtiers hadn't noticed. Why would they, when the prince was onto his average shenanigans. They were laughing still, someone making a comment about the view, the capital visible in the grey-gold late afternoon light below the castle walls.

"Your Highness." Low. You had to — even if you had no desire to speak to him right now. The warning register, the one that under normal circumstances at least made him slow down.

He didn't look at you. Of course he didn't.

"Your Highness." Slightly sharper.

Nothing. His back, the set of his shoulders, he heard you perfectly clear and decided that your voice was not, at this moment, something he was going to acknowledge. The same ignoring he'd been deploying for two weeks, except now there was a railing between him and a significant drop, and the wine had been doing its lazy work for the better part of an hour.

Not only did he choose to ignore you — he deliberately leaned further, shouting something to the other men, launching into what seemed to be a tale about one of his recent late-night endeavours. During the very detailed and very obscene explanation, the prince decided that merely leaning on the railing wouldn't suffice, and hopped up to sit on it instead — apparently unbothered by the four floors of open air between him and the cobblestoned ground below.

You tracked every micromovement. Things were about to go sideways. Or more accurately, down.

The prince was swaying, leaning back as he laughed and depicted his crude story. Then a particularly unfriendly gust of cold wind swept across the balcony — his wine glass slipping from his grip, disappearing over the edge with a faint, distant shatter! below — and his balance went with it. He grabbed for the railing, missed the angle, his weight tipping the wrong direction.

You were already moving.

Your hands found him — one gripping his arm, the other catching the fabric at his back, pulling, your whole weight redirecting his, which proved quite a task given his height and weight, all while attempting to look even remotely dignified about it. 

He stumbled off the railing and into you rather than over it, the momentum of the intervention leaving him closer than either of you had planned, his shoulder against yours, his face turned toward yours for one disorienting second as he found his footing.

The rose perfume hit you right in your face.

Still on him. From this morning, or last night, from whenever it had been — the court lady's particular scent, warm and floral and entirely wrong for a cold stone balcony in late autumn, drifting off his skin in the small space between you. You almost skidded to a halt — from the inexplicable shock of it, perhaps, or the involuntary intimacy of your hands on him, his body against yours, the cold and the balcony and the near-miss all happening at once.

You stepped back. Restored the distance.

His face — you caught it in the half-second before he arranged it into something else. Something unguarded there. Something that sat closer to surprise than anything else, and underneath the surprise something else entirely — something that landed in your peripheral vision before you could look at it directly, something that made the air between you feel less like unwanted cold and more like something unwantedly warmer.

He looked away. The courtiers were watching now — all of them, the easy laughter suspended, the audience that had been performing enjoyment of his company now performing something closer to genuine attention.

He smiled. The particular smile that had nothing warm in it — the one he reached for when he needed to reframe something quickly.

"Careful," he said — to you, to the courtiers, to the balcony, to no one specifically — gesturing vaguely in your direction. "She gets protective. Can't have me enjoying myself too close to a ledge." A beat. The smile sharpening. "Although—" his eyes moving to you briefly, having decided to say something he knew would land badly, "—perhaps she just wanted an excuse to put her hands on me. Can't say I blame her, really. Must be rather dull, all that watching and nothing more."

The men went quiet. Then a small wave of the laughter that had started to build dying somewhere in the middle of itself, two or three people exchanging the uncomfortable glances of those who had watched something cross a line.

You stood frozen to the spot, your mouth with it. The cold was very present again. A different cold. The stone very solid under your feet. The rose perfume still faintly in the air between where he was standing and where you were standing, which was further than it had been mere seconds ago.

Your face did something.

You felt it happen, felt it slip almost — the involuntary expression arriving before the discipline caught it. Not hurt, not anger — something without a clean name, something that lasted perhaps one second, unexplained but present, before your conscious mind smoothed it over.

The joke hung in the cold air a moment longer. Then one of the courtiers said something, redirecting, and the gathering reconstituted around the new conversation.

You stood in it. The heir stood in it. The world stilled weirdly, and your ears were ringing. The disrespect — the sheer disrespect. The prince had never dared to go this far. Yes, he had been crude in your presence, calling you prudish when no one was listening. But this was the first time he had made you into a joke like this. A public spectacle. Reduced to something worse than discardable. Worse than the ladies he fancied to spend his time with. The women he dragged into his bed at least knew what transaction they were making. You had sworn an oath of steel and blood, only to be turned into a cheap parlor joke for an audience full of men who hadn't earned a fraction of your discipline.

The prince only tsked and marched back inside, determined, it seemed, to make you regret even thinking about touching him with your practically peasant hands. He drank, and drank, and drank — until he couldn't remember how he got back to his chambers. He suspected, of course, it was your doing. But the mere thought of you made him so angry that he didn't dwell on it.

It was around dawn when he woke — if he had slept at all. His head was trying to split open, and he mildly regretted the damage he'd done to Lord Geto's outstanding wine collection. Though he was glad he'd slept at all, because the prince hadn't been sleeping well anymore.

Which was quite new. Or not new exactly, in that sense. He had never been particularly devoted to sleep, had always treated it as a mere interruption rather than a necessity, the nights too useful for other things to be spent unconscious. But this was different from that.

He got up before the sun had risen. The guards in front of his chambers were dozing in a deep corner alcove on the other side of the hallway, and he almost chuckled. You were really the only one who took the job seriously — but then he immediately found that thought insolent, since thinking about you was proving particularly irritating.

He tiptoed through the corridors. The training yard was empty at this hour, which was the point. Nobody to perform for, just the cold stone under his boots and the air swallowed by the dense, blue-grey mist of the late night bleeding to the early morning. He enjoyed being alone when the castle was still asleep, when he could be simply Satoru and not the prince.

He was three sets in when his mind circled back to the balcony.

Not consciously — not with any intention, as far as he knew. The thought arrived uninvited and specific, bypassing whatever he usually deemed worth thinking about. The unexplainable feeling of your eyes on him. He'd gotten used to it, or at least thought he had — but not really, not yet. It was unsettling and somehow comforting at once, which was extremely confusing, and you were the only person who had ever managed to do both simultaneously. Even when he was angry, upset, reckless, acting downright stupid, you were always right there. And the thought of it made him angrier still.

Your hands on him. The grip of them, more certain than he'd expected, yet cautious — almost careful. Womanly, in a way he hadn't anticipated and hadn't had time to process before you'd stepped back and restored the correct distance.

He'd been about to think something — the word forming somewhere in the back of his throat — and the word had been old.

It didn't arrive.

He stopped mid-form. Stood there with the practice sword lowered, staring at nothing. Stood there a moment longer than made any sense, and he hated it. The prince never hesitated. The prince never thought of others.

Then he resumed the form. Faster than before. More aggressive. Harder. The blade cutting arcs through the cold air, striking the practice post with a crack that echoed off the high stone walls.

It was supposed to feel good. He'd come out to the freezing cold — the mornings getting already unforgivably chilly — to clear his head. Instead he felt more frustrated, more irritated. That was supposed to be the rule of it, the established architecture of his entire life: someone stepped out of line, he put them back in it, and the resulting rush of arrogant satisfaction smoothed over whatever irritation had provoked him in the first place.

It hadn't worked. The satisfaction hadn't arrived. The lazy dismissals, the pulled rank, the public humiliation — none of it was landing the way it was supposed to. Instead, he was simply left with the grating, suffocating feeling of swinging at empty air.

He struck the post again. The shock of the impact traveled up his forearms, biting into his wrists.

It didn't mean anything. He was tired. He hadn't slept properly in two weeks, and his mind was doing the inconvenient things it sometimes did when left without enough rest.

He stopped. Wrists burning from the brute force of it.

The castle remained quiet. The sky above the walls was the particular dark blue of almost-dawn, not quite committed to becoming morning yet, the first birds somewhere distant and unconvincing. His breath made small clouds in the cold.

Why did he care. 

You had been out of line. The loop began to run, familiar and defensive, keeping time with his footwork. You had put your hands on him. You had embarrassed him at the dinner in front of his father. You had lectured him in his own chambers like he was a child who needed redirecting. The fight was your fault. The chill was your fault. Him thinking about you was your fault. Everything, yet nothing.

He spun, driving the blunt point of the sword into the padded wood.

The loop failed. It just — stopped catching.

Because Satoru knew the institutional channels of the castle better than he pretended to. He knew exactly what was building somewhere behind these walls, in some office, behind some closed door. He knew the reprimand was coming. And worse — he knew exactly what was on the list.

His failures. Every single one of them. And you were going to have to stand there and absorb the consequences for them, because the system would never demand that he pay for his own mess. Because that was apparently what you deserved, for the crime of intertwining your oath with the heir's recklessness.

He dropped the sword. It clattered against the stone.

So why did he fucking care. Why did it suddenly feel so wrong — someone being punished for the shit he'd done. Something that had never particularly bothered him before arriving as a specific, named wrongness in his chest, with no category to shove it, hide it, in.

He dragged a hand through his hair, chest heaving, the cold air burning his lungs. The image of your face on the balcony surfaced uninvited — the way the mask had slipped for one fraction of a second, revealing something raw and unnamed, before smoothing back into the perfect, impenetrable composure he found so infuriating. And behind that image, the ghost of the fight in his chambers. The freezing deadness in your voice. He couldn't locate what he felt about that coldness, or why he felt anything about it at all. And the inability to locate it — the sheer lack of a category for what was happening in his own chest — was infinitely more infuriating than the fight itself.

The trailing scent of rose perfume caught in his memory. Or was it peony, or jasmine? It didn't matter. Floral things, under his nose almost nightly.

It felt hollow. The encounters had all felt hollow lately. He was chasing the same warmth he always had, but the bodies moving in the dark had started to feel thin, useless — like he was trying to warm his hands over a painted fire.

He didn't know why.

He picked the wooden sword back up. Squared his shoulders. And swung it against the muddy stone wall instead until it splintered, splintered.

He stood in the wreckage of it. The broken wood scattered across the packed earth, the freezing air settling back into the yard now that the violent movement had stopped, his chest heaving with exertion. The sky was committing, finally, to early morning. The dark blue giving way to an unforgiving, pale grey that suggested the castle would be waking soon.

Why did he care?

He felt hollow. That was new. Or not new, exactly—but newly undeniable. He was chasing something. He had always been chasing something. He just hadn't particularly examined what it was, or why the chase had started feeling like it was leading him to rooms he had already emptied.

The shape of an answer hovered at the edge of that thought. He didn't follow it. Didn't dare to—

Somewhere above the walls, a bird called. Then another. The specific sounds of a castle beginning to move drifted down into the courtyard—a heavy iron door shutting somewhere, the distant echo of footsteps, voices greeting each other, the tranquil silence breaking as the world started demanding things of him again.

He dropped the broken hilt of the sword into the mud. He would have to go back inside. He would have to put the mask back on and be the prince again. He would have to walk past your post. You would be there. The question would come with him, because it had nowhere else to go. 

He came back the way he'd left — through the servants' corridor, the one that avoided the main hall, the one he'd been using since he was twelve. Mud was on his boots, trailing behind him like an unwanted witness.

He passed a few early-rising servants on his way back, though none of them found it odd. Or rather, no one dared to question the heir stalking through passages forbidden to him.

He turned the final corner to his wing and stopped.

You were there. Coming from the opposite direction, arriving in the early morning gloom to resume your post, ready to shadow him through another day.

The alcove at the far end of the corridor was visible between you. The night guards were folded into their corner—deeply, peacefully asleep. Their vigil apparently  concluded sometime around the third hour and not resumed since.

He watched your eyes find them. Mild, annoyed amusement threatened his features.  He wanted to say something—something purposefully aggravating, something to rile you up this early in the morning just to watch your jaw tighten as you produced one of your careful, infuriating deflections.

Your Highness, something something, always something. How he hated hearing it. All the bloody time, that title, sitting in your mouth like something you'd decided he deserved rather than something you actually meant. Hated the insincerity laced in your tone.

He turned his head when you turned to look at him. You were annoyed, tired — but too prideful, perhaps, to call the prince out on his secret late-night, or early-morning, outing. You noticed the mud trailing from his boots and didn't press further. Was he in one piece, standing in front of you? Then that was enough.

His expression did nothing. Or he kept it doing nothing.

He reached his door first, while you were preoccupied waking the guards and delivering what he imagined would be a very quiet, very venomous lecture. The door closed between you. The cold morning resumed.

An attendant ran him a bath. He dressed. Breakfast arrived. He sat with it, not particularly eating, the tea doing far more work than the food. It was an unassuming, ordinary morning—the exact shape of thousands that had come before it. Lonely. Cold. Irritating, and not even in the way mornings usually were.

"Your Highness." The king's secretary, at the door. “His Majesty requested your presence once breakfast was concluded.” 

Satoru gestured vaguely, signaling he wouldn't be finishing the meal anyway. The attendant whisked the barely-touched plate away.

His father wanted to see him. This did not happen often—or rather, it happened more frequently lately, perhaps because he was finally of age, or perhaps simply because of his recent behavior. He had stopped caring which. At least the King was carving out precious time for his precious son.

When he opened the door, you were waiting. You fell into step behind him without a single word, and the secretary led you both down the winding corridors toward the royal wing.

The King's private study. Satoru could hear it before they even reached the doors. Shouting. Arguing. The King's voice, raised in fury. A council member’s frantic stammer. The Queen Consort's icy interjections. Satoru felt a cold spike of dread lodge itself in his throat.

Beside him, he felt you go rigid. You hadn't heard the King so riled up before, and the sheer volume of the hostility bleeding through the wood made the sudden halt in front of the doors almost a relief for you. The secretary gestured for you to take your post outside in the hall.

Satoru stared at the handle for one second longer than necessary—registering the temperature of the room beyond it, frantically beginning to assemble whatever "fine" version of himself was going to walk through it.

He pushed the door open, leaving you behind in the quiet corridor, and stepped into a morning that was apparently faaar from finished.

The king was standing. And his father almost never stood during these conversations. He was standing now, one hand planted on the mahogany table, a piece of parchment in the other.

The council member—the Minister of Foreign Affairs, Satoru noted—was positioned near the window with the body language of someone who had been trying to make himself smaller for the past several minutes and hadn't quite managed it.

His mother, the Queen, stood slightly apart from both of them. Watching.

The king turned the moment the door opened.

The anger redirected instantly, locking onto its actual target with a physical force that made the air in the room feel suffocatingly thin.

"There he is," the king said. His voice was a whip-crack in the quiet. He threw the parchment onto the table. It slid across the polished wood, stopping inches from Gojo. "Written, formal documentation of your profound, unmitigated stupidity."

Gojo looked at the letter. It carried a broken foreign seal, dark green threaded with gold. Oh. He didn't pick it up. Didn’t dare to.

His eyebrows furrowed as he scanned the folded parchment. His father leaned over the other side of the table, every pair of eyes in the room studying his incoming reaction. For a fraction of a second, the prince was profoundly confused.

"Father?"

"Do you have any concept of what you have done?" the king demanded, stepping around the table, his usual exhaustion finally burning away into barely contained rage. "This isn't a tavern brawl, Satoru. This is the fragile architecture of a peace treaty that took decades to build. And you treat it like a theater put on for your personal amusement. You treat the crown like a toy. You never learn!"

"It was a dinner," Gojo defended, his voice arriving light, attempting to grasp the familiar rhythm of deflection. "The man was insulting the integrity of our—"

"The man was testing us, and you failed." The king cut the air with his hand, silencing him. "You let your bruised pride dictate state policy. You let a bruised ego push us toward something we cannot afford."

The king stopped. He looked at his son, and the anger suddenly grew older, heavier, dragging a ghost into the room between them.

"How much more blood must this crown spend to subsidize your arrogance?" the king asked, his voice dropping into a lethal, quiet register. "We have already buried countless people because of your inability to look past your own entertainment. Must I bury a kingdom along with them?"

"That’s absolutely, entirely beside the point. That—"

The breath caught in Gojo’s throat.

The reference was unnamed, brief, and entirely devastating. It hit the raw, still-unprocessed wound buried at the very bottom of Gojo’s chest, striking it with such precision that the lazy smile completely shattered off his face.

"You insolent child! You are of age. You should be ready to take over state matters, yet you treat absolutely nothing as important!" his father continued, the volume rising again. He lifted the letter briefly before slamming it back down on the table with more force than the gesture required. "They wrote it down. Formally. Diplomatically worded, which is its own specific insult. They were polite enough to make clear exactly how displeased they are without giving us anything to formally object to. Do you understand what that means? It means we have to respond in kind. It means we have to craft a diplomatic reply to a diplomatic complaint about my son's behavior at a dinner that was supposed to demonstrate that this kingdom takes its alliances seriously."

"I do take it seriously!" Gojo fired back, his voice cracking with a defensive, desperate petulance he hadn't intended to show. "But forgive me if I refuse to look past the fact that some lowly delegate from their stagnant kingdom allowed himself to openly disrespect the heir! That hardly screams taking an alliance seriously—"

"That is quite enough."

The Queen Consort stepped forward from the shadows of the hearth. The violent heat of the king’s fury was instantly snuffed out by her intervention. She did not step in to protect her son and Satoru knew it, that’s why goosebumps risen under his garments. She stepped in because the emotional display was no longer operationally useful.

"The courier leaves for the North-east at noon," she said, her voice a steady, rhythmic metronome of damage control, addressing the trembling minister. "You will draft a formal response. You will express the crown’s profound regret for the misunderstanding. You will not apologize for the prince directly—that admits fault."

She paused, her gaze flicking to the broken seal on the table.

"You will instead assure them that the personnel outside the royal family will be remanded for formal disciplinary action. It offers the delegation their pound of flesh without compromising the crown's dignity. Frame the remainder of the incident as an unfortunate translation of provincial humor. Include a concession on the silver tariffs they requested last quarter. That will placate them."

"Y-yes, Your Grace," the minister stammered, bowing frantically, clutching his ledgers to his chest. "Immediately."

The temperature in the room plummeted. The prince stood rigid near the table, taking his mother’s orders in. The dread—was it even dread? Perhaps just a sickening, hollow anticipation—that had been pooling in his stomach all morning finally crystallized into something hard and sharp.

They were going to punish you. For the one thing that had stopped the dinner from devolving into a full-scale catastrophe, for the very intervention his own father had silently authorized. And they were doing it simply because it was politically convenient.

He tried to perform "fine." He tried to summon his usual uncaring arrogance because it was all he knew, but his gut was telling him to halt. Something was warning him that this was far from over. The realization that you were going to get the short end of the stick felt like ash in his throat. You deserved it, he tried to tell himself. You had embarrassed him. You had overstepped. Yet, you didn't deserve this, and the prince couldn't have been more confused by his own sickening revulsion.

Satoru looked at his father, breathing heavily by the table, jaw locked. He looked at his mother, adjusting the cuffs of her sleeves, her face a mask of perfect composure.

They did not look at each other.

They had not spoken to each other warmly, or even directly, since he had walked in. Hell, he couldn't remember the last time they ever did. Their distinct registers were always aimed at the same problem, at their only son, but neither of them looked at Gojo as a person.

It was a loveless architecture. A household built on necessity and maintained through separate quarters. He was the only child, a singular miracle achieved only because they had endured each other just long enough to secure the succession, and never touched each other again.

The Queen Consort turned slightly, her eyes sweeping over the scattered papers on the wide table.

"Furthermore, his public standing requires a permanent anchor," she said. She floated the words into the space between them, an aside addressed to the institution rather than to the king or her son. "This volatility is a liability we can no longer afford to spin as youthful charm. The delegation’s letter makes that painfully clear. It is time we revisited the Western correspondence, husband."

Gojo stopped breathing. His throat involuntarily tightened, his eyes fixing blindly on the map spread across the center of his father’s table.

"A formal arrangement there," his mother continued, casually sorting a stack of ledgers with her precise, manicured fingers, "will signal immediate stability to the border lords. It will prove he is finally bound to his duties in a way he cannot simply walk away from. I will begin drafting the preliminary inquiries soon."

She didn't ask. Why would she, anyway? She made the bartering of his entire future sound like a practical solution to a minor tax deficit.

Gojo went entirely quiet. He stared at the broken green wax on the table. He didn't argue, nor did he scoff. The quiet was its own damning non-response, a complete failure of the rebellious prince who usually fought any attempt to cage him.

His mother took the silence as non-resistance—a small, surprising, fight-less win—and moved on.

"You are dismissed, Minister," the king said, turning his back to the room to face the window.

The foreign minister bowed low and fled, pulling the door open with desperate speed. The prince turned on his heel, moving to follow the man out, suffocating in the sterile air of the study.

"Stay." Command from his father froze him in place. The door clicked shut behind the minister.

The family reality of it sat in the deafening silence. Three people, bound by blood and a crown, but never love.

The rest of the day passed. Then the morning of the next.

Satoru carried the knowledge in his chest like a swallowed stone. He watched you resume your post outside his doors, fall into step behind him, and perform your duty the way you always did, the way you were expected.

The sick, hollow feeling in his gut only metastasized.

The summons finally arrived mid-afternoon. He was in the lower archives, supposedly reviewing a regional treaty as a punishment his father had handed down, while actually doing nothing but staring at the same paragraph for twenty minutes. You were standing by the doors.

Footsteps echoed on the flagstones. A courier from the militia arrived, flanked by a young, broad-shouldered knight wearing the crest of the royal guard.

The courier stopped in front of you, offering a sharp, procedural salute.

"My lady," he said, his voice loud across the quiet archives. "Your presence is requested by the Commander in his primary office. Immediately. This knight will assume the prince's detail until your return."

You measured him, a flicker of confusion carefully suppressed before you nodded. The Commander rarely requested your presence, let alone in his private office. Usually, he spoke to you in fleeting corridor passes, or at gatherings where you felt confident enough that the prince wouldn’t face any imposed or self-imposed danger in your brief absence.

"Understood."

At the archive table, Satoru went completely still. The replacement knight stepped forward, ready to take your place by the door.

Satoru looked at the substitute guard, and a violent, irrational surge of territorial irritation flared over the sickening dread in his stomach. He wasn't going to sit in this dusty room with a stranger while you were dragged off to the slaughterhouse his mother had built for you.

But it wasn't just guilt that made him stand up. It was a darker, uglier impulse—a sick, petty anticipation churning beneath the guilt. He wanted to see it. He hated himself for the morbid curiosity, but he couldn't look away. He had spent months trying to crack your perfect, stupid composure and failed.

Now, the full weight of the crown and the militia was about to come crashing down on your head. Would you finally break? Would you scream? Would you beg? He wanted to see what happened when the unshakeable knight was finally forced to bleed.

Satoru snapped the treaty book shut. The sound echoed like a gunshot.

"I fear there is no need," the prince sang out as he strolled towards you. "I'm finished here. And I believe I'll take a walk to the militia wing myself. I'd hate to be left out, seeing as whatever you want with my knight undoubtedly concerns me."

The courier hesitated, exchanging an uncertain glance with the other man. "Your Highness, the Commander requested a private audience with—"

"I don't particularly care what the Commander requested," Satoru interrupted, a saccharine grin plastered across his face as he stepped past them into the corridor. He didn't look at you. "Come along, knight. Let's not keep my father's attack dogs waiting."

You didn't argue. Beneath the faint embarrassment and creeping nerves, a small, treacherous part of you was almost thankful for the prince’s relentless nosiness into matters he clearly had no business dealing with.

The walk to the militia wing was suffocating. The silence between you was loud with the phantom weight of the impending reprimand.

Satoru kept his hands shoved deep into his pockets, his gaze fixed straight ahead. He tried to look aloof, amused even, looking like this was some silly game to play, yet he could feel the familiar, rigid presence of you trailing at his back. He knew exactly what was on the list sitting on the Commander's desk, and what was lodged like broken glass in his own throat.

His failures. Wearing your name.

You arrived at the doors of the Commander’s office. The guards stationed outside pulled them open immediately, expecting you, but visibly faltered when the heir strolled in first.

Satoru didn't ask for permission to enter. The Commander, sitting behind a massive desk stacked with ledgers, paused. He looked at Satoru, then at you, clearly displeased by the prince's uninvited presence but lacking the political authority to order the heir out of the room.

"Your Highness," the Commander faltered as the prince stopped by the edge of his table, one hand on his hip, deploying a very sweet, very fake smile. An immovable spectator.

"Commander. I assume this was terribly important, dragging my knight all the way to your private office?"

You stepped up to the center of the room. You stood at perfect attention, your chin high, your hands clasped loosely behind your back, watching the exchange confused. Both men knew exactly what was about to unfold. You were the only one in the room stepping blindly onto the block.

"This is an internal disciplinary matter, Your Highness," the Commander said, his voice stiff.

"And she is my guard," Satoru replied, his smile not quite reaching his eyes. "Proceed."

The Commander didn't argue. He didn't rise to the bait — he knew the prince and his antics, after all. The sheer lack of emotion on the older man's face did exactly what Satoru's father's anger had done earlier that week. It sucked the oxygen straight out of the room.

You stood dead still in the center of the office, your hands clasped so tightly behind your back that the leather of your gauntlets creaked.

The Commander folded his hands on the desk. "Do you have even a remote understanding of why you were summoned here?"

You kept your chin perfectly level, though the question sent a cold spike of uncertainty through your chest. "No, sir," you answered, your voice crisp and completely steady. "I believe I was withheld that information."

"Clearly," the Commander murmured.

His gaze shifted briefly to the prince, who was now openly watching him as though daring him to stop. Satoru hated himself for even thinking about, let alone committing to, coming here with you. Why hadn't he stayed in the archives, reading that maddening document until his eyes bled? It would surely hurt less than this. He couldn't bring himself to look at you — he didn't even know what his own face was doing, whether it would betray horror or the sick, petulant satisfaction he'd been chasing earlier.

The older man took his sweet time. He reached for the vellum folder resting at the center of his desk, unspooling the string tying it closed. The scratch of stiff paper was the only sound in the suffocating silence.

"You were summoned because there were... some concerns," he droned.

You scowled, the first visible crack in your armor. "Pardon—"

"A disciplinary hearing has been convened under the direct authorization of the Crown," the Commander interrupted, his voice flat, dropping the first anvil into the room.

Satoru's confidence, his presumed upper hand, evaporated. The Crown. His mother did really push on, committing to her exceptional constitutional cruelty. This wasn't a militia squabble he could bully his way out of. This was a royal decree.

He could feel your eyes searching his, yet he couldn't bring himself to meet them. Were you composed? Were you pleading?

You felt your heart drop straight into your stomach. Disciplinary hearing? The Commander opened the folder. He didn't look at you with pity, or even with contempt. The sympathetic look, he spared you, from the oath-taking long gone.

"For the past several months, you were granted a position of unprecedented privilege for a lesser-house... lady," the Commander said, deliberately pausing before the title, stripping the word 'knight' from the room completely. "It was the expectation of the council that you would manage the physical and political security of the heir. Yet, you have failed."

Satoru ground his teeth. Both of them knew that you were far from failing. You did everything more diligently than anyone in this bloody castle even managed to think about. Sleepless nights, frantic chasing, tolerating everyone's insolence with nerves of steel. This was far from failing, and no matter how much the prince could dislike you, despise you and your icy composure, he could never call you incompetent. He would rather let himself be called a fool.

"Watch your bloody mouth, Commander," Satoru snapped, his voice ringing sharp and dangerous in the small office. He pushed off the table, stepping forward. "She’s still my knight and I don’t condone to—"

"And here we have the crux of the issue," the Commander interrupted smoothly.

He didn't look at the prince. He looked directly at you.

"See?" He gestured vaguely in Satoru's direction without taking his eyes off your face. "His temper. His lack of discipline. His blatant disregard for protocol in a formal hearing. This is exactly what you were appointed to manage, and your utter mismanagement is playing out in real time, making a mockery of this office."

Satoru froze mid-step. 

"Every time he lashes out," the Commander continued, a mercifully even drone of destruction, "he simply provides further evidence of your incompetence."

Satoru's jaw snapped shut. His throat seized.

The trap sprang closed around him, barbed and absolute. He couldn't speak. If he shouted, if he threw his weight around, if he demanded this to stop—he was only feeding the set argument. He was the evidence of your supposed failure. His arrogance wasn't a shield anymore. It was the weapon they were using to execute you.

The color drained from your face.

For the first time in his entire privileged life, the prince was utterly, structurally paralyzed. He stepped back, the sick, hollow feeling consuming him entirely.

Satisfied with the sudden, dead silence from the heir, the Commander looked down at the parchment again.

And he started naming, listing each of the oversteps, each of the failures you supposedly caused—deliberately or by mistake, no one really asked. Dismissing your months of agonizing effort with a single wave of his hand.

"Your tenure thus far has been a profound, continuous embarrassment to this institution. You have failed to manage the physical security of the heir, and worse, you have actively mismanaged the crown's diplomatic standing."

Satoru’s jaw clenched. Mismanaged. You were the only one managing anything at all.

"Consequently, the consequence will be aimed at the only thing you lesser-house appointments seem to understand," the Commander continued, his eyes cold and flat. "The invitation previously extended to your family for the upcoming Winter Gala is officially revoked. They will not be granted access to the palace."

The air vanished from your lungs. The Winter Gala. One of the four seasonal events your parents had access to the lower court for. The thing your family had sacrificed everything to secure.

"Furthermore," the Commander leaned forward, far from stopping,"consider this your sole warning. If you appear before my desk for a disciplinary hearing again, your family will be permanently barred from the royal court. Your bloodline will be sent back to the provincial garrison, in disgrace, forever."

The room went dead silent. The stone floor felt as though it had dropped out from beneath your boots.

"To formally mark this citation," the Commander said, his voice cruelly bureaucratic and nothing more, "you will kneel. You will surrender your sword to this desk until tomorrow morning as a warning."

Your sword. Your pride, your right hand. Gone, for a day, just to serve a point. This was deeply humiliating. Deeply unsettling. Deeply cruel.

The shadows violently shifted.

"Don't you dare," Satoru snarled. The arrogant prince was gone — the voice that cracked through the room was lethal, his boots hitting the stone as he closed the distance. "She is a sworn knight. You will not make her—"

"Take one more step, Your Highness," the Commander warned, tone icy calm, "and I will summon the guards and mandate the lash. Right here. Right now."

Satoru froze.

"Intervene again, Your Highness, and you will be the reason she bleeds for it."

Satoru's breath caught in his throat. The trap was absolute. If he fought, you paid the physical price.

With shaking hands you unbuckled your scabbard without looking up, your eyes fixed on the ground. The leather groaned in the suffocating quiet. You stepped forward, placed the steel on the Commander's desk, and stepped right back.

And then, with your jaw locked so tight it trembled, you sank to your knees on the cold stone floor.

 "I accept the censure of this office," you recited, forcing the words past the glass in your throat, refusing to beg. "I swear on my title, on my oath, these failures will not be repeated." Your voice was a hollow, broken rasp. Your fists tightened on your knees.

The Commander sat back, visibly satisfied with the private humiliation, a faint gleam in his eyes as he looked down at your sword on his desk.

What is a knight without her sword?

You asked yourself the same question — and perhaps that was why a single tear spilled over your lower lash line. It tracked silently down your cheek, catching the light from the window. You didn't wipe it away. You just willed it to slip down quickly, before anyone noticed.

Satoru stared at you. The gap between his own uselessness and what the system did to you effortlessly felt awful, devastating. Yet he had achieved exactly what he wanted, hadn't he? The system had finally done what he hadn't been able to for so long, breaking you. And break you did — silently weeping on the cold stone, right in front of the Commander, stripped of your pride, of your sword.

After a few suffocating seconds, satisfied, he dismissed you. You pushed yourself off the floor. Your knees ached from the stone. The desk looked impossibly wide, your sword sitting across it like a dead thing.

"The guard outside will escort His Highness back to his wing," the Commander said, shuffling the vellum folder away. He didn't look at you. "You are dismissed for the day. Plenty of time to amend your mistakes in your chambers."

You didn't answer. You turned and walked out of the office after the prince.

And the walk back to the royal wing was a different kind of suffocating. The knight trailed awkwardly behind the prince, his armor clanking lightly, a replacement piece slotted into a machine that didn't care whose face was under the helmet. You walked three paces behind him. Unarmed. Disgraced. Restless. Even if dismissed, the prince was still yours—your responsibility, your oath. You wouldn’t trust him with someone else, let alone a stranger who did not carry the weight of your duty.

When you reached the prince's chambers, the guard moved to take the primary position by the frame.

You stepped directly into his space.

"My lady," he started, confused. "The Commander said—"

"I don't care what the Commander said," you interrupted. Your voice shaky, yet entirely dead, devoid of inflection, devoid of anything at all. "My oath was sworn to the prince. Not to a piece of steel. Step aside."

The knight faltered, looking toward the heir for an order.

Satoru stood by the open door, frozen. He looked at the other man—a polished, functioning cog in the very machine that had just auctioned away his future and stripped you of your pride. The sight of the man made Satoru physically sick. He was surprised you stood your ground, and perhaps, buried beneath the sickness, he felt relieved.

"Get out of my sight," Satoru said softly, almost inaudibly. "Before I have you stationed at the northernmost border by nightfall."

The knight bowed frantically and hurried down the corridor.

Satoru looked at you. You were staring straight ahead at the wood of the door, your eyes hollow, tear-streaked cheeks faintly flushed, your hands empty, your jaw still locked in that agonizing, trembling discipline. It was a marvelous, yet suffocating sight. Seeing your face transformed into something so raw and unfamiliar ripped a hole straight through his chest.

He couldn't speak. There were no words in any language that could bridge the chasm of what he had just watched happen to you. He felt sick, exhausted, and foremost confused. Threatening to feel something he didn’t want to feel, not now, not ever.

He stepped into his chambers and shut the door, leaving you standing guard outside in the cold.

Satoru stood in the center of his massive, lavishly appointed room. He was alone. The silence wasn't angry anymore. It was absolute — the deafening, crushing silence of a cage snapping shut.

He decided, in a rare, fleeting moment of quiet concession, that he would not leave these rooms again today. He would spare you the humiliation of trailing behind him without your blade. He would give you the grace of simply standing by a closed door.

He stripped off his doublet, tossing it carelessly over the back of a velvet armchair. He walked to his desk. He sat down. He pulled a thick volume of regional histories toward himself — an attempt at normalcy, an attempt to force his brain into the familiar, detached rhythm of ignoring his problems.

But the room wouldn't let him.

The afternoon light bleeding through the tall, arched windows was a bruised, sickly grey. The fire crackling in the stone hearth felt entirely too hot, the heat pressing against his skin like a physical weight. He stared at the open pages of the book, but the ink blurred into meaningless shapes — not out of inattention, but rather a complete inability to anchor himself to reality.

The silence began to stretch, pulling taut like a wire in his skull.

He stood up. He walked to the window. He looked out at the courtyard, then turned his back to it. He paced to the far corner of the room, running a hand over the bookshelf spines. Nothing anchored him — he felt like he was floating, but the wrong kind of floating. The air felt stagnant, recycled. Wrong. All of it was wrong.

It hit him slowly at first, and then all at once. The avalanche he had spent a lifetime outrunning finally caught him in the center of his own bedroom.

His eyes fell on the scattered correspondence on his desk, and the image of his parents surfaced. Two people standing in the same room — his, theirs, anywhere, everywhere — refusing to look at each other, never looking at each other, bartering away his entire future in a transaction far more costly than they pretended. They were conditioning him for a lifetime trapped in the same freezing, loveless structure he had grown up in.

He dragged a hand through his hair, his chest beginning to heave. He paced toward the fireplace, but the warmth only brought the phantom scent of rose perfume drifting back into his mind. The bodies moving in the dark, the skin, the heated whispers. He had spent years chasing that warmth, desperately searching for any connection that wasn't strictly conditional. Yet nobody stayed. Nobody cared.

The walls of the chamber were shrinking. The velvet tapestries felt as though they were closing in on his throat. The panic rose, hot and blinding.

Another ghost walked into the room. The first knight — his first one. The man who had essentially raised him. The crackle of the fireplace suddenly sounded exactly like a body hitting the dirt. Blood pooling on the ground because of Satoru's own childish recklessness. The king's voice echoing in his skull: Must I bury a kingdom along with them? Over and over and over.

And in the center of it all — silencing everything yet amplifying it inexplicably — your face. The first flush, from the oath-taking, the one he had caused — the knight being sworn into his service, the crest embroidered at the hem of that forsaken cape-skirt, the flush creeping up your neck while you knelt on cold stone and meant every word, eyes hopeful when everyone looked at you will amused contempt, him included. And then the second one, today, different — knees hitting the Commander's stone floor, your sword surrendered across his desk, the flush this time from humiliation and fury and the effort of not breaking, your tear-streaked cheeks. And you were standing right outside his door. Unarmed. Disgraced. Because of him. 

He felt guilty. He shouldn't feel guilty — so why did he? Guilt, anger, devastation — emotions stirring, pulling at him under his skin, crawling and ticklish like ants.

His chest caved in. His vision blurred. He couldn't breathe. The air simply wouldn't go into his lungs. He couldn't outrun it anymore. The dissociation, the lazy arrogance, the cruel jokes, the mask he hid behind — all of it was gone, stripped away, leaving nothing but raw, bleeding terror.

He was the prince. He was the heir. His life should be easy. He wasn't supposed to care about anything; he was supposed to indulge himself until he couldn't anymore. So why was this happening?

He stumbled backward, colliding violently with the edge of his side table. His hand scrambled blindly for purchase and closed around the carved crystal decanter of amber liquor.

The suffocation peaked. He couldn't scream, his fingers clawing at his own collar. The bile gathering in his throat tasted like iron and venom.

Instead he hurled the decanter with everything he had. It hit the stone wall next to the hearth with a deafening, explosive crash, shattering into a thousand glittering pieces — the sharp violence of breaking glass tearing through the silence, each shard catching the firelight like a different, exposing fragment of his own failure.

Satoru collapsed against the rattling furniture and slid down to the cold floor, burying his hands in his hair as his lungs dragged in ragged, starving gasps. Air finally went in. He stared at the broken crystal and the splashed amber liquid staining the expensive carpet.

The evidence of his shortcoming was glaring and humiliating.

No. No, no, no. This was a showcase of weakness, and the prince did not show weakness, nor remorse. It was a sign of incompetence, and incompetence was only punished. Laughed at. Executed. Never taken seriously. Only obsolete, only reckless, only and always a child — yet someone who was supposed to take over the throne. How. How could he. How would he. How should he.

He scrambled forward onto his hands and knees, crawling toward the broken glass, frantically trying to erase the evidence before anyone could see him shatter.

Outside the heavy oak doors, the explosion of glass sounded like a gunshot in the dead quiet.

Sickness violently twisted your stomach. You didn't think to knock, to ask for permission through the barrier. There was no time for hesitation. You didn't even remember that your hip was terrifyingly light, stripped of the steel you had carried every day.

Muscle memory and paranoia hijacked your nervous system. You threw your weight against the heavy wood, bursting into the chambers, your gloved hands raising instinctively, fully prepared to tear out the throat of whatever assassin had finally slipped past the perimeter.

You scanned the massive room in a fraction of a second. The window. The shadows. The hearth.

Empty. Empty. Empty.

Then your eyes dropped to the floor.

The adrenaline hit a brick wall. You froze, the breath catching in your throat.

There was no assassin. There was only the prince.

The untouchable, cruel, arrogant heir was on his hands and knees in the center of a ruin. He was frantically sweeping his bare hands through the jagged shards of crystal, his breath coming in ragged, ugly, broken gasps that he was desperately trying to swallow. Blood was already welling on his palms, mixing with the spilled amber liquor, but he didn't stop. He was shivering violently, trying to hide the mess, trying to clean up his own shattered pieces before the world could see them.

The sight of it broke something in you. Something fundamental shifted and took place in the room.

You stood there staring at the boy who had ruined you. The boy who had kept pushing until he finally achieved what he, and everyone else, had probably always wanted.

You should have felt vindicated. You should have felt a sick sense of poetic justice, seeing him reduced to the exact same pathetic, kneeling position he had finally forced you into just an hour ago.

But you didn't. The anger and the humiliation evaporated entirely, leaving nothing but a cold, sharp clarity. You didn't see the crown prince. You just saw a boy who was drowning. You had sworn your life to him, hopeful and determined. And after all, no dog likes to see their master kneeling.

The rigid discipline that had locked your jaw all day finally gave way.

"Your Highness—" The words arrived automatically, though this time much softer. Cautious. Almost silent.

He looked up.

His face — you had catalogued all of his expressions, had built an entire internal library of his registers, his performances, his tells. You knew all of them. This wasn't any of them. This was something you had no entry for. Something raw and unmanaged and completely, utterly unperformed. His eyes were too bright, his breathing ragged. He looked impossibly small and scared, entirely stripped of the regal, imposing bearing he normally wore like armor.

You stepped forward, the crunch of glass under your boots the only sound in the room, and dropped to your knees beside him in the spilled liquor.

He didn't stop. He was trapped in the loop of his own panic, his shaking fingers sweeping blindly through the jagged shards.

"Please, stop," you said, your voice barely a guarded whisper but carrying the unmistakable edge of a command.

He didn't hear you. He was reaching for another sharp piece of crystal.

You looked at his hands. The royal blood — the blood you had sworn an oath to protect at the cost of your own — was welling on his palms, mixing with the amber liquor. And you were sitting there fully armored, your hands shielded by thick leather.

If the master bleeds, the hound bleeds tenfold. A knight does not wear armor when her prince is bare and shattering. If he was going to bleed on this floor, then you were going to bare your skin to the exact same glass. Out of codex, out of training, out of something older than either.

Without a second thought, you raised your hands to your mouth. You caught the fingertips of your right glove between your teeth and yanked it off, tossing the heavy leather aside. You repeated the motion with your left, tearing the armor away entirely.

You lowered your bare hands toward the scattered crystal and started to help him clean it up.

Your fingers closed around a jagged piece. You set it aside. You reached for another. The burning amber liquor soaked into your calluses.

Satoru's frantic, hyperventilating breaths began to stutter.

He didn't stop moving, but his peripheral vision caught you. He watched you sideways as his shaking hands continued to sweep the floor. Stripped of your sword, stripped of your pride, now stripping your own armor to kneel in the dirt and quietly clean up his mess.

You reached for a particularly sharp sliver of the decanter's neck. The edge bit into the pad of your thumb. A thin ribbon of crimson bloomed across your skin.

Satoru stared at the drop of your blood falling into the stained carpet. The sight of it made him sick.

You both reached for the broken base of the crystal carafe at the exact same moment.

Your bare hands collided.

His skin was freezing, slick with blood and stained with his shame. Yours was warm. Your blood smeared against his, mixing with the liquor and the cuts on his own palm — a physical manifestation of your intertwined fates. He was ruining you, and you were bleeding for it without a single complaint. It was so dumbly poetic he might have laughed, if he could have reached his senses.

He didn't pull away though. Instead, as if acting on some desperate, subconscious instinct, Satoru turned his hand inward. His long, trembling fingers slid hesitantly against yours and intertwined with them, his grip closing around your hand with crushing, aching desperation.

He caught you — finally anchoring himself to the warmth of your calloused palm like a man pulling himself out of a grave. For the first time in so, so long, he finally felt the ground fully beneath him. A touch that cost him nothing, a touch that required nothing in return. Yet one that broke something neither of you would be able to build back up.

You froze. The sharp glass was completely forgotten.

Satoru's head dropped forward, his forehead coming to rest heavily against your knuckles.

The dam finally gave way. The arrogant, stupid mask shattered. A wretched, broken sob tore its way out of his throat, his shoulders trembling violently as he wept into the space between your connected, bleeding hands.

You kept entirely silent, your own heart hammering as you felt the heat of his tears against your palm. And perhaps it was the warmth you hadn't felt in so, so long. Perhaps it was everything finally pressing your shoulders down to the ground as you stopped resisting. And perhaps it was the sight of the broken boy beside you. The tears came again — yours this time — and you sobbed silently over his hunched form, staring into the only thing still moving in the room: the uninviting warmth of the fire in front of you.

You knew you should pull away. You knew you should keep your distance, stay angry at him, let him stay angry at you. You should have clung to the bitter reality of your parents paying the price for a trap his own family had built in the first place. Yet you didn't recite protocol. You didn't tell him what everyone else probably would have—to get it together, to pull himself up, to be the prince. You just stayed on your knees in the wreckage and let him hold you.

The storm of everything mixing, everything culminating into devastating, ego-shattering thunder, plunged into your back over and over.

But even the storm eventually ran out of oxygen.

The jarring trembling in Satoru’s shoulders gradually subsided into an exhausted stillness. The ragged gasps smoothed out into slow and silent hiccups. The fire crackled in the hearth, reclaiming the silence of the room.

You didn't move. You let him hold you, your calloused thumbs resting lightly against the pulse of his wrists, feeling the frantic beat of his heart slowly begin to steady.

And then, his conscious mind caught up to his body.

Satoru’s breath hitched sharply. The realization of what he was doing—of who he was holding, of how entirely, pathetically he had just laid himself bare—hit him like a bucket of very icy water. He had never been this exposed in his entire life. And the inviting, gentle warmth of your hands felt like a fire he didn't know how to stand near without burning alive.

He flinched. Satoru yanked his hands out of your grip as if your skin had physically scorched him.

He scrambled backward, the remaining glass crunching loudly under his boots as he put a foot of distance between you. He pulled his knees up, instantly turning his face away so you couldn't see his bloodshot eyes. His chest was heaving again, not with panic this time, but with a terrifying shame.

He raised his shaking hands to his face, clumsily trying to wipe the tears from his cheeks. But his palms were still coated in amber liquor and his own blood, and all he managed to do was smear a streak of crimson across his pale cheekbone.

He looked pathetic. He looked tragic. He looked like a boy trying desperately to rebuild a shattered fortress out of thin air.

"Don't," he choked out. His voice was a harsh, raspy fraction of its usual arrogant self, aimed at the floor rather than at you. "Just... don't look at me."

You were left kneeling in the spilled bitter liquor. Your hands were frozen in the empty air where his had just been, your bare skin still carrying the warmth of his grip and the stain of his blood. The absence of his touch felt suddenly, inexplicably freezing.

You blinked at him, not entirely understanding why you felt so hollow, left confused and more exposed than you had before. But as you eyed his blood-smeared cheek and the tremble in his hands, you lowered your gaze to your own. They were trembling, too, smeared with crimson that belonged to both of you.

You didn't push him. You simply reached out and quietly resumed picking up the jagged pieces of glass.

"Thank you," he managed to mutter.

And as you set the last piece of glass aside, you stood, pulling your gloves back on—one, then the other. The leather settled back into place over your bloodied hands, like each agonizing increment of your resolve getting built back up.

You walked to the door without saying anything, without answering him. More words would have been costly tonight, and not in their usual currency. You grabbed the handle to take your post in the freezing corridor. Bare. And without your sword.

None of it would matter if someone actually wanted him dead. You knew that too. But knowing it didn't change what you did with the hours — you ran the sweep anyway, every time, because the one night you didn't would be the one night it mattered, and you weren't going to be the reason this post claimed another fucking name. The post was yours now, and you meant to keep it long enough that the court would finally be forced to learn that you took the duty seriously along with it.

The door opened a little after three. Three in the morning.

He came out half-dressed, shirt open, hair worse than usual, that particular looseness in his shoulders that told you exactly what kind of night it had been before he had to say a single word. He noticed you immediately — you were always exactly where he expected you to be, which seemed to amuse and irritate him in roughly equal measure depending on his mood.

Tonight, apparently, amusement won. The night had seemed to be a success, after all.

"Still here." He tsked. Stretching, completely unbothered, like the corridor was a mere extension of whatever room he'd just left. "What, you thought she was gonna murder me mid-thrust?"

"It's my job to be here, Your Highness."

"It's stupid is what it is." He tugged his shirt closed, lazy, not actually bothering with the buttons. "Nobody's poisoning me. Nobody's smuggling a blade in her—" he paused, smirked, clearly pleased with wherever the sentence had been about to go. "Ease off. She was just trying to suck my dick, not assassinate me."

You'd heard versions of this sentence enough times now that it should have landed soft, worn smooth by repetition. The crude language usually ranged from one profanity to another, the royal seemingly unbothered by how openly he said it — it should have gone in one ear and out the other by now.

It didn't, tonight. Something about it caught — sharper, closer to the surface than it usually sat — and you had to actually stop yourself before the words got too away from you.

"With respect," you said, voice level, head bowing slightly — the prince was still easily irritable even in good spirits — "I'd rather be wrong about nothing happening than right about something I didn't catch."

He blinked. Like the answer had cost more effort than he'd expected to provoke.

"Riveting," he said, after a beat too long. "Truly. I'll sleep well knowing you're out here protecting me from the lady's devastating bedroom skills."

You opened your mouth, almost drawing breath to spend it on another subtle argument. Oh, how you wanted to tell the princeling off — how badly you'd wanted it these past many weeks. Quite a record, for someone of your composure of steel, to have it repeatedly cracked by the prince without him even maliciously trying.

But you said nothing. It wasn't worth it. You bit your tongue instead and kept your eyes pinned to his terribly fastened hose, not wanting to — not desiring to — meet his gleeful blue eyes. You'd learned, years deep into a life built on saying nothing, that silence cost you less than the alternative.

He huffed — something between a laugh and a dismissal — and wandered off down the corridor toward his own chambers, not bothering to check if you followed.

You followed. You always did.

He didn't speak again for the rest of the walk, which was its own small mercy. You kept a polite distance behind him, watching the back of his half-buttoned shirt and the loose, unhurried way he moved through the corridors. The heels of his boots tap tap tapped the stone in a lazy, repetitive cadence as if he were entirely drunk on his own easiness. It was a castle that belonged to him in every sense except the one that actually mattered tonight: the sense where someone had to walk behind him, making sure he made it to his own bed alive. 

Not that you were being overtly paranoid about him getting assassinated left and right, but you could never really know. Not with the way the political landscape had been looking recently.

Every careless walk cost something, and you'd rather not sleep than let that something happen. The door to his chambers shut a few minutes later. You exchanged glances with the guards positioned outside it that night and went off to your own.

How you hated the way he seemingly never cared about anything — every encounter easily forgotten, or simply never cared about enough for him to think about it properly, sensibly, in the first place.

And yet you weren't quite sure why you were still thinking about it.

This became a routine. Naturally.

It wasn't just the late-night rendezvous. It wasn't just standing around in this particular irritating stillness, waiting for the prince to be properly indulged.

It was everything.

There was the morning on the archery range, weeks back now, when he'd insisted on shooting while still half-drunk from the night before, laughing every time he missed, treating his own wavering aim like the funniest thing in the realm.

You'd worn a gambeson that day — the new one, lighter, freshly gifted and delivered by the seamstress.

He'd had a goblet of wine balanced on the fence post, sipping between shots like the range was a dinner party rather than weapons practice, and you'd told him, more than once, that drinking and loose arrows didn't mix well in any kingdom you'd ever served in. He'd told you, more than once, that you worried like an old woman, and that as far as he knew, you'd only ever lived in his kingdom. Touché.

You'd stood close enough to step between him and any stray nonsense — a startled horse, an overeager squire wandering into the wrong line of fire — closer than protocol technically required, because half-drunk princes with bows in their hands were exactly the kind of risk nobody else in this castle seemed to take seriously except you.

One particularly bad shot finally went wide — badly wide, clattering off the target stand entirely — and sent him stumbling back a step in surprise at his own failure, elbow catching the fence post clean, and the goblet went down with him. Wine arced through the air in a long, dark ribbon and caught you both — him across the chest, you and your brand new garment as well.

He stared at the mess of red staining his shirt for a second. Then at you.

He'd noticed you hovering and called out, loud enough for the watching guards to hear, that you looked more sour than the wine did, then started laughing. You hadn't found that especially funny either.

Or the council sessions — or rather, the ones he even bothered to attend — where he'd spent the entire two hours doodling something in the margin of a report nobody had asked him to annotate, sighing loud enough twice that the treasury minister visibly lost his place mid-sentence. 

You'd stood behind his chair the whole time, feeling every eye in the room slide toward you for half a second, like you were somehow responsible for keeping a grown man interested in his own kingdom's finances. 

That day you were particularly opinionated — well, in your own head at least — about how, why, and for what bloody reason the advisory would look at you like you were his fucking babysitter and not his guard. But then again, if every twenty-year-old heir acted the way Gojo did, the kingdoms were about to have some collective internal issues incoming.

The nights he tried to leave the castle grounds entirely weren't exactly rare either. One particular night, after a skirmish broke out near the capital between some merchant convoys a fortnight back, he decided to properly leave again — past the outer wall, past the last checkpoint, the kind of disappearing that would have taken him somewhere you genuinely couldn't have followed in time if something had gone wrong.

You'd caught him at the gatehouse, breathless, having sprinted the length of two corridors and a courtyard to do it, and you'd had to practically beg him to come back inside. The ever-amused prince had only half-listened, until you, at your wit's end, threatened to call the guards.

There was the afternoon he'd lost you on purpose — probably bitter from you tailing behind more than usual — properly lost you, not the usual half-hearted wandering. He'd slipped through a servant's passage you must have forgotten, timing it for the exact moment your attention had legitimately split between him and a courier trying to hand you a message. 

Ten minutes. Ten minutes of cold, climbing dread, running the wing twice, your mind already constructing the worst version of events before you'd found him in the kitchens, charming a baker out of a tray of pastries, utterly unaware that you'd spent those ten minutes rehearsing how you were going to explain his death to his father.

He'd laughed when he saw your face. "Relax," he'd said, mouth full. "M'right here."

You hadn't found it funny. You still didn't, months later, the memory surfacing at inconvenient times like a bruise you kept forgetting to stop pressing.

The accumulated weight of his attempts to fluster you — a comment here, a look there, the particular smirk he wore when he thought he'd finally found the thing that would crack you. 

He hadn't, not really, not in any way he could see. You'd gotten good at giving him nothing. Flat replies. Bowed head. Unreadable face. Which, quite frankly, made you wonder what would happen if you eventually did crack. Would he stop being so cruel, or would he retaliate tenfold?

Most days.

Though, to his grace, there were also the quiet ones — stretches where neither of you spoke more than required, maybe less, where hostility had stopped being something either of you performed and had just become the weather you both idled in. Those days were almost a relief, in their own exhausting way. At least silence didn't require you to keep proving anything.

You were so tired.

Not the kind of tired sleep fixed. The other kind.

The new girl's name was, well, you didn't remember — she'd introduced herself too quietly the first time. She was young, barely past her training year by the look of her, hands moving over the wardrobe with careful precision.

You stood near the door, not quite posted, not quite at ease — the in-between stance you were forced to use when you were technically on duty but the duty in question was watching someone else do theirs.

"She seems competent enough," Gojo said, not quietly, not exactly to you either — the way he said most things when he wanted an audience without admitting he wanted one. He was sprawled in the lavish chair by the window, one boot off, the other still half-laced, watching the young attendant refold something she'd already folded twice.

"She's merely nervous," you said. "That's different from incompetent."

"Mm." He didn't sound convinced. 

The girl's hands slipped on the next fold — a small thing, fabric catching wrong, nothing that really mattered — and she flushed, glancing toward both of you like she expected to be reprimanded for it.

"It's fine," you told her, before the prince could say anything else. "Take your time."

She nodded, quick, grateful, and went back to it with slightly steadier hands.

Gojo watched the exchange with the lazy attention he reserved for things that hardly amused him.

"See, that's the trick," he said, swinging his half-laced boot idly. "Be a little useless, a little sweet about it, and everyone falls over themselves being nice to you." He glanced at you, deliberate, the corner of his mouth already curling. "You should try it sometime. Might do you some good, old woman."

You'd heard it before. Dozens of times by now, easy, the shape of it almost blunt from overuse — old woman, like your competence was a costume you'd put on specifically to annoy him. Like a mere three years older had turned you into an ancient crone, hated by everyone. You'd learned quickly that no matter how well, how strictly you followed the codex, how restlessly you did your own job, it would never be enough for him. Treating you like some fanatic, following him around. Well, apparently you might as well be.

Today, something in you didn't bow either. The drawer was overflowing with the shit he kept doing, and one small, tiny thing escaped your composure.

"Funny," you said, before you'd fully decided to say anything at all, "that you'd rather I flinch and fumble like she does than do the job I swore would keep you alive."

The words just stumbled out of your mouth. But by the look of it, the prince seemed rather delighted than irritated.

His eyebrows went up, slow, something sharpening behind his cunning eyes. "Careful."

"I'm only being honest, Your Highness." Your voice was level, but only barely. "Isn't that what I swore as well?"

That landed somewhere — you watched it land, the brief flicker of him recalculating, the realization that you'd just turned his own jab into a quote from his own oath ceremony, and for a second he didn't have a ready answer for it. That was certainly new.

"Don't get smart with me."

"I'm only doing my job," you said, sharper this time.

The room stilled for a moment.

Gojo sat forward, boot forgotten, and for a long moment you genuinely didn't know what was about to happen — whether he'd laugh it off, snap back harder, or whether the careful composure was about to detonate in front of a terrified attendant who'd picked the worst possible day to start this job.

"...Right," he said eventually, voice quieter than you'd ever heard it. He looked back toward her instead of you — she was very studiously staring at the floor now. "Carry on, then."

You felt the heat climbing up your neck.

"Apologies, Your Highness." Your voice clipped back into its usual careful register, the mask sliding into place with visible effort. "That was out of line."

He didn't answer. And for the very first time, it was you who had the last word.

It was the king who told you — well, told the prince, obviously — not the council. He called the two of you in alone, which should have told you everything about how seriously this needed to be taken, given how rarely the king bothered with anyone below ministerial rank directly.

"The delegation from the North-east arrives in a week," he said, plain, tired in the way he always seemed lately. "I expect both of you prepared. This dinner matters more than most things you've sat through, Satoru. I need you sharp."

"I'm always sharp," Gojo said, already halfway to the door before his father had finished the sentence.

"Satoru."

"I heard you, father. Delegation. ‘Suppose it has something to do with the peace treaty, no? A week from now. Sharp." He didn't slow down. "Now, allow me. I've got sparring in twenty minutes."

The king's expression didn't change, exactly, but something in it settled into the specific weariness you'd started recognizing — not anger, just the tired acceptance of a father who'd stopped expecting his son to behave differently and had long since redirected that hope elsewhere.

Toward you, mostly, you'd come to understand, whether either of you had ever said so out loud. But unlike others, perhaps because he understood the actual cost of it, he didn't expect you to correct his own son — that was beyond what you could do. What anyone could apparently do. Though the hopeful, almost pleading expectation in his eyes told you enough of what you were supposed to be doing, at all times.

You found him in the training yard twenty minutes later, exactly as promised, sword already in hand, working through forms with a focus he never seemed to manage for anything that actually required it.

"You heard your father," you said, no preamble.

"Clever girl, yes, I indeed heard him. I'm not deaf." He didn't break stride, blade cutting clean arcs through the morning air. "Doesn't mean I need a week to prepare for a bloody dinner."

"This isn't just dinner. You know that." You crossed your arms, watching him work. "You almost started a war with a stray comment at the harvest banquet. With people who actually like us."

"That's an exaggeration. I merely shared a humorous jab at the fürst's expense. To lighten the mood a little. Those old geezers didn't know how to have fun—"

You expected him to follow up, to call you old, ancient even, just like he always did, seemingly bothered by you being older than him. But it weirdly didn't come this time around.

"Is it." You held his gaze when he finally glanced over, surprised, maybe, at the lack of careful deference in your voice. "Because I'd rather not find out what an exaggeration looks like with people who don't."

He stopped mid-form — a bad one, on top of that — sword lowering slightly, something crossing his face that wasn't quite an annoyance, closer to genuine consideration, which was rarer from him than you'd ever admit out loud.

"You're getting uncharacteristically bold," he said, not unkindly. Almost curious about it, the corner of his mouth twitching as if he'd found a new game to play.

"I'm only following orders," you said. "There's a difference, Your Highness."

He huffed something that might have been a laugh, shook his head, and went back to his spar — but slower this time, more deliberate, and you let yourself believe, for a moment, that you'd actually gotten something through.

The entire week passed strangely, expectant and dreadful in a way.

The prince spent most of it deciding what to wear.

You found this out the hard way — passing his chambers on the second afternoon to find no fewer than six outfits laid across every available surface, the tailor wringing his hands over collar styles while Gojo held two near-identical doublets up to the wistful, sunny light, debating their merits with the gravity of a man choosing a battle strategy.

"This one says competent," he announced, to nobody in particular, "and this one says competent but approachable. Which message do we want?"

"The council materials," you said, from the doorway. "Have you actually read them?"

"I glanced."

"Glancing isn't reading, Your Highness."

"It's reading-adjacent, knight." He held up a third doublet. "What about this one. Does this say 'I respect the sovereignty of your nation' or does this say 'I am, regrettably, a very handsome man and there's nothing to be done about it'?"

You didn't dignify that with an answer. You'd tried, twice now, to find someone — anyone — who could give you something more useful than the thin briefing you'd already memorized.

The minister of foreign affairs had been too busy. His deputy had assumed, politely but firmly, that someone in your position would already know the relevant protocols. Nobody seemed to consider that knights coming from less fortunate social and political standings weren't taught this at all. Nobody seemed to consider that you needed teaching at all — some quick diplomatic briefing to show what was allowed and what wasn't, to point out a few important social cues — but it was all to no avail.

So you'd read the same three pages of formal guidance over and over until the words lost their original meaning, and told yourself, convinced yourself, that it would have to be enough.

It did not feel like enough, and it still didn't, even days later, when the delegation's banners finally appeared above the eastern road — a deep, regal green you didn't recognize against gold thread that caught the morning light in a way that felt almost deliberately impressive, visible from the upper courtyard long before the actual procession came into view.

You stood posted among the king's knights and the queen's, your place at the edge of their formation rather than fully inside it. You'd gotten used to this kind of alone. The autumn morning's chill only solidified it further. Surrounded by people who had each other — partners, rotations, someone to perhaps share a meaningless joke with during the long wait — while you had only yourself, your sword, and your thinning patience for your dear princeling.

"Didn't think you'd still be standing here," one of the king's knights said, low, beside you. You recognized him vaguely — one of the three from your very first day, the one who'd let himself have the crude joke at your expense, all those years and lifetimes ago, it felt like.

"Did you think I'd have quit?"

"Thought you'd be dead or disgraced, if I'm honest." He didn't say it unkindly. More like an old joke he was revising in real time. "No offense."

"None taken." You smiled weakly — not sad, nor offended, but rather taking in what it meant, and why it meant so much to you right now.

He grunted something close enough to approval, and didn't say anything else, but he also didn't make the joke you'd half-braced for, and that, you'd learned, was its own kind of compliment in a place like this. Nobody was laughing at your expense this morning. Nobody had, in longer than you could easily remember.

You let yourself feel something close to pride about that, standing there in the cold morning air, watching the delegation's procession wind up through the gates.

By evening, the foreign delegation had been settled into their guest wing, the formalities of welcome completed, and the castle had shifted into an expectant hush.

You found Gojo in his chambers an hour before the dinner was due to begin, finally dressed — the competent-but-approachable doublet had won, apparently — and looking, for once, genuinely nervous underneath the performed ease.

"You look like you're about to be executed," he said, catching your expression in the mirror's reflection rather than turning around.

"I look focused," you deflected, tentatively and subconsciously fixing the sash draped over your breastplate, like a reminder that it was still there, easing your own nerves in the process.

"You look like someone who's about to ruin my evening with excessive vigilance again." He adjusted his collar one final time, then turned to face you properly, something almost like amusement flickering across his face, though it didn't quite reach his eyes. He stopped in front of you, glancing down — at you, and at your gloved hand still resting on the sash. "Relax. It's just a dinner. With new, important people, but a dinner no less."

You didn't answer that. You weren't sure, yet, whether he was right.

The dining hall was smaller than the main, ceremonial receiving one — more intimate, by the castle's standards, which still meant a ceiling high enough to swallow most of the candlelight before it reached the corners, long tables set with more silver than you'd ever seen assembled in one place, the whole room lavishly arranged with a precision that told you everything had been considered. Flower arrangements, decorative, season- and occasion-appropriate. Even the number of servants and attendants seemed measured against some careful line between enough and too much.

The seating wasn't random either, of course. You'd watched the steward agonize over the chart for two full days — who sat beside whom, who faced whom across the table, who was close enough to the head to matter, and who was positioned, deliberately, just far enough to signal something you didn't fully understand.

You knew the shape of it, if not the texture. A war once, a big one, costly at that, decades back — so long ago that only the grandparents might have remembered its end — the kind that left its scars not on stone but on the way people still chose their words around each other, careful, measured, the particular caution of those who remembered exactly what carelessness had cost. The war was not won, not lost, on either side, and the peace that followed had been built less on trust than on exhaustion — two kingdoms too tired of bleeding to keep finding reasons to bleed — and it had held, somehow, for longer than anyone had likely dared to hope.

But a treaty built on truce rather than stability tends not to hold up, and the border regions knew it best. Skirmishes, trade cutoffs, land disputes, all poisoning the fragile relationship — enough that your king had been cautious enough to invite the representatives, the royal family, and its retinue together, if only to remind everyone that the peace was still strong, still holding.

You understood, in the bloodless way theory let you understand anything, that tonight was a kind of test — that the people seated so politely across this table carried something far older and heavier than themselves, generations of grief worn quiet beneath good manners, watching to see whether your kingdoms had learned anything in the years since, or simply forgotten how to bleed.

You stood behind Gojo's chair, naturally, hands loose at your sides, eyes doing the sweep they always did — except tonight your eyes kept finding things they had no category for. 

A delegate's hand resting a half-second too long on the stem of his crystal glass. A pause in conversation that might have meant nothing or might have meant everything. The particular stillness of the older courtiers, the ones who might have remembered, you'd been told, what this peace had actually cost, wearing their pleasant expressions like something stitched on rather than felt.

You could read a blade from across a hall. You were beginning to understand, with a kind of cold, creeping dread, that you could not read this.

The king and queen exchanged very tight smiles, trying to hold a pleasant, if pointed, conversation about the minor incidents recurring along the border, growing more frequent by the season. Toasts were raised to everlasting peace, though the atmosphere bore little resemblance to any other court celebration you'd stood through. Gojo squirmed in his seat in front of you, the weight of more eyes than usual settled on him this evening, you could tell — not just the ordinary expectations and obligations owed to the crown.

The first course came and went without incident. Soup, something pale and delicately spiced, by the smell perhaps of mushrooms, served in silence broken only by the careful murmur of small talk — weather, the journey, the quality of the wine. You let yourself exhale, fractionally, somewhere around the second course, watching the prince make easy, charming conversation with the delegate seated nearest him, the kind of performance he was good at when he actually bothered to try.

The senior official — older, decorated, his bearing the particular quiet authority of someone who'd actually commanded soldiers rather than inherited the right to — had been quiet through most of it, watching more than speaking, deciding where to spend his words.

He spoke for the first time properly somewhere around the third course.

"Tell me, Your Highness," he said, mild, setting down his fork with deliberate care, "how does your kingdom structure its militia? I confess I find the variations between our nations fascinating."

"Ranks, divisions, the usual." Gojo waved a hand, unbothered, still riding the ease of the evening so far. "Boring bureaucratic stuff, honestly. You'd fall asleep before I finished."

"Humor me."

The prince obliged, lazily, sketching the shape of it — the militia's structure, the personal guard system, nothing especially detailed, nothing that should have mattered. Leading a seemingly pleasant conversation, which was quite a record for him.

"And the heir's personal protection," the official said, when Gojo finished, quirking his head. "How is that arranged?"

"One guard. Always has been." Gojo gestured, vague, toward you, without quite looking at you, the lace trim of his shirt catching in the air as he moved. "Tradition. Or law. Honestly I've stopped caring which."

The official's gaze moved to you for the first time, direct, assessing, and you held it the way you held everything — flat, correct, giving nothing away, though something in your chest had gone very still.

"Interesting," the official said.

Nothing else, for a moment. The conversation moved on, briefly, toward the trade routes, toward something safely, seemingly diplomatic, and you let yourself believe the official's interest had simply been curiosity, satisfied and moved past.

But dear, bloody lord, you were wrong. He returned to it two courses later, unhurried, like the thought had been turning over in his head the entire meal.

"Forgive my curiosity returning," he said, to Gojo, though his eyes flicked toward you again, briefly. "Your guard. She is — unusual, is she not? I don't believe I've seen the like in any court I've visited."

"She's good at her job," Gojo said, shorter this time, something tightening in his voice that hadn't been there before. He was getting annoyed at the persistence, you could tell as well.

"I don't doubt it." The official's tone stayed mild, almost gentle, which made it worse somehow than open hostility would have. "Though I confess, in my homeland, the thought would simply never arise. Women do not serve in our forces at all. The idea of one standing between the heir and a blade—" he paused, considering, "—it raises questions, I think. About priorities. About judgment."

The table's conversation thinned, several smaller exchanges trailing off as attention shifted, drawn by the particular gravity of a sentence that had just landed somewhere very dangerous.

You felt Gojo go rigid, the air seeming to cool around him, the sudden coiled stillness of someone about to do something he hadn't fully decided on yet.

"My judgment," Gojo said, voice still even, though the edge underneath it had sharpened considerably, "put the most capable person available in that position. If your homeland's judgment excludes half its population from ever being considered, I'm not sure that's the flex you think it is."

A ripple moved down the table — not shock exactly, something quieter, the recalibration of several people simultaneously deciding how concerned to be. The official's expression didn't change. That stillness again, the kind that read as offense precisely because nothing else moved. Gojo's eyes flickered toward you, chilling and short, perhaps to check that you were still there.

"Son." The king's voice, low, from further down the table. A small parental warning, nothing more, not yet sharp enough to actually cut through.

Gojo didn't appear to hear it.

"Forgive me," the official said, unhurried, "I meant no offense to the lady's competence. Only to the wisdom of placing your kingdom's most valuable asset — yourself — in hands that, by every tradition I've ever known, would be considered insufficient for the task. One wonders what message it sends. About readiness. About the seriousness with which your father's kingdom approaches its own defense."

That landed somewhere worse than the first comment had. It was supposed to, you had a feeling.

You watched Gojo's jaw set, watched something flicker behind his eyes that you recognized, distantly, from every council session he'd ever sat through bored and resentful, the specific fury of someone being told, again, that he wasn't being taken seriously.

"You're questioning my readiness," he said, voice dropping into something far colder now, "based on who I chose to stand behind my chair?"

"I'm questioning the wisdom of the choice, Your Highness. Not the person. There's a difference."

"Is there." Gojo's hand had curled, loose, around the stem of his own glass, the lace trim of his embroidered sleeve fisting in the process. "Because it sounds, from where I'm sitting, like you're telling me I don't know how to pick competent people. That I'm — what, careless? Reckless? Unfit to be making decisions about my own protection?"

"I made no such accusation."

"You didn't have to. You just spent the last two minutes implying it very politely."

"Satoru." The king spoke again, sharper this time, a real edge to it now. The entire room seemed unsure whether to bristle with amusement or hold its breath at the unseemly severity of the moment.

The prince's gaze flicked toward his father — and something in his expression hardened even further, as though being corrected in front of everyone was its own fresh insult layered on top of the first.

"I'm having a conversation," he said, not quite looking at the king, voice tight. "I'm allowed to have conversations at my own table."

"Your Highness." One of the council members — older, smooth-voiced, the kind of assessing tone used to manage exactly this sort of moment — leaned forward slightly. "Perhaps we might return to the matter of the trade routes. I believe there were several points still to—"

"I'm not finished," he snapped, turning on him now, a new target, fresh offense layering onto the old. "Don't manage me at my own table like I'm a child who needs redirecting."

"I only meant—"

"I know what you meant." His voice had risen now, properly risen, the careful register completely abandoned. "Everyone in this room seems very interested in managing me tonight. First him—" a sharp gesture toward the foreign official, "—questioning my judgment, n' now you, trying to herd me back into line like I can't be trusted to finish my own sentences."

"Satoru, that's enough." The king's voice had real authority in it now, the kind that should have stopped anyone. It did not apply to his own son, unfortunately.

"It's not enough until someone explains to me why my choices are apparently up for public debate at my own dinner table."

The room had gone properly quiet now, silent with a real weight to it, every eye at the table tracking the unraveling with a fascinated horror. The prince glared at everybody in the room, mere seconds, it seemed, from sending everybody — including the foreign king and queen — to damning hell.

Your pulse was climbing. This wasn't a blade. This wasn't a poisoned cup or a hidden weapon or anything your training had a category for. This was a prince, your prince, coming apart in real time over wounded pride — something he was supposed to let slide, something that had been a direct jab at you that he'd taken personally instead — in front of the exact people whose good opinion currently stood between your kingdom and something much worse than a mere awkward dinner.

You didn't know what to do. You genuinely, for one long, terrifying second, didn't know what you were allowed to do.

Your frantic eyes found the king's across the table. He held your gaze and gave the smallest possible nod. Permission, or something close enough to it.

You moved.

Your hand landed softly on Gojo's shoulder, firm, and he barely registered it at first, still talking, voice still rising, words spilling faster than you could fully track. You tightened your grip and leaned down, close enough that only he could hear.

"Your Highness. Stop."

He didn't.

"—and frankly," he was saying, to the table, to the official, to everyone and no one at this point, "if competence is the issue, I'd love to see exactly how many of your soldiers she could put down without breaking a sweat, since apparently that's the metric we're—"

Oh, for the heavens' sake. He was like a horse without reins, and he needed to stop before he accidentally, bloody well started a war. You straightened instead, voice pitched now to carry, flat and commanding, enough to steal every eye in the room toward you.

"Your Highness," you repeated. Sharp. Final. "It is enough — defending women's place in the army for the evening."

The table went silent. Properly silent, this time. Not out of amusement, not out of some unspoken dare. You could feel it pressing against your skin from every direction at once.

Gojo stopped talking. Well — at least that worked.

But the words were already loose in the candlelit air, hanging there, slowly swirling toward the ceiling, mingling with the candle smoke as the hall seemed to fall darker, shadows closing in as everyone now openly stared. Naming the exact thing everyone had spent the whole dinner so carefully not naming outright.

The official's expression shifted from something merely offended into something far colder — something that read less like de-escalation and more like confirmation of every doubt he'd just spent twenty minutes implying.

You'd stopped the prince, yes. But in the process, you weren't entirely sure you hadn't just made everything much worse.

After a few damning moments — the prince's chest rising to say something vile again — the king's dismissal landed like a stone.

"Leave us," he said, low, absolute, the kind of voice that didn't invite argument. "Now."

And for one terrible second you thought your prince might actually respond — might say the one thing that would make tonight unrecoverable instead of merely disastrous — but something in his father's expression must have miraculously reached him, finally, because he shoved his chair back instead, the legs scraping loud against the stone floor, and turned without another word to anyone at the table.

Without any further looks or aimed apologies — which you weren't sure the delegation wouldn't take offense to regardless — he just walked.

You closed your eyes and prayed to the heavens for this evening to be salvageable. You skidded into a trot to catch up to the prince, head bowed as you silently excused the prince's abrupt absence.

The corridors were quiet at this hour, the castle having collectively decided to be somewhere else entirely, and his footsteps were fast enough that you had to half-run to keep pace — the formal fabric of your ceremonial wear catching uselessly between your knees, your sword bumping against your hip with every too-quick stride, the sash across your breastplate shifting in a way that felt, tonight, faintly absurd. You'd stood in that hall wearing it like a statement. Now you were nearly running through a corridor trying not to trip over yourself.

Servants flattened against the walls as he passed. None of them made eye contact, immediately knowing not to provoke an already fired-up prince by, unfortunately, their mere existence.

"Your Highness." Low. Careful. Testing whether he was going to let you say anything at all.

He didn't slow down. Nor did he turn his head.

You tried again, slightly sharper. "The dinner—"

Bloody nothing. His back, the set of his shoulders, the rigidness. All aimed to not to acknowledge you at all.

You kept pace. The corridor stretched ahead, torchlight wavering as if it didn't want to be caught in the prince's wrath either. The silence between you was the loudest thing in it.

He turned the corner. You turned it with him.

His chambers were at the end of the next corridor, the guards at his door already visible. You thought about having to dismiss them. With Gojo's sour and sudden appearance, they would have questions — unspoken ones, but still. And you would have to take the blame for the prince's inability to hold his temper. Like you always had to, even if it wasn't your job to manage him. You thought about all the other things you'd had to go through, all the things he'd put you through.

You thought of the drawer, overflowing. Overflowing.

The guards, seeing you approaching, abandoned their posts and started walking in the opposite direction — not even waiting until you were fully by his chambers. Already sensing the foul atmosphere swirling alongside you.

But before the prince could disappear, upset, behind his carved doors, you had to talk to him. You had to let the steam out. You were just as upset as him, even if for completely different reasons. You'd had to embarrass him, embarrass the realm by having to stop him before he made everything worse — because he never knew when to stop indulging himself.

"You never listen," you said, to his back, sharper than anything you'd allowed yourself in a corridor this open, the words as venomous as your expression. "His Majesty tried to stop you twice — twice — and you kept going."

He stopped mid-stride as if something had caught him, and when he turned around his face was — not what you'd expected. Not the usual displeasure you'd gotten used to. This was something rawer than that, something that hadn't had time to arrange itself into anything manageable, the full weight of the evening sitting visibly on his features with nothing regal left to cover it. You had never seen him looking like this. His eyes holding thousands of words.

He grabbed your wrist — not rough, not gentle, somewhere in between — and turned back toward his door without a word, pulling you with him.

"Your High—"

The door opened. You were through it before you'd finished his title. It swung shut behind you both, the latch clicking into place, and the sound of it — small, final, private — seemed to change the quality of the air in the room entirely.

The public silence broke.

You stood where you'd landed — just inside the threshold, back nearly against the wood, still slightly breathless from the corridor, from the half-run, from the words left open, from the particular shock of his hand on your wrist.

First time he'd ever touched you. First time in months of proximity, months of standing close enough to step between him and a blade, that his hand had actually made contact with yours.

He'd let go like the leather had burned him.

You knew the layout of his room well enough to navigate it in the dark. But tonight it felt like somewhere else entirely, the familiar space pressing differently, the candlelight doing something strange with the shadows, the door shut behind you in a way that felt different from every time before.

Gojo turned on you instantly, the last shred of his performed, lazy elegance entirely gone.

"Shut the fuck up," he snarled, his voice vibrating with a raw, unmanaged fury before you had even drawn breath to speak. "Just shut your mouth for once."

You stared at him, your chest heaving, the sheer venom of it freezing you to the spot.

"Why can't you keep your tongue behind your bloody teeth?" he demanded, stepping aggressively into your space, using his demanding height to force you to tilt your chin up. "It is always 'Your Highness' this, and 'Your Highness' that, dripping with that exact, unbearable condescension. You had absolutely no right to put your hands on me in there! You had no right to tell me to stop!"

You should have swallowed it. Years of brutal discipline dictated that you drop your eyes, bow your head, and let his temper burn itself out against your silence. But the sheer, blinding injustice of it caught in your throat like bile. You had just risked your title, your family's name, and your very life to drag him back from the edge of a political cliff — and yet he was screaming at you over a bruised ego. The iron-clad mask you had oh so carefully maintained since the day you knelt and swore on your oath fractured into a million jagged pieces.

"I just saved your kingdom from your own bloody stupidity," you spat back, giving him back the very furious eyes he was staring down at you with. Your voice dripping with an open, venomous contempt you had never allowed yourself to use.

Something ugly flashed across his face. He turned away — sharp, sudden — and crossed to the far end of the room, toward the window, hands moving like they needed somewhere to be. Like the prince didn't know what to do with himself. The distance between you opened. You felt it like a change in pressure.

The window was dark, the castle grounds barely visible beyond the warped frame — torchlight on the outer walls, the world outside carrying on without you. Covered by blissful ignorance while this room was silently falling apart.

He stood with his back partially turned, and your eyes darted across the room in his absence and caught the desk. Books everywhere, open, left wherever he'd been reading last. And in the middle of them, the council materials from the week's preparation. Untouched. Spine still stiff. Not a single page turned. Merely glanced at.

"I should have you on your knees right now," he said, his voice dropping, still at the window. "Do you understand that? I'm being merciful by not demanding it. You are a mere guard dog. You stand behind my chair and you stay there."

Your hands fisted at your sides as his words cut deeper with each syllable. The prince always had a way with words, one way or another.

"Then find a better dog," you said. "Because the last two you had died because you couldn't be bothered to act like a prince. They bled for your carelessness. So forgive me if I don't trust you to hold the leash."

He flinched. Microscopic — a tightening of the jaw, something hitting somewhere unhealed — and the room went briefly still before he turned back toward you completely, the candlelight catching the white of his hair, his shadow long on the wall. Imposing. A warning.

He didn't retreat. The prince never did. He bared his teeth like a predator changing its strategy instead, and crossed back toward you — stopping somewhere in the middle of the room, close enough that the distance between you had collapsed again, close enough that you could see the specific anger in his eyes, the kind that knew exactly where to aim.

"You think you're my equal because they pinned some expensive silk to your hip?" His gaze dropped to the cape-skirt. The wavering golden light caught the embroidery, the crest at the hem, the snowy white of it against the steel, and you felt it the way you'd felt it at the fitting room, at the ceremony, at every moment since — looked at before anything else, always looked at first.

"Look at what they make you wear. Do you think they give skirts to real soldiers? They bolted that to your waist to remind every single person in this castle exactly what you are before you even open your mouth."

He stepped closer, his voice dropping into a cruel, mocking sneer.

"You think they see a knight when they look at you? They only see a lesser-house girl playing dress-up. Your opinion means absolutely nothing to the men who rule this world. You were put in that hall to be a pretty, expendable shield — not an aristocrat, not someone who should even be allowed to speak about state matters."

You wanted to rip it off. The cape-skirt, the sash, all of it — tear it free and throw it at him, let it land on his expensive doublet and his bruised pride and his absolute certainty about what you were and weren't allowed to be. You wanted to stomp on it. You wanted to make him understand that the thing he was weaponizing was the same thing the institution had put on you without asking, for exactly the same reason. So everyone always knew. So no one ever forgot.

You didn't move.

"Because no one ever taught me the rules!" you yelled.

The sudden volume cracked through the room — louder than you'd intended, louder than you'd allowed yourself, reverberating off the books and the ceiling and the window frame and the weapons on the table he'd never properly racked, all the small details of the room suddenly very present, very close, the familiar space closing in from every direction.

You couldn't stop it. The sheer, suffocating exhaustion, the sleepless nights, the terror of the dining hall — it all boiled over, stripping your composure down past the knight, past the oath, past the mask you'd been wearing since the day you knelt on cold stone and meant every word.

"No one ever—" you started, your voice breaking.

You snapped your mouth shut.

The rest of it — thought to ask if you had what you needed for this, whether you were drowning or managing, whether anyone had set you up to succeed, whether you were worth the trouble of seeing properly — lodged in your throat like broken glass. You swallowed it. Hard. It was more than you could allow yourself. More than he could ever comprehend.

The room went very quiet. The candlelight dimming as if by the stillness of the air. The bed in your peripheral vision — the attendants hadn't gotten to it yet, they rarely did, the prince unmade it quickly enough afterward anyway. The strange domesticity of it, something you had never allowed yourself to dwell on and did not want to allow yourself to dwell on, sitting strangely in the middle of all of this.

Gojo stared at you. The furious momentum of the argument had stuttered — the raw break in your voice catching him off guard; after all, it was the first time you had allowed yourself any emotion other than that annoying stoicism in front of him. Something shifted behind his expression that wasn't the anger or the wounded pride.

"No one ever what?" he demanded, stepping into the sudden quiet. One step closer. "Go on. Say it. The truth, knight."

You clamped your jaw. A direct order from the crown. Yet you refused it outright. Not tonight. Not now. Not to him. You were ashamed of even thinking those words, and you would rather swallow a thousand blades than admit them out loud for the prince to play with.

"No," you said, your voice shaking, weaponizing the pain and redirecting it directly at his chest. "It doesn't matter."

Because you couldn't stop yourself. Because it was what he deserved.

"You are a spoiled aristocrat! Rich and blessed enough to never have to care about the consequences! I have to bleed for your mistakes! My life, my family's name — I risk everything to babysit a man who treats his own safety like a tavern joke!"

He crossed away again — back toward the window, the full length of the room opening between you — and the distance felt vast, enormous, the space measured in something that had nothing to do with feet. The candle on his desk, the fast one, was nearly spent, the flame burning lower than the others, the light in that corner dimming fractionally.

"Everyone already paints me as the villain before I've done anything!" he fired back, his own voice cracking with a bitter, defensive desperation. "You think I asked for the prophecy, the expectations, or any of it?"

"The system is what benefits you." Your voice quieter register, yet sharper. "Benefits all of you. You can afford to lose your temper because the system will absorb it. It will blame someone else, smooth it over, find a ready explanation. I don't have that. Everything that went wrong tonight will land on me, and you knew it. You knew it and you kept going anyway. Costing me far more than venomous stares the next morning."

The room went dead silent.

Him at the window. You at the door. The full distance of the room between you, and everything that had been said filling it — all of it suddenly very visible, very specific, witness to everything neither of you could take back.

He went completely still. The fiery, wounded anger drained from his face, replaced by something colder. More precise.

"You think you're here because you earned it?" His voice flat. Empty. The candlelight and the shadows making his otherwise regal features more severe, more haunting. "You think anyone looked at you and decided you were worthy of protecting the crown?"

Your breath hitched.

"You were simply the only woman in the barracks when the council wanted to manufacture an apparently very amusing punishment for me," he said, delivering each word slowly, deliberately, aimed. Aimed at your pride, at your entire purpose. "That is the only reason you are standing in my chambers. You weren't a strategic choice. You were a deliberate insult."

He leaned in slightly despite the distance, his eyes hollow and freezing, his voice a vile whisper in the charged air between you.

"You are the joke," he said. "N' I'm the punchbag."

The silence that followed was total.

The fast candle on his desk guttered — the flame bending sideways, nearly going out before it steadied — and the light shifted briefly, throwing new shadows across the far wall, the room the same as it had always been and entirely changed.

You didn't scream. You didn't slap him. You didn't cry. Though you wanted to. He had worn you thin — not only tonight, but across the long months of being his shadow. His mere guard dog.

The confirmation landed square in your chest — the suspicion you'd carried for months, examined now and found to be exactly what you'd feared — and your composure did not shatter. Well, did not shatter any further, that was. It went cold and still, the fury draining out and leaving behind something that felt like nothing but wasn't. Though you were surprised by the deliberate phrasing — the prince landing a jab at himself while driving it straight into your very guarded, very fragile underbelly. And it bled.

"Understood."

One word. Coming out clipped. Devoid of everything. You had nothing left, yet still words to spend — but you chose to be the bigger person. You were always the bigger person. More words could be costly, while his were mere ventilation. Your head could be on the block tomorrow while he laughed it off. You couldn't afford anything. The prince was there for the stupidity, as you had apparently so diplomatically put it on the record.

Gojo blinked. Something flickered through his expression. He opened his mouth.

You didn't give him the chance.

"I will take my post, Your Highness."

You turned on your heel. You crossed the room — the few strides you had unknowingly made into it, away from the door — and you felt each step taking three times as long as it should, the distance playing with you, trying to trap you in.

Your hand found the door handle and you pulled it open and stepped through, pulling it shut behind you with a quiet, damning click that cost you more restraint than anything else in the last ten minutes.

His attendants were waiting in the corridor outside. Three of them — the young girl among them — eyes carefully averted, expressions arranged into the blankness of people who have heard something they'd rather not. Pretending otherwise.

You walked past them. You could feel your cheeks heating and you wanted to tell them off, the boldness the prince had surgically riled up in you not yet willing to settle back into the depths of your soul where it belonged.

You took your post.

The unsettling feeling had nowhere to go. The drawer had spilled open, yet ended fuller than before. The night stretched ahead of you, long and quiet and entirely without resolution, and you stood in it the way you stood through everything — chin up, eyes forward, giving the corridor nothing it hadn't already taken.

Your heart wouldn't slow down though.

Loud and relentless and entirely indifferent to everything you'd decided to perform, beating like it hadn't gotten the message yet that the fight was over.

As you kept replaying his dreadful words, leaving his mouth like a death sentence. You'd known, somewhere. You'd always known, somewhere. The suspicion had lived in the back of your mind since the letter arrived with the ink still smeared, since your commander said the position was yours if you wanted it and your family had already been notified, since the first time you'd walked into a room and watched people's eyes move straight past you to him.

You'd just never let yourself finish the thought. Protecting your peace, your pride, and your dream — the change you wanted to happen.

Now he'd finished it for you. You stood in the dark with it. Full of fury and unexplainable sadness. And the night very long.