ube yamy

it is 1:30 p.m., and he’s been at the office since 7:30 that morning because satoru gojo sent a draft pitch book to a client with old financial projections and a comps table that overstated ebitda margins by nearly three percent, a mistake subtle enough to slip through at a glance and serious enough to derail an entire client call.

suguru spends hours reconstructing the model cell by cell, correcting formulas, re-linking sheets, recalculating sensitivities while toji fushiguro hovers in his peripheral vision.

“that’s not the right sensitivity range,” toji had said earlier, voice edged with impatience, tapping the screen with one blunt finger.

suguru had inhaled through his nose, jaw tight. 

“i’m adjusting it,” he replied evenly, though the vein at his temple had throbbed, knowing there was no “we” in the error. there had only been satoru, careless and charming and somehow still employed.

now suguru crosses the street with a pastrami on rye clenched in one hand, paper already translucent with grease, and his phone pressed to his ear with the other. he tastes mustard and salt before he even takes a bite.

the sandwich shop beneath his building is closed for refurbishing, a bright sign taped over the shuttered entrance announcing temporary inconvenience. he walks three extra blocks to secure this replacement, irritation compounding with each step.

“tell me you fixed it,” satoru says on the other end of the line, voice light, almost amused.

suguru exhales through his nose, gaze fixed ahead as he navigates the crosswalk, the air thick with the metallic scent that precedes rain. 

“i rebuilt the model,” he says, tone even, though his jaw tightens and his fingers flex around the phone. “next time, review the comps before attaching the deck.”

there’s a soft laugh through the speaker. “you’re a lifesaver.”

his temple pulses harder.

he feels faintly unmoored, as if the pavement beneath him has shifted half an inch out of alignment, two double shots of espresso churning pointlessly in his bloodstream, emails continuing to flood his screen in relentless succession. 

he glances down for half a second, thumb swiping automatically to clear a notification, exhaustion so deeply ingrained it moves him without conscious permission, right into the street and into the hood of a car.

the impact arrives as a blunt, disorienting force. the world tilts violently as his shoulder collides with the hood, then the pavement greets him next with unforgiving finality. 

air leaves his lungs in a sharp, involuntary exhale as his phone skitters across the concrete, spinning once before landing facedown, not to mention his pastrami and rye splayed obscenely across the sidewalk, mustard streaking the ground.

a high, shrill ringing drills through his skull, footsteps pounding toward him, uneven and frantic. the city hum fractures into jagged pieces, and somewhere to his left, tinny and distorted through a speaker, satoru’s voice crackles into the air.

“hello, suguru? did you drop me?”

he stares up at the gray stretch of sky framed by glass and steel, blinking slowly as pain blooms behind his eyes in measured pulses. his head throbs with vicious insistence. his shoulder burns. the ringing does not subside.

god, he hates his life.

…

you’re going to jail.

the thought blooms white-hot and instantaneous, searing through your chest as your foot slams onto the brake a fraction of a second too late. 

the sound comes first, that horrible, dull thud of metal against body, a noise so dense and sickening it seems to reverberate inside your skull. 

you see it in fragments: a flash of white shirt. a dark silhouette disappearing beneath the edge of your hood as your hands lock around the steering wheel, breath leaving you in a sharp, animal sound.

you have only gotten one ticket in your entire life. 

you were sixteen, trembling behind the wheel of your mother’s car after making a right on red when the sign clearly prohibited it, sobbing so violently that the police officer leaned down to your window and asked if you were capable of driving home safely. you cried the entire way back that day. 

you still remember the humiliation of it, the way your chest had hurt for hours after.

you hate driving, and hate driving in the city most of all. 

you beg shoko to carpool almost every morning because illinois drivers terrify you, because the lanes feel narrower and the horns feel louder and everyone seems perpetually seconds away from catastrophe. 

today, unfortunately, is the day she requests off.

today it’s just you (and the body that is hopefully not dead beneath your car).

you throw the car into park so abruptly it jerks. your fingers fumble at your seatbelt, tearing it free, the door flying open before the engine even finishes idling.

you step out barefoot because you cannot imagine navigating asphalt in heels right now, your shoes abandoned on the driver’s side floor. your hands shake so violently you have to steady yourself against the frame of the car.

the man is on the ground.

long dark hair spills forward, obscuring his face. his sandwich lies unwrapped and ruined across the sidewalk, pastrami splayed grotesquely against the concrete. his phone rests several feet away, screen cracked, a faint voice still crackling from its speaker.

you’re vaguely aware of the sound of horns blaring behind you. someone yells something profane from a half-open window, and you know for a fact that your car sits at an absolutely atrocious angle in the street, surely blocking traffic, but none of it matters as you watch the man begin to move.

slowly, deliberately, he pushes himself up onto one elbow, inhaling through his nose, wincing faintly as he rises. dust clings to his slacks. he brushes at them with curt, precise motions, then studies the scuff on his sleeve as though that is the gravest offense committed here.

his expression is sharp and furious, anger honed to a fine edge.

“were you even looking?” he demands, voice low and controlled, each word articulated with cutting clarity.

“i’m so, so sorry,” you rush out immediately, your voice cracking on the second syllable. your hands hover uselessly in front of you, palms half-raised like you want to touch him, like you want to steady him, but you’re terrified of making anything worse. “i didn’t see you, i swear i didn’t, i was just— i’m so sorry.”

you know, somewhere beneath the panic, that it was him who stepped forward too quickly, that he glanced at his phone, entering the crosswalk with the distracted confidence of someone accustomed to right of way. 

but you also know pedestrian laws will not care about nuance, so you’re re just grateful he’s breathing.

“i didn’t mean to,” you continue, words tumbling over each other in disarray. “are you okay? oh my god, i’m so sorry, are you okay?”

he looks up fully now, brows drawn together, jaw set with deliberate restraint, lips pressed thin as if he is choosing his words before they ever reach you. there’s dust along his cheekbone, a faint scrape near his temple, and yet he carries himself with an almost infuriating composure, like the pavement itself has inconvenienced him.

his eyes are a vivid, disconcerting purple, a deep, striking violet that feels almost unnatural against the gray afternoon, and the harshness in them is unmistakable at first. a flare of indignation that mirrors the throb in his temple, flashing with irritation and disbelief as they lock onto you.

and then, as he studies your face properly, something shifts.

the tension in his gaze loosens by degrees, something else threaded through it now, something quieter, almost curious. it catches you off guard, that the same eyes capable of slicing through you a moment ago can soften so subtly.

they are, you realize with a flicker of inappropriate clarity, kind of nice.

the thought feels absurd given the circumstances. you have just nearly committed vehicular homicide. your heart is hammering against your ribs. and yet you are standing barefoot in the middle of a chicago street, staring at the way the afternoon light settles into his irises, turning them almost luminous beneath the overcast sky.

his gaze lingers a beat longer than it should, and your stomach flips in a way that has nothing to do with fear.

you swallow hard. “are you okay?” you repeat, softer this time, stepping closer despite yourself.

he does not answer immediately. his brow furrows faintly, as though recalibrating his surroundings. then he exhales.

“i’m fine,” he says, voice steadier than his body appears to be.

he attempts to stand, and yet his balance wavers slightly, enough that you notice. his hand reaches out instinctively for the side of your car and there’s a faint glaze to his eyes, a fractional delay in his movements that makes your stomach twist.

“you’re not fine,” you insist, the panic resurging, your fingers brushing lightly at his wrist as if to anchor him. “please, let me take you to the hospital. i need to take you to the hospital.”

“that’s unnecessary,” he replies, brushing off his sleeve again with deliberate composure, as though this entire ordeal is merely an inconvenience to his schedule.

“please,” you say, and this time your voice fractures entirely. “i hit you with my car. i’m taking you to the hospital.”

he regards you for a moment, lips pressing into a thin line. then he nods once, curt and controlled, as though granting you a concession.

“fine,” he says evenly. “if it will assuage your conscience.”

you hurry to retrieve his phone from the pavement. the screen is cracked across one corner, spiderwebbing outward. you wince, another expense tallying itself in your mind.

“hello?” a voice calls faintly through the speaker. “suguru? hello?”

you hurry to the passenger side as he lowers himself into the seat with measured stiffness, movements careful and slightly imprecise. you lean in, holding the phone near your ear.

“um, hi,” you say, breath uneven. “this isn’t suguru. i, um, hit him with my car by accident, and i’m planning to take him to the hospital. are you guys related?”

there is a brief silence on the other end.

then, “you did what?” the voice replies, incredulous and bright with poorly concealed amusement.

“i hit him,” you repeat, mortified. “with my car. he’s conscious, but i think he might have a concussion. could you alert his office? and is there family, or a girlfriend, or wife i should call?”

a laugh spills through the speaker, airy and irreverent. 

“coworker,” he says easily, amusement curling through his tone in a way that feels entirely inappropriate for the situation. “and relax. he doesn’t have a girlfriend. not within three hundred miles of here, no.”

you glance sideways at suguru, who sits back against the leather passenger seat as if it personally offended him, eyes half-lidded, jaw drawn tight, one hand pressed firmly to his temple. 

rain begins to fall in light, tentative drops against your windshield, faint at first, then gathering into a soft percussion that fills the silence between breaths.

“okay,” you murmur into the phone, swallowing hard. “could you— um— could you alert his office? just in case? and can i have your name?”

there is the sound of shuffling on the other end, a chair creaking faintly. 

“satoru gojo,” he replies, bright and unbothered. “i’ll let them know he got taken out by a mystery woman.”

heat climbs your neck. 

“i didn’t take him out,” you protest weakly, already circling back toward the driver’s side. “it was an accident.”

“sure,” satoru says lightly. “can you put him on? i need to confirm he’s alive.”

you slide into the driver’s seat, heart still pounding, and close the door with trembling hands. you shift the car into drive, finally pulling away from the cacophony of honking vehicles behind you. 

the rain intensifies slightly, windshield wipers dragging back and forth in steady arcs.

“um, yeah. sure,” you say, leaning toward suguru and holding the phone out to him. “it’s your coworker.”

he exhales a low, irritated sound that borders on a groan before taking the phone from your hand with fingers that move a fraction too slowly.

“what,” he mutters into the speaker, voice gravelly and laced with restrained annoyance.

satoru’s laughter bursts through the line, loud and unrestrained, the kind that spills over itself and fills whatever space it enters without permission. 

“you sound terrible, but this might be your lucky day, suguru,” he says, amusement woven thick through every syllable, as if already reclining in his office chair with his feet up on the desk, grinning into the phone. “she sounds cute.”

your grip tightens on the steering wheel.

“i can barely see,” suguru murmurs flatly, eyes sliding toward you in an openly assessing glance that lingers longer than necessary. even dazed, his gaze is deliberate. “hard to confirm.”

“so she is cute,” satoru presses, tone triumphant.

suguru studies you again, slower this time, gaze trailing over your face with disconcerting focus. 

“i didn’t say that,” he replies, voice measured, though the faintest trace of something almost amused flickers there. “but i didn’t not say it.”

“incredible.” satoru laughs again, louder, delighted. “text me if you survive, bye!”

the line goes dead.

suguru lowers the phone, staring at the cracked screen for a second before handing it back to you. the car falls quiet save for the rhythmic sweep of the wipers and the rain striking glass in persistent, silvery taps.

you clear your throat, the sound thin against the steady percussion of rain striking the windshield, wipers carving brief windows of clarity through the gray blur ahead. your fingers tighten around the steering wheel, knuckles paling as you keep your gaze fixed firmly on the road.

“would you, um, like music?” you ask tentatively, voice small in the enclosed space, as though loud sound might fracture him further.

he shifts in the passenger seat, leather creasing beneath his weight. a faint grimace flickers across his face as he presses his fingers more firmly to his temple, eyes squeezing shut for a second as if the very suggestion reverberates inside his skull.

“please no,” he says, the words drawn out in quiet suffering, each syllable exhaled like it physically costs him something.

the car settles back into silence.

rain gathers strength, droplets racing each other down the glass. the city hum fades behind the cocoon of your vehicle. you can hear your own breathing. you can hear his, as well.

he sits with his head tilted slightly back, throat exposed in a way that feels disarmingly vulnerable. his collar has loosened just enough to reveal the line of muscle beneath, lashes resting heavy against his cheeks. 

there’s a softness to him now, something unguarded, as though the impact has peeled back the careful composure he wears like a second skin.

you steal a glance.

his shirt strains faintly across his shoulders when he adjusts, the fabric pulling at the seams as he inhales. a vein traces the length of his forearm where his sleeve is rolled. he smells faintly of something refined and expensive, clean with a darker undertone that lingers in the air between you.

you wonder, fleetingly, if it is expensive. the richness of satoru’s laugh echoes in your memory. the shattered corner of the newest iphone rests in your cup holder. 

nobody making less than six figures walks through the city with a phone like that and no case.

the silence stretches, and after a moment, his voice surfaces again, lower now, threaded with fatigue and something almost contemplative. 

“i never got your name,” he says, eyes still closed, as if the thought has just occurred to him mid-breath.

your pulse stutters as you tell him.

he opens his eyes slowly, turning his head toward you. he repeats your name carefully, enunciating each syllable with deliberate precision, as though committing it to memory through sound alone. his gaze lingers on your profile a beat too long before drifting forward again.

two minutes pass, the only sounds being rain and the soft whir of the engine before he shifts again, brow furrowing faintly.

“wait,” he says, glancing toward you with mild confusion. “what was your name again?”

that’s not a good sign.

your grip tightens on the wheel as you tell him again, softer this time.

he repeats it once more, slower, tasting the cadence of it. something faintly amused curves at the corner of his mouth despite the hand still braced against his temple.

“you know,” he adds after a beat, eyes sliding toward you with open, unfiltered appraisal that feels startling in its candor, “i’ve never had a woman hit on me this aggressively.”

you nearly swerve.

“i did not hit on you,” you blurt immediately, mortified, heat flooding your cheeks and creeping down your neck. “i hit you with my car. that’s not flirting.”

he watches you as you speak, expression softened by something dazed and faintly entertained, as though the distinction you are making is deeply fascinating to him. 

the rain continues its steady descent, and for a moment, the world outside the car feels impossibly distant.

suguru leans his head back again, eyes closing briefly as rain continues its steady descent, droplets streaking diagonally across the windshield in silvery rivulets. his fingers remain pressed at his temple, thumb resting just beneath his brow as if he can physically hold his thoughts in place.

“you ran me over,” he says, almost thoughtfully, voice low and contemplative, as though he is evaluating a business proposal rather than recounting bodily harm. “that’s commitment.”

you let out a soft, incredulous breath, tightening your grip on the wheel as you merge into the next lane.

“you ran in front of my car,” you reply, unable to keep the defensive edge from creeping into your tone. you glance at him briefly before returning your eyes to the road. “so maybe don’t flatter yourself.”

he hums in response, a quiet, resonant sound in the back of his throat that could mean agreement or amusement. his lips curve faintly at one corner, the expression subtle and unhurried.

“hm,” he murmurs after a second, eyes still closed, rain tapping steadily against the glass. “i’ll take partial credit, i suppose.”

…

in the emergency room, everything smells faintly antiseptic and metallic, the air humming with fluorescent light and distant monitors that beep in arrhythmic intervals. 

suguru sits on the edge of the hospital bed with his back propped against a thin pillow, gown traded for his wrinkled button-down again, though it hangs looser now, collar slightly askew. his eyes remain closed as the doctor speaks, lashes resting against his cheeks in quiet stillness.

for a moment, he looks almost serene.

his jaw has relaxed, the sharp tension from earlier dissolved into something softer. his lips, faintly pink and parted just enough for slow, even breaths, give him an unexpectedly gentle air. a stray strand of dark hair has fallen across his forehead, and you have to physically restrain yourself from brushing it back.

the doctor, a blonde man with thick glasses whose face carries both premature laugh lines and an oddly youthful smoothness, clicks his pen once before speaking.

“mild concussion,” he says evenly, glancing at the chart and then at suguru. “no signs of internal bleeding. he’s responsive, just disoriented.”

suguru hums faintly, eyes still closed, as if in distant acknowledgment.

the doctor shifts his attention to you, gaze moving between the two of you with quiet assessment.

“and you are… wife? girlfriend?” he asks, tone professional but gently curious.

your stomach drops.

“oh,” you say quickly, mortified heat rushing to your face. “no. i um, i hit him with my car.”

the doctor’s brows lift slightly, then knit together in a brief crease of confusion before settling back into composure. 

“right,” he says, clearing his throat softly. “well. i’ll write down discharge instructions. someone needs to monitor him for dizziness, nausea, confusion, personality changes.”

he scribbles across a form, then looks at you again.

“he shouldn’t be alone for the next twelve to twenty-four hours.”

you nod immediately, too fast, as if you are in a classroom and have just been assigned homework. 

“okay, right. yes, of course.” your mind races ahead of you, scanning for solutions and finding none. “can i— um— step out for a minute?” you ask quietly.

the doctor gestures toward the hallway.

you slip outside, the door swinging closed behind you with a soft hydraulic sigh that sounds far too calm for the state of your pulse. the corridor feels colder than the room you just left, the fluorescent lights harsher, the linoleum stretching out in a sterile, endless line. 

you press your back to the wall, fingertips splayed against it as if you need something solid to hold you upright, and drag in a breath that stutters on the way down before pulling out your phone and dialing shoko.

she answers on the second ring, voice casual, unsuspecting. “hello?”

“i hit a very, very attractive man with my car,” you blurt in one unfiltered rush, the words tumbling over each other before you can rearrange them into something dignified.

there is a long, weighted pause on the other end.

“what?”

“i hit him,” you repeat, pushing off the wall and pacing two uneven steps down the hallway before turning back again. your bare feet whisper against the floor. “i drove him to the hospital and he has a concussion, but he doesn’t have family here that i know of, so i don’t know what to do with him now.”

“okay, slow down.” shoko says slowly, her tone shifting from confusion to something grounded and deliberate, the cadence of someone stepping into triage mode. “ where did you hit him?”

“downtown,” you answer quickly, hand threading through your hair. “he was walking, probably to or from work. he looks like he works in investment banking or something. he has that energy.”

“then take him back to work,” she says without hesitation.

you stop pacing entirely, the abruptness of her response catching you off guard. “wait—seriously?”

“yes,” she replies plainly. you can almost hear her shrug through the phone. “you did what you were supposed to do; you got him checked out, now drop him off with his coworkers.”

you stare down at the pale floor tiles, at the faint scuff marks etched into them by countless gurneys and hurried shoes. 

“right,” you murmur, though the word feels thinner than it should.

“he’s a grown man,” shoko continues, firm and pragmatic. “you’re not adopting him.”

you let out a slow breath, the panic loosening just enough to let oxygen settle properly in your lungs. “right,” you say again, stronger this time, trying to anchor yourself in logic. “right.”

you thank her quietly and end the call, pressing your palm briefly to your forehead as if you can smooth the chaos there with physical pressure. when you push yourself off the wall and reach for the door handle, a strange heaviness settles into your chest.

dropping him off. 

the phrase echoes faintly in your mind.

you picture walking him back into some sleek lobby, handing him over to polished coworkers, watching the elevator doors slide shut with him inside. you imagine driving away, rain streaking your windshield again, returning to your ordinary afternoon as if you didn’t just collide with a man whose eyes were an impossible shade of violet.

you wonder, fleetingly and irrationally, whether you would ever see him again.

whether satoru might give you updates. whether you could invent some reason to check in. whether there’s a version of this day where the story does not simply end in a hospital discharge and an awkward office drop-off.

the thought feels absurd almost as soon as it forms, so you shake your head once, grounding yourself, and push the door open.

when you step back into the room, suguru’s eyes are half-open now, unfocused but searching, gaze drifting until it finds you. something in your chest tightens unexpectedly at the sight of him looking for you, and you cross the room before you can interrogate the reason why.

…

suguru geto frankly doesn’t have much of a clue what the hell has gone on in the past two, maybe three, and god—he hopes not four hours, because if it has been four then he is almost certainly unemployed at the hands of masamichi yaga by now. 

time feels elastic, stretched thin and snapping back in uneven intervals, pieces of the day sliding past him without anchoring properly.

he is aware of you, the woman who hit him with your car.

the woman who smells faintly of vanilla and rain and something warm he cannot quite place. the woman who is, in his current compromised state, absurdly beautiful, the kind of beautiful that feels inconvenient when one is trying to maintain irritation. 

you’ve apparently dropped everything in your day to chauffeur him around chicago, and the knowledge settles somewhere low in his chest, heavy and unfamiliar.

he is also aware of the rain.

it beats steadily against the windshield, a persistent percussion that is both abrasive and strangely calming, each drop streaking into silver lines as the wipers sweep back and forth. 

he leans his head against the cool glass of the passenger window, the vibration of the engine humming faintly through his temple. the chill seeps into his skin in a way that almost distracts from the pain.

he is most aware of the throbbing in his head.

the hospital pain medication dulled it briefly, wrapped it in cotton for a fleeting reprieve, and now the ache has returned with patient insistence. it pulses behind his eyes, radiating outward in measured waves that make his stomach twist. 

he should have told dr. nanami it was a seven. he said three because pride is a stubborn habit, but right about now it feels closer to an eight.

suguru briefly entertains the notion of rolling out of the car at the next red light and allowing a semi-truck to complete what you started, though even that thought feels too labor-intensive to execute.

his head feels faintly like the time he and satoru did thirteen shots in celebration of closing a particularly grueling deal, the kind that had kept them in the office until two in the morning for weeks. 

he remembers the burn of liquor, the dizziness that followed, the way his mouth had operated independently of discretion, spilling flirtation and poorly considered commentary with equal enthusiasm. he cannot recall the details of that night clearly, though he remembers the sensation, similar to the one he feels now.

he remembers saying something to you earlier; something about how pretty you were, and the memory hovers at the edge of his consciousness, hazy but persistent as he shifts slightly in his seat, stealing another glance at you. 

you’re focused on the road, fingers drumming faintly against the steering wheel in restless rhythm, jaw set with concentration. city lights reflect in the curve of your cheek, and your brows knit together occasionally as traffic compresses ahead of you.

the sky has darkened further, evening settling in layers of charcoal and steel. inside the hospital, the fluorescent lights felt almost aggressive, piercing straight through his skull with clinical indifference. here, in the muted dimness of your car, he can open his eyes more comfortably, opening them to rows of red taillights stretch ahead in an endless chain, glowing against wet pavement.

rush hour: you’re stuck in it because of him.

a faint flicker of guilt threads through the fog in his head. you had somewhere to be today. maybe you had plans, obligations, a life uninterrupted by blunt-force trauma.

he shifts again, pressing his palm briefly to his temple before letting his hand fall into his lap.

“m’sorry,” he murmurs quietly, the word almost swallowed by the rain and the hum of the engine as his eyelids grow heavier, the rhythm of the wipers hypnotic, steady and unrelenting as he closes his eyes.

the rain continues to fall as his breathing evens out, and he drifts back into sleep, head tilted toward the window, city moving slowly around him.

…

satoru gojo is both nothing and everything you pictured while on the phone with him.

the cocky tone had prepared you for arrogance, for ease, for the careless confidence of a twenty-something man who has rarely been told no. 

it had not prepared you for the physicality of him. 

he stands just beyond your driver’s side mirror at an angle that catches the late afternoon light, easily six foot two, perhaps taller, white hair stark against the gray sky, the kind of white that looks deliberate rather than genetic. 

his eyes are an impossible blue, vivid and crystalline, the exact shade that once made you pause a scene of game of thrones in college because the white walkers had looked unreal.

he wears a white button-down similar to suguru’s, sleeves rolled with precision, navy slacks tailored close to the leg, brown loafers that gleam with quiet expense. sunglasses rest low on the bridge of his nose despite the overcast sky and an iced coffee sweats in his hand. 

for a man whose co-worker was hit by a car within him on the phone, he looks deeply entertained.

suguru’s office building rises behind him in sheets of reflective glass and brushed steel, all sharp lines and minimalist landscaping. the lobby beyond the revolving doors glows warm and curated, marble floors veined in subtle gray, a receptionist seated behind a stone desk that probably cost more than your first car. a discreet plaque near the entrance bears the name of the investment bank in understated lettering.

you were supposed to be here next month, coincidentally.

a meeting regarding an acquisition. your firm on the buy-side, theirs advising. you had skimmed the building address in the calendar invite and thought nothing of it, the realization sliding quietly into place now. 

you push down the fleeting thought that maybe, just maybe, you would have seen suguru here under very different circumstances, that you might have passed him in a conference room or across a polished marble lobby, introduced over coffee and financial models instead of hospital forms and apologetic explanations. 

the idea flickers through your mind with uncomfortable persistence, followed quickly by a quieter thought that settles somewhere deeper, more private. 

you glance toward him where he rests slumped in the passenger seat, dark hair loosened slightly from its careful tie, long lashes resting against his cheek as the car idles beneath the gray sky. he’s absurdly handsome even while half-conscious, the sort of man people notice the moment he walks into a room, the sort of man who carries himself with quiet certainty. 

a faint, self-conscious realization presses in behind the thought: if you met him under ordinary circumstances, when his head was clear and his balance steady, not blinking slowly at you through a haze of dizziness and pain medication, the easy warmth he’d shown you today might never have existed at all. 

the notion lingers only a second before you force it aside, pressing your lips together as you shift your focus back to the present moment.

satoru steps closer and leans through your open window, bracing one hand casually against the top of the door. he glances at suguru, who is faintly slumped into the passenger seat, head tilted toward the window, mouth slightly parted. 

he’s been softly snoring for the better half of the hour you spent inching through traffic, utterly oblivious to your arrival.

“well, here he is,” you say awkwardly, gesturing toward suguru as if presenting a fragile delivery. “i can help get him out of the car if you’d like.”

satoru winces theatrically, pulling his sunglasses down an inch to peer more closely at his coworker.

“oooh,” he says, drawing the word out with exaggerated sympathy. “yeah, about that.”

you feel your stomach tighten.

he straightens, taking a long sip of his iced coffee before continuing with unsettling cheerfulness. 

“i’m leaving for a twenty-eight-day transatlantic cruise tomorrow,” he says, tone light, almost conversational, like he’s discussing the weather rather than abandoning his concussed coworker in a stranger’s vehicle. “and i refuse to start my vacation early by babysitting a concussed investment banker.”

he pauses just long enough to take another slow sip, gaze drifting briefly toward suguru slumped in the passenger seat before returning to you with easy satisfaction.

“work-life boundaries are important, y’know.”

you blink at him, and before you can formulate a response, he slips a set of keys from his pocket and drops them directly into your open palm, metal pressing cold against your skin.

“but i do have the keys to his place,” he says lightly. “seems like fate, right?”

you stare down at them, then back up at him. 

“logistically speaking,” you begin, words tripping over themselves, “how would that even— he doesn’t have family here?”

“nope,” satoru replies without hesitation.

there is a brief, infuriating beat of silence.

“have fun!” he adds brightly.

and then he steps back, already turning toward the revolving doors, sunglasses sliding back into place as if this entire exchange has been a minor amusement in his day.

you watch him disappear into the building, rain beginning to speckle more insistently against your windshield, and in the passenger seat, suguru stirs faintly, brows knitting as his eyes crack open.

“did he leave?” he asks, voice rough with sleep and disorientation. he squints toward the building. “where’s he going?”

you let out a slow, measured sigh, gripping the steering wheel as the absurdity of the situation settles fully into your bones.

“apparently,” you reply, shifting the car back into drive, “on a cruise.”

he makes a faint, displeased sound, leaning his head back against the window with visible offense.

you pull out of the lot and glance once more at the keys resting in your cup holder. 

twelve to twenty-four hours. intense monitoring. personality changes.

you signal and merge back into traffic, turning toward your own building with reluctant resolve.

if you’re going to spend the next day taking care of a half-concussed, infuriatingly attractive stranger, you’re at least going to change into sweats first.

…

the car glides down the slow spiral of the parking garage, tires whispering across the smooth concrete as the city’s evening noise fades into a hollow, echoing quiet. overhead lights pass rhythmically across the windshield in pale bands, each one briefly illuminating the interior before sliding away again. 

you guide the wheel carefully, scanning the familiar rows of expensive sedans and matte-black suvs parked in disciplined lines, the faint smell of damp pavement drifting through the vents. 

your shoulders carry the lingering tension of the day, fingers tightening briefly around the steering wheel as you maneuver toward the ramp that leads down another level.

beside you, suguru stirs.

his head shifts slightly against the window, the movement slow and heavy, like gravity itself has thickened. dark hair falls loose from the tie at the base of his neck, a few strands brushing his cheek. his lashes flutter once before his eyes open halfway, unfocused and glassy with fatigue.

he squints faintly at the ceiling lights passing overhead.

“s’toru gave you my address?” he mumbles, voice thick with sleep and the dull ache still pulsing somewhere behind his temples.

the question lands a beat too late in your brain.

your hands tighten on the steering wheel as the car rolls forward another few feet, and you freeze in place long enough for the vehicle behind you to creep impatiently closer.

“no?” you answer, the word slipping out in a confused breath.

suguru’s brows knit together in slow concentration, the expression faintly pained as he tries to force clarity out of a mind that refuses to cooperate. he lifts his head slightly from the window, blinking toward the dim rows of parked cars around you as though attempting to orient himself in space.

“so why do you know where i live?” he mutters hoarsely.

the accusation carries very little heat. it sounds more like a tired observation than a confrontation.

you pull into a vacant space and shift the car into park, the soft mechanical click echoing faintly in the quiet garage.

“this is where i live,” you reply carefully, glancing toward him.

suguru turns his head a fraction more, studying your face with a slow, puzzled intensity that suggests the effort alone is exhausting. one corner of his mouth lifts faintly despite the confusion still clouding his gaze.

“hm,” he murmurs after a moment, voice rough and thoughtful. “so you’ve been watching me, then.”

his head tilts slightly where it rests against the passenger-side window, cheek pressing into the cool glass as the garage lights pass over his face in slow intervals, illuminating the faint crease between his brows and the lingering haze still clouding his eyes. 

the movement looks heavy, uncoordinated, as though gravity itself has thickened around him, and when he speaks again his voice carries that loose, drifting cadence of someone whose thoughts keep slipping just out of reach.

“stalker,” he adds faintly, the word arriving with a lazy sort of certainty, like a conclusion he’s reached after long and careful deliberation.

you turn your head toward him slowly, staring.

“i hit you with my car,” you say flatly, the words landing somewhere between correction and disbelief as the reality of the situation presses against your patience.

a low hum vibrates in his chest, soft and contemplative, as if he finds the clarification mildly interesting.

“that too.”

the sound of the garage ventilation system fills the quiet space around you, a steady mechanical hum echoing faintly against the concrete walls, while overhead lights cast long muted reflections across the windshield and the polished hood of the car. 

your fingers shift slightly against the steering wheel before drifting down toward your lap, where the set of keys satoru dropped into your hand earlier still rests loosely in your palm.

attached to the ring is a sleek black key fob stamped with the emblem of a car brand you recognize instantly, the kind of car people pause to admire when it glides past on a city street, the kind of car that signals a particular tier of income without anyone needing to say a word. 

beside it hangs the apartment key itself, slim and silver and cut in a shape that sends a small, electric jolt of familiarity through your chest.

your brows knit together, because the shape is identical to your own.

you lift the key slightly, turning it again in the light as the realization begins to take form with quiet insistence, and slowly, almost cautiously, you turn your head back toward suguru.

he has slouched deeper into the seat now, shoulders relaxed in that boneless way exhaustion creates, his eyes half-open and unfocused as they drift somewhere toward the concrete pillars lining the garage.

“what floor do you live on?” you ask, the question slipping out before you can filter the curiosity tightening in your chest.

he squints faintly, the expression slow and pained, as though the words themselves require effort to gather and interpret. his brows draw together again as he attempts to summon enough coherence to answer.

“the thirty-fourth,” he mumbles after a moment, the syllables slightly blurred together.

you blink once, then again, a startled laugh slipping out under your breath as you shake your head immediately.

“no way,” you say, disbelief threading through your voice as you stare at him. “you’re lying.”

the accusation barely registers with him.

suguru exhales softly and lets his head fall back against the window with a quiet thud, eyes sliding closed again as though the conversation itself has exhausted whatever mental reserves he had managed to gather.

“i can barely form a thought,” he mutters, the words quieter now, softened by fatigue and the lingering pull of the pain medication still circulating through his bloodstream. “why would i lie?”

his voice fades into the gentle hum of the garage, and the silence that follows stretches long and contemplative.

you look at him for another moment, studying the relaxed line of his jaw, the slow rhythm of his breathing, the faint shadow of stubble darkening the lower half of his face before your gaze drifts downward again toward the keys still resting in your hand.

the thirty-fourth floor is your floor. 

the same hallway you walk down every night after work, the same elevator bank you ride up with grocery bags and late-night takeout and the quiet exhaustion of long days that end well past sunset.

a slow warmth curls through your chest as the thought settles in, disbelief mixing with something softer and far less rational, the strange quiet wonder of coincidence aligning itself into something that almost feels deliberate.

maybe satoru hadn’t been joking. 

maybe something larger than chance had decided to intervene somewhere along the chain of events that brought the two of you together in this dim concrete garage, rain tapping faintly against the ceiling far above your head.

you sit there for another moment, hands resting loosely against the steering wheel as the idea settles fully into place, before finally exhaling and reaching toward the door handle.

the quiet click of the latch breaks the stillness.

you glance toward him again, a small, incredulous smile tugging faintly at the corner of your mouth.

“come on,” you murmur softly. “neighbor.”

…

you come to learn that suguru geto lives just down the hall from you, the sort of proximity that sits in a strange middle space between coincidence and inevitability, because the distance from your door to his takes less than a minute.

the discovery settles over you gradually as you guide him out of the elevator and down the softly carpeted hallway, his arm draped loosely over your shoulders as he leans more of his weight against you than he probably realizes, footsteps slow and uneven as the dull fog of the concussion continues to pull at him. 

the corridor smells faintly of polished wood and expensive cleaning products, the kind of sterile luxury that clings to buildings where the rent alone could finance a small mortgage somewhere else.

you stop two doors before your own.

suguru fumbles briefly with the keys before handing them to you with the vague helplessness of someone whose brain has decided it is finished working for the evening, and when you push the door open and guide him inside, the apartment greets you with a quiet stillness that feels almost curated.

the place is immaculate.

the living room stretches out in careful lines of modern furniture, every surface clear, every object placed with an almost architectural precision that makes the entire space look less like a home and more like the staged interior of a luxury magazine spread. 

the couch is a deep charcoal gray, broad and low, paired with a glass coffee table that reflects the warm glow of recessed lighting above. 

a large television sits mounted on the wall opposite it, flanked by minimal shelving holding exactly three books and a small sculptural object that looks expensive enough to make you nervous about touching it.

there’s not a single sign of another person living here.

no stray hair ties on the counter, no extra toothbrush near the sink, no half-finished bottles of shampoo or abandoned jackets draped across chairs. 

the apartment carries the faint, impersonal scent of expensive detergent and nothing else, as though suguru moves through the space carefully enough to erase all evidence of his own presence.

the fridge confirms the suspicion.

when you open it later in search of something remotely edible, the interior reveals little more than a bottle of cold brew, a container of takeout rice from some point earlier in the week, and a solitary lemon resting in the corner of the shelf like it wandered in by accident.

suguru had watched you inspect it with half-lidded amusement from the couch earlier, one arm draped loosely over his stomach as he blinked at you through the dull haze still lingering behind his eyes.

“i promise i won’t starve,” he had murmured faintly.

you had turned toward him with a raised brow.

“i’m not convinced.”

he had let out a quiet breath of laughter before his eyes slid closed again, the exhaustion pulling him under with alarming speed.

when you eventually stood to leave, brushing your hands together as you stepped toward the door, suguru had stirred again, blinking slowly up at you from the couch.

“you’re coming back,” he had said, the words half-statement, half-request.

you paused in the doorway, turning slightly.

“i have a concussion,” he added, voice quieter now, a hint of dry humor threading through the exhaustion. “there’s a very real possibility i could have a brain bleed and die alone in here.”

a soft laugh escaped you before you could stop it.

“i’ll come back,” you promised, shaking your head as you reached for the door handle.

which is exactly why you find yourself standing in his kitchen now, several hours later, dressed in loose gray sweatpants and an old sweatshirt from your college days, the fabric soft from years of wear as you move quietly between the stove and the counter.

the apartment smells different now.

warmth curls through the air from the small pot simmering on the stove, the soft, comforting aroma of miso broth filling the otherwise pristine space as steam rises gently toward the overhead lights. chopped green onions sit in a small bowl beside the cutting board, along with neatly sliced tofu and a handful of mushrooms you found tucked away in the back of the fridge.

every so often, you glance over your shoulder toward the living room.

suguru lies stretched along the length of the couch, one arm hanging loosely off the side, dark hair falling slightly across his forehead where the tie has long since come undone. 

he changed into sweats and a loose t-shirt earlier with a sluggish sort of determination, disappearing into his bedroom for several minutes before emerging again looking marginally more comfortable and significantly more disoriented.

even from across the room, the strength in his frame is impossible to ignore.

the thin cotton of the shirt drapes loosely over his shoulders, the fabric shifting subtly with each slow breath, and when he shifts occasionally against the cushions the outline of his biceps becomes visible beneath the sleeves, muscle moving easily beneath the relaxed posture.

every now and then a quiet groan slips from him, low and irritated, the sound carrying through the room just enough to reassure you that he’s still conscious somewhere inside the fog pressing against his mind.

you stir the broth slowly, listening as another small sound drifts from the couch, then movement.

you glance over just in time to watch suguru push himself upright with visible reluctance, one hand bracing against the couch as he drags himself forward in a slow, unsteady motion that suggests the entire process requires far more effort than it should.

he sits there for a moment, elbows resting on his knees, head bowed as if the world has tilted slightly off its axis.

then, with quiet stubbornness, he rises.

the short distance between the couch and the kitchen counter becomes an expedition. he moves carefully, one hand dragging along the back of the sofa for balance before finally reaching the barstool across from where you stand.

he lowers himself onto it with a faint exhale.

for a moment he simply sits there on the barstool across the counter, elbows resting loosely against the cool stone surface as he watches you through the slow, heavy squint of someone still trying to coax his brain back into cooperation, the warm kitchen light catching faintly in his eyes while steam rises in soft spirals from the pot in front of you. T

he apartment, which hours ago felt sterile and curated to the point of impersonality, now carries the quiet warmth of simmering broth and toasted sesame oil, the gentle sounds of your spoon moving through the soup filling the space between you. 

he studies the scene with an almost careful concentration, gaze lingering on the oversized sweatshirt hanging off your shoulders, the faded collegiate lettering stretched slightly across the fabric in that softened way clothes acquire after years of washing.

his brows knit together.

“you went to uchicago?” he asks slowly, voice still rough around the edges of sleep.

you follow the direction of his gaze, and the moment realization settles over you your shoulders lift in a small, sheepish motion as you glance down at the sweatshirt like you had forgotten what you were wearing until this exact second, the red lettering suddenly feeling much more conspicuous than it had a few minutes ago while you were standing alone in the kitchen.

“yeah,” you admit, stirring the broth again to give your hands something to do, the spoon gliding through the miso in slow circles. “class of twenty-two.”

suguru’s head tilts slightly, eyes narrowing with something that looks suspiciously like quiet amusement.

“you really must be stalking me,” he murmurs.

you snort softly at that, shaking your head as the spoon taps gently against the side of the pot. “oh don’t tell me you went to northwestern—”

the reaction is immediate, his nose wrinkling with visible distaste, shoulders shifting faintly as though the mere suggestion has offended him on a personal level.

“ew,” he mutters. “absolutely not.”

the faintest smile curls at the corner of his mouth as he leans forward slightly against the counter, dark hair slipping further loose around his face.

“class of twenty-one.”

you freeze mid-stir. slowly, you turn your head toward him, the spoon still hovering inside the pot as disbelief creeps across your expression.

“no fucking way,” you say, the words leaving your mouth before you can soften them. “you’re lying.”

he gives a slow nod, the movement almost lazy, as if he finds the entire situation quietly entertaining.

“how did we never meet?” he asks after a moment, squinting faintly toward you with genuine curiosity.

you lean your hip lightly against the counter, folding one arm across your waist while the other continues stirring absentmindedly, the motion more habit than necessity now.

“depends,” you reply, tipping your head slightly as you study him in return. “were you financial economics or business economics?”

suguru scoffs softly, the sound low and dismissive as his shoulders relax against the stool.

“financial,” he says. “of course.”

the response earns a soft click of your tongue.

“yep,” you say knowingly, returning your attention to the pot as steam curls past your face. “that’s it.”

a quiet chuckle escapes him then, low and warm, the sound drifting easily through the kitchen as you ladle the soup into a bowl, setting it down in front of you while the two of you fall into a comfortable silence that feels strangely natural for people who technically met by way of vehicular collision only hours earlier.

you can feel his gaze lingering on you.

not in a way that feels invasive, exactly, but present enough that you become acutely aware of it, aware of the way he sits across from you with his chin resting lightly in his hand, watching as you finish garnishing the bowl with green onions and sesame seeds.

eventually you pick up the spoon again, blowing lightly across the surface of the broth before scooping up a careful taste.

you hesitate for a moment, sliding the bowl slightly toward him across the counter and lifting the spoon again, your other hand instinctively moving beneath it to catch any stray drops.

“taste?” you offer, lifting the spoon slightly as steam curls upward in thin, fragrant ribbons that carry the warm scent of miso and sesame into the quiet kitchen.

suguru’s gaze drifts slowly from your face down toward the spoon hovering between you, his expression tightening faintly in concentration as though he’s attempting to process a complicated equation rather than the simple act of sampling soup.

for a moment he does absolutely nothing except stare at it, brows knitting together while the fog of the concussion continues to tug sluggishly at the edges of his awareness.

his hand lifts halfway from the counter before stopping midair.

he squints faintly at the spoon, then at the bowl sitting between you, and finally back at your face again with the vague irritation of someone who knows he should be capable of performing a basic motor function and is momentarily annoyed that his brain seems determined to make the process unnecessarily difficult.

“you’re going to make me do coordination exercises right now?” he murmurs hoarsely, voice still thick with fatigue as he glances down at his own hand like it might betray him.

you blink at him, momentarily caught between amusement and embarrassment as the spoon remains suspended awkwardly in front of you.

“i’m offering you soup,” you reply, heat creeping slowly into your cheeks as you realize how strangely intimate the position looks from the outside.

suguru exhales softly through his nose, the sound carrying a faint trace of dry humor, and after a moment he lifts his hand again with visible reluctance, fingers hovering uncertainly near the spoon before he hesitates once more, clearly reconsidering whether he trusts his depth perception enough to avoid accidentally knocking it straight out of your grip.

his gaze flicks up toward you again, something quietly amused passing through his expression.

“this is humiliating,” he mutters under his breath, though the corner of his mouth lifts faintly as he leans forward just enough to close the remaining distance himself.

your fingers tighten slightly around the spoon as he takes the bite, your attention narrowing in spite of yourself to the small, strangely vivid details of the moment, the warmth of the broth disappearing between his lips, the slow movement of his jaw as he considers the taste, the subtle shift of his throat as he swallows.

he leans back again after a second, resting one elbow against the counter while his eyes lower briefly toward the bowl in thoughtful silence, the kitchen settling into a warm, quiet stillness around the two of you.

then he nods once, the gesture small but decisive.

approval.

his gaze drifts back toward you, lingering for a moment with something softer behind it now, the earlier irritation melting into quiet appreciation.

“that’s the best thing i’ve had in weeks,” he says finally, voice rough but sincere, the faintest hint of a smile touching his mouth.

he exhales slowly, leaning back against the stool with the heavy relaxation of someone whose body has decided the day is finally over.

“you should hit me with your car more often,” he says, and the line lands with such quiet seriousness that for half a second you simply stare at him, the absurdity of the statement hovering in the warm kitchen air between the two of you while steam continues to curl lazily upward from the bowl.

then a startled laugh slips out of you before you can stop it, the sound quick and bright, breaking across the quiet apartment in a way that feels oddly intimate, and when you glance back up you catch the faint smile that has begun to pull at suguru’s mouth.

he looks pleased with himself.

you shake your head slightly, still smiling despite your best efforts not to encourage him, and for a moment your gaze lingers on him longer than you intend it to.

drawn unwillingly toward the quiet ease in his posture as he sits there in loose sweats and a worn t-shirt that does very little to disguise the breadth of his shoulders or the strength resting casually in his arms, the soft fall of dark hair at his temples, the lingering heaviness of his eyes that speaks to the exhaustion still clinging stubbornly to him.

something quiet and electric settles low in your chest, and you feel it before you fully understand it, that sudden flutter of awareness that arrives without warning and refuses to be ignored.

and it surprises you, because you’re not inexperienced by any means.

you’re a woman in your mid-twenties who’s moved through enough relationships to recognize attraction when it appears, who has dated the full spectrum of men that ambitious university campuses tend to produce.

from the artsy poetic type who spent their college years chasing creative passions and reading you half-finished verses in dimly lit apartments that smelled like incense and cheap wine.

to the rigid, sharp-edged lawyer types who carried themselves with the quiet confidence of people already planning their futures in billable hours and glass office towers, all crooked noses and expensive briefcases and an almost reverent acceptance of eighty-hour workweeks.

you’ve known charm before. uou’ve known intelligence, ambition, humor, steadiness, too.

and yet none of them, not one, has ever quite managed to make your heart stumble into the sudden uneven rhythm it now seems determined to adopt while you stand here in this stranger’s immaculate kitchen watching him sit across from you with the lingering disorientation of a concussion and the faintest hint of amusement still resting in his expression.

the realization arrives quietly and unwelcome as your gaze drops quickly back to the bowl.

you clear your throat under the pretense of moving the soup away, gathering it in your hands and turning slightly toward the stove as if the simple act of walking two steps away might steady the strange warmth still lingering beneath your ribs.

behind you, suguru remains where he is at the counter, watching you with that same thoughtful squint, unaware that the woman who ran him over only hours ago is now attempting very seriously to ignore the fact that the most compelling man she’s encountered in months is currently sitting concussed on a barstool across from her.

…

you end up talking with suguru for far longer than you expect.

what begins as casual conversation over soup stretches slowly, almost imperceptibly, into something deeper and quieter, the hours folding in on themselves until the warm late afternoon light that had first spilled through the large windows fades gradually into evening, the skyline beyond the glass shifting from soft gold into the deep indigo of night, the faint glow of the moon suspended somewhere above the darkened buildings in the distance.

by the time you realize how much time has passed, you’re both sitting on the couch, close enough that the space between your shoulders has long since stopped feeling like the careful distance people usually keep with strangers.

your legs are folded beneath you while you sit cross-legged against the corner cushion with a bowl of miso resting loosely in your lap, suguru positioned beside you with one arm draped lazily across the back of the couch, his own bowl balanced in his hand as the quiet warmth of the apartment settles around you.

three hours have passed.

three hours that somehow disappear without either of you noticing.

the conversation moves with an easy rhythm that feels almost alarmingly natural, drifting through pieces of your lives as if the two of you have known each other much longer than the few absurd hours that have technically passed since your car met his shoulder on a city sidewalk.

he tells you about his hometown first, voice quieter than it had been earlier in the day, the edge of the concussion still softening the usual sharpness in his speech as he describes narrow streets and summer festivals and the quiet weight of expectations that followed him out of that town and into the halls of university lecture rooms and eventually into the ruthless gravity of investment banking.

you tell him about your own path in return, about late nights spent studying in dim library corners and the particular exhaustion that follows people who choose careers built around endless spreadsheets and impossible deadlines.

the topic eventually circles back to his apartment.

your gaze drifts around the pristine living room again while you mention, almost teasingly, how it had looked when you first stepped inside earlier that afternoon, so immaculate that you briefly wondered whether he actually lived there at all.

suguru exhales a quiet breath of amusement at that.

“i’m never home,” he admits, his voice carrying the faint resignation of someone who has long since made peace with the reality. “most days i leave before sunrise and come back after midnight.”

his eyes sweep lazily across the carefully arranged furniture. “it’s easier if nothing’s out of place when i get back.”

the explanation sits somewhere between practicality and something lonelier.

the conversation shifts again.

your lives begin to unfold piece by piece, stories stacking on top of each other in a way that makes the hours pass unnoticed while the city outside the windows sinks deeper into night.

somewhere along the way you become aware of something else: the way his gaze drifts toward your mouth occasionally.

not deliberately, not with any obvious intention behind it, but with a quiet sort of unconscious curiosity that makes your stomach tighten every time you catch it happening, his eyes lowering briefly toward your lips before returning to your face as if he has only just realized where they had gone.

you can’t tell whether the concussion is responsible, or whether it’s simply him.

either possibility sends your pulse racing.

the moment that unsettles you the most comes when the conversation turns, somewhat accidentally, toward relationships, where you mention offhandedly that you’re not currently seeing anyone, and suguru’s brows draw together immediately.

he stares at you for a moment with genuine confusion, the kind that looks almost analytical.

“you don’t have a boyfriend?” he asks slowly, his voice carrying a note of disbelief that feels far too sincere to be polite conversation.

you shake your head, laughing nervously as the attention settles on you. “no.”

his frown deepens slightly, and the way his gaze moves over your face in quiet consideration makes heat creep slowly up the back of your neck.

“that doesn’t make sense,” he murmurs, the comment landing before he seems to realize he has said it aloud.

you blink at him as he lifts one shoulder faintly.

“you’re…” he pauses, searching for a word and then abandoning the effort halfway through. “you’re you.”

the vague explanation somehow feels more flustering than a direct compliment, a nervous laugh escaping you before you can stop it, and you look down into your soup again as if the broth might somehow rescue you from the sudden awareness spreading through your chest.

at some point during the conversation you quietly submit a sick day request through your work email, the decision feeling slightly ridiculous even as you do it.

you tell yourself it’s practical, that if the concussion symptoms worsen tomorrow someone will need to monitor him again.

that’s the explanation you settle on.

still, the thought lingers quietly in the back of your mind that you may have made the decision for reasons that have very little to do with medical responsibility.

you feel comfortable here with suguru. comfortable enough that the conversation continues easily even after the bowls have long since emptied, the two of you lingering on the couch with the quiet ease of people who somehow skipped the awkward early stages of acquaintance.

it’s your phone that eventually interrupts the moment, the sudden alarm slicing through the room with a sharp electronic chime that startles both of you slightly.

you jump a little, blinking down at the screen before remembering why you set it earlier that evening.

you turn toward him, pushing a loose strand of hair behind your ear.

“okay,” you announce with mild authority as you shift closer on the couch, setting your bowl aside on the coffee table. “i’m going to check your pupils.”

suguru watches you with quiet amusement as you shift closer along the couch cushions, the faintest suggestion of a smile tugging slowly at the corner of his mouth while the warm glow of the apartment lighting settles across his features, softening the sharp lines of his face and catching faintly in the dark strands of hair that have fallen loose around his temples. 

his posture carries the heavy looseness of someone still drifting in the slow fog of a concussion, shoulders relaxed, one arm stretched along the back of the couch behind you as though he has forgotten it is there, yet his attention rests entirely on you now as you lean forward with deliberate concentration.

he nods slowly, the movement unhurried, almost languid, as if the entire moment has become quietly entertaining to him in some way he has not yet bothered to articulate.

“yes, nurse,” he murmurs.

the word lands softly between you, and the reaction is immediate, heat rushING into your cheeks before you can stop it, blooming beneath your skin in a way that makes you suddenly grateful for the dimness of the room as you attempt to focus on the task you had so confidently announced only seconds earlier. 

you lean closer, one hand lifting instinctively to steady his chin while your mind scrambles to recall the exact instructions you had read earlier on your phone, something about checking the pupils for dilation, for unevenness, for responsiveness to light, all of it simple information that had seemed perfectly manageable when you were reading it alone in the kitchen.

now, with suguru sitting this close, the details scatter like loose pages in the wind.

you try to remember what you’re supposed to be looking for, try to reconstruct the list in your head while the space between you grows smaller and smaller, while the quiet warmth of his presence begins to occupy far more of your attention than it should. 

his eyes lift to meet yours fully as you lean in, the dim apartment light catching inside them and revealing that strange, deep shade of purple you had noticed earlier in the car, the color richer up close, almost velvety in the way it absorbs the surrounding light.

for a moment you simply stare.

your brain attempts, with diminishing success, to recall something about symmetry and pupil dilation while his gaze remains fixed on your face with a level of concentration that feels far more serious than the situation requires.

his expression is thoughtful, almost analytical, as though he is studying you with the same careful attention you are supposed to be giving his concussion symptoms.

“you have very nice eyes.”

the comment slips out before you can stop it.

the moment the words leave your mouth you feel the embarrassment arrive in a quiet, mortifying wave, heat creeping further up your neck as you immediately wish you could take them back and replace them with something more medically appropriate.

perhaps something that doesn’t sound quite so much like a flustered confession delivered while sitting far too close to a man you technically ran over earlier that day.

suguru doesn’t look embarrassed, instead he hums softly, the sound low in his throat, thoughtful rather than surprised, and the corner of his mouth lifts faintly in the sort of quiet, knowing smile that suggests he understands far more from your expression than you would prefer.

his gaze lingers on your face for a moment longer, slow and deliberate in a way that makes your pulse stumble.

“i’d hope so,” he murmurs after a beat, voice still rough from the lingering exhaustion but threaded now with an unmistakable note of amusement. 

his head tilts slightly where it rests against the couch, studying you with that same calm attentiveness that had unsettled you earlier in the kitchen. 

“you’ve been staring at them for a while.” the teasing lands gently, almost lazily, yet the words make the warmth in your face deepen immediately, and you open your mouth to protest before realizing you have absolutely no convincing defense for the accusation.

suguru watches the realization cross your face, faint smile lingering as he leans forward, the movement slow and slightly uncoordinated, the lingering effects of the concussion making the shift faintly clumsy as he closes the remaining distance between you.

one hand lifts instinctively to steady himself against the cushion while his lips meet yours in a soft, uncertain kiss that feels almost tentative, as though he himself is testing the reality of the moment.

for a second you freeze.

then you kiss him back.

the contact lasts only a heartbeat longer before the rational portion of your mind finally catches up with the situation unfolding on your couch, and you pull away quickly, blinking at him with a mixture of surprise and mortified clarity.

“you have a concussion.”

suguru pauses, processing the statement with visible thoughtfulness as he leans back slightly against the couch.

“ah,” he nods slowly.“that explains a lot.”

the quiet seriousness of his tone hangs in the air for half a second before the absurdity of the entire situation catches up with both of you at once, and the two of you dissolve into awkward laughter that fills the warm, softly lit apartment.

…

by the time you finally begin gathering your things, the apartment has grown quiet in the slow, enveloping way late nights in the city often do, the earlier warmth of conversation settling into something softer and more subdued while the lights from neighboring buildings glow faintly through the wide windows. 

the skyline beyond the glass has long since darkened into deep navy and charcoal, the moon hanging somewhere distant above the grid of streetlights below, and the gentle hum of traffic far beneath the building reaches you only as a distant murmur.

it’s close to eleven.

you realize it in passing when you glance at the clock on your phone while sliding your feet back into your shoes near the door, the simple motion carrying with it the faint disorientation that follows unexpectedly long evenings, the sort that begin casually and stretch quietly into hours without either person noticing the passage of time.

behind you, suguru remains on the couch.

he hasn’t moved much in the last several minutes, though his attention has followed you across the apartment with the same quiet attentiveness that has threaded through the entire evening. 

the living room lamp beside him casts a warm circle of light across the couch cushions and along the line of his shoulders, his posture relaxed but not careless, one arm resting along the back of the sofa while he watches you with a thoughtful expression that suggests he’s still lingering somewhere between fatigue and clarity.

you tug lightly at the sleeves of your sweatshirt as you gather your bag from the kitchen counter, offering him a small, practical smile as you turn back toward the living room.

“i should probably let you sleep,” you say, your voice soft in the quiet apartment. “you’ve had a long day.”

suguru’s gaze follows you as you step closer to the door, and for a moment he says nothing.

then his eyes lower slightly, thoughtful, and when he finally speaks his voice carries the same quiet steadiness that has threaded through the entire evening, calm and almost casual in a way that makes the words feel less like a request and more like an observation.

“the doctor said someone should stay.”

the sentence settles gently into the air between you.

you pause halfway through adjusting the strap of your bag, fingers lingering against the fabric as your mind briefly replays the instructions from earlier that afternoon, the doctor’s careful tone, the quiet insistence that someone remain nearby through the night.

a small hesitation curls through your chest.

before you can respond, suguru shifts slightly on the couch and adds, his tone still polite, still calm in that understated way that makes everything he says feel considered rather than impulsive.

“you can take the bed. i’ll take the couch.”

his hand lifts in a vague, almost absent gesture toward the hallway behind him, as though the logistics are already solved in his mind.

“it’s the least i can offer after you… you know.” his fingers make another small motion in the air. “vehicular assault.”

the phrase lands with such dry seriousness that you cannot stop the faint crease of amusement that tugs at your mouth, though your brows knit slightly as you glance between the couch and the hallway behind him.

“if we’re in separate rooms,” you say slowly, tilting your head as you consider the logic of the situation, “isn’t that basically the same as me being a couple doors down?”

suguru studies you for a moment, the quiet amusement returning to his expression almost immediately. his lips curve faintly, and he lifts one eyebrow with the kind of calm confidence that makes the gesture look effortless.

“so you want to share the bed,” he murmurs thoughtfully, his tone carrying the soft hint of teasing that has surfaced several times throughout the evening. one eyebrow lifts slightly higher. “you could’ve just said that.”

the comment draws a quick huff of laughter out of you before you can stop it, the sound warm and incredulous as you shake your head at him.

yYou’re going to regret all of this when you feel better,” you reply, though the warning carries far more amusement than seriousness.

suguru hums softly under his breath, the sound low and contemplative as he rises from the couch with the slow deliberation of someone still navigating the lingering fog of a concussion.

“i don’t think i will,” he says calmly.

he gestures toward the hallway behind him, the motion inviting rather than insistent, before turning and beginning the short walk toward his bedroom with an easy familiarity that suggests he has already decided the matter is settled.

you stand there for a moment longer than necessary before letting out a quiet breath and following after him, rolling your eyes lightly even as a reluctant smile pulls at the corner of your mouth.

as you step into the hallway behind him, your mind briefly drifts to shoko and the inevitable reaction she’ll have when she eventually learns that the evening you spent “checking on the man you hit with your car” somehow evolved into this.

you can practically hear her voice already.

and yet, as you follow suguru down the dim hallway of his apartment, the quiet warmth still lingering in your chest makes it difficult to feel particularly concerned about the explanation you might have to give later.

…

the bedroom settles into a quiet stillness once the lights are lowered, the kind of hushed calm that belongs only to very late hours of the night when the city beyond the windows continues to move while the world inside an apartment slows to something softer and more private. 

rain taps steadily against the glass, a thin rhythmic sound that blends with the distant hum of traffic far below the building, while the faint glow of streetlights and neighboring windows spills into the room in soft rectangles of gold and blue.

you lie on your side near the edge of the bed, careful to keep a respectful distance between yourself and the man beside you, though the space separating you is smaller than you expected it would feel. 

the mattress dips slightly beneath his weight, the sheets pulled loosely across your legs carrying the faint warmth and scent that belongs unmistakably to him, something clean and expensive layered with the quiet trace of laundry detergent and whatever cologne he had worn earlier in the day before everything unraveled into this strange sequence of events.

suguru sleeps shirtless.

you had discovered that fact the moment he disappeared briefly into the bathroom to change, emerging again a few minutes later in nothing but loose gray sweats that sit low against his hips while his bare shoulders catch the faint light filtering through the curtains. 

he had climbed into the bed with the casual ease of someone who has done so a thousand times before, exhaustion settling over him almost immediately as he stretched out on his side facing the opposite direction.

now his back is turned toward you.

the dim light paints the lines of muscle across his shoulders in quiet contrast, the slow rise and fall of his breathing shifting the shape of his back beneath the soft shadows of the room. 

your eyes drift across the movement without meaning to linger, tracing the steady breadth of him, the faint definition of muscle along his arms, the relaxed heaviness of someone whose body has finally surrendered to the weight of a long day.

outside, the rain continues to fall.

the sound creates a soft cocoon around the apartment, the city lights glowing through the glass while the quiet rhythm of suguru’s breathing settles into something slow and even beside you.

you assume he’s fallen asleep.

the steadiness of his breaths suggests it, the deep quiet between movements, the way his body has gone completely still beneath the blankets.

your gaze lingers a moment longer on the shape of his back before drifting upward toward the window, watching the rain streak faintly across the glass while your thoughts wander through the strange series of coincidences that somehow brought you here, lying in the bed of a man you had not known existed until earlier that afternoon.

then his voice breaks the silence.

“you know…” it arrives softly into the dark room, rough with the lingering haze of sleep, and you blink, surprised. “statistically, the odds of you hitting someone you live two doors down from are very low.” for a moment you simply stare at the back of his head, processing the fact that he is apparently awake, a quiet beat passing. “maybe it was meant to happen.”

a soft huff of laughter escapes you before you can stop it, the sound slipping out into the dark room.

“you think you were meant to be hit by my car?”

the mattress shifts slightly as he turns over, the slow movement of his body rustling the sheets as he rolls onto his side to face you.

in the dim light his eyes catch what little glow spills through the window, the deep violet of his gaze startlingly bright against the shadows of the room, and the sudden realization of how close the two of you are lying settles over the moment with quiet intensity. 

the distance between your faces is small enough that you can feel the warmth of his breath, small enough that every movement feels amplified by the intimacy of the space.

his expression carries that same thoughtful curiosity you have seen several times throughout the night.

“i think you think the same thing,” he murmurs.

your heart gives a sudden, traitorous thud against your ribs, and to buy yourself a moment, you hum quietly to yourself and tip your gaze upward toward the ceiling as though carefully considering the possibility.

the gesture is exaggerated in its faux thoughtfulness as you attempt very deliberately to ignore the frantic rhythm your pulse has decided to adopt.

“possibly,” you concede after a moment, letting your eyes drift back down toward him. “but don’t you have work in the morning?”

the question earns a faint flicker of amusement across his face. “i called out.”

you narrow your eyes at him slightly. “you’re not as concussed as you’ve been acting.”

his shoulders lift in an easy shrug beneath the blankets, the movement small and unapologetic. “maybe not.”

with that he rolls back onto his side again, turning away from you as though the conversation has reached its natural conclusion.

a quiet beat passes, then, somewhere in the darkness, his voice drifts back toward you again. “you’re still here though.”

you let out a soft laugh and shake your head even though he cannot see the gesture, the disbelief lingering in your voice as you mumble quietly into the darkness. “unbelievable.”

“goodnight, y/n,” he says, and the warmth of your name in his voice settles into the quiet room.

you watch the steady rise and fall of his back again, the familiar lines of muscle shifting slowly beneath the soft glow of the city lights outside the window.

“goodnight, suguru.” 

the room grows still once more, and your gaze lingers a little longer than it probably should on the shape of his shoulders beneath the dim light, the quiet temptation to reach out and trace the path of those muscles across his back flickering briefly through your mind before you bury the thought beneath the blankets and close your eyes.

eventually, sometime between the sound of rain against the glass and the slow rhythm of his breathing beside you, sleep pulls you under too.

…

morning arrives slowly, the pale light of early sun slipping through the tall windows of suguru’s bedroom in long, quiet bands that stretch across the rumpled sheets and the dark hardwood floor, the rain from the night before gone now and replaced with the clean brightness that follows a storm. 

the city outside hums faintly back to life somewhere far below the building, the distant movement of traffic threading through the quiet of the apartment while the warmth of the sun spreads across the bed.

you wake gradually, and for a moment you lie there still half suspended in sleep, your mind slow to gather itself as the warmth of the blankets and the unfamiliar weight of the mattress settle around you. 

the scent of the sheets lingers faintly in the morning air, still carrying that subtle trace of him, clean detergent and something darker beneath it that had clung quietly to the fabric through the night.

your eyes open fully to see the space beside you is empty, and for a moment you simply stare at the indentation in the sheets where suguru had been lying hours earlier, the faint warmth already gone from the pillow, and something small and quiet flickers in your chest before you even have time to fully register the thought.

you push yourself upright slowly, rubbing at your eyes with the heel of your hand as a soft yawn escapes you, hair falling loosely around your face while the early sunlight spills across the room.

the apartment feels calm.

you slide out of bed and pad quietly down the hallway in bare feet, the cool hardwood floor pressing lightly against the soles of your feet while the scent of something warm and savory drifts faintly from the kitchen ahead.

the moment you round the corner, you stop.

suguru stands at the kitchen counter with his back to you.

morning light spills through the wide windows behind him, painting his silhouette in warm gold while the faint steam rising from the coffee maker curls lazily into the air beside him. 

the sight of him stills you instantly, your steps halting in the doorway as your gaze drifts slowly, almost helplessly, across the broad span of his shoulders.

his back is long and strong, the quiet architecture of muscle shifting subtly beneath his skin as he moves one arm to reach for something on the counter. 

the lines of his shoulder blades catch the sunlight as they flex beneath the surface, the muscles tapering gradually down the length of his spine before disappearing beneath the loose waistband of the gray sweatpants hanging low against his hips.

the fabric has been rolled slightly at the waist, revealing the faint indentation of muscle along his sides, the effortless strength of someone who carries power without needing to display it.

your eyes linger for longer than they should.

the kitchen smells faintly of coffee and butter and something sweet, the low hum of the machine filling the quiet space while he moves with calm familiarity around the counter, completely unaware for several seconds that he’s acquired an audience.

until he does notice, the reflective surface of the microwave catching the movement behind him.

his head tilts slightly as he turns just enough that his profile becomes visible, one eyebrow lifting slowly as his eyes meet yours across the kitchen.

“good morning to you too,” the words land with quiet amusement.

the realization that he’s very clearly caught you staring hits all at once, heat rushing immediately into your face as you snap upright like you have been caught committing a crime, your brain scrambling wildly for something, anything, that might resemble a normal explanation for why you were frozen in the doorway studying his back like a museum exhibit.

“looks like you’re feeling better,” you blurt quickly, the sentence arriving just a little too fast to sound entirely natural.

suguru watches you for a moment before he nods slowly.

“i am,” he says calmly, the faintest hint of a smile lingering at the corner of his mouth before he gestures vaguely toward the counter. “made breakfast, too.”

your attention shifts instinctively to the plates beside him.

scrambled eggs sit piled on one dish beside crisp strips of bacon, while another plate holds cinnamon rolls glazed with icing that glints softly in the sunlight streaming through the windows.

your brows draw together slowly as the small details of the kitchen begin to settle into focus around you, food hot and readythat had absolutely not been sitting in his refrigerator the night before.

your gaze drifts slowly away from the counter, the trash can sitting a few feet away beneath the island, its lid tilted open just enough that the corner of a crumpled paper bag peeks into view, the logo of a grocery delivery service printed in clean lettering across the side.

for a moment you simply stare at it, the realization unfolding gradually in your chest, the pieces fitting together with quiet clarity as your eyes flick once more toward the plates he has arranged with surprising care, the coffee steaming beside them while suguru leans casually against the counter as though none of it carries any particular significance.

he had woken up before you, he had opened his phone, and somewhere in the quiet stillness of the early morning he had ordered groceries to be delivered to an apartment that had barely held enough food to cook miso soup the night before, all so he could stand in his kitchen shirtless in the early sunlight making breakfast for the woman who had run him over with her car less than twenty-four hours earlier.

the thought settles softly into your chest, blooming there in a way that feels strangely warm and unexpected, something quiet and private curling through your ribs before you even have the chance to push it away.

your eyes drift back toward him.

the morning light catches the length of his back again as he reaches for the coffee pot, the muscles along his shoulders shifting easily beneath his skin while the rolled waistband of his sweatpants sits low against his hips.

the entire scene carries a kind of domestic calm that feels almost absurdly intimate considering the way the two of you met, and your heart does something irritatingly noticeable in your chest as you step towards the countertop.

…

the late morning sunlight has shifted by the time you are finally standing near the door, the warmth of it spilling across the hardwood floors in long pale rectangles that stretch toward the hallway while the faint scent of coffee and cinnamon still lingers in the apartment behind you. 

breakfast dishes sit abandoned in the sink, the quiet aftermath of a morning that had unfolded far more comfortably than either of you had expected, conversation drifting easily between bites of eggs and coffee refills while the city outside continued its slow weekend rhythm beyond the tall windows.

suguru stands a few feet away near the entryway, one shoulder resting casually against the wall as he watches you pull your slippers on, the easy quiet confidence that had been dulled slightly by the concussion the night before now settling back into his posture with noticeable clarity. 

there’s something different about him this morning, something more composed in the way he carries himself, the faint haziness that had softened the edges of his personality replaced by a steadier, more deliberate calm that feels unmistakably like the man you would expect to command rooms and close deals across polished boardroom tables.

his hair is still slightly damp from the shower he took earlier, dark strands falling loosely around his face while the sleeves of a fitted black shirt have been rolled neatly to his elbows, revealing the quiet strength of his forearms as he pushes himself upright from the wall.

you finish tugging your shoe into place, glancing toward him with a faint smile that lingers somewhere between amused and reluctant, because leaving this apartment feels unexpectedly more difficult than it should after less than twenty-four hours of knowing him.

he watches you for a moment before he straightens slightly, his expression shifting into something thoughtful as he steps closer to the door and reaches past you to turn the handle.

“i owe you dinner,” the words arrive easily, spoken with the same calm certainty that has threaded through most of his conversation this morning.

you blink, your hand pausing halfway toward the strap of your bag as you look up at him, caught slightly off guard by the statement.

“you hit me with your car,” he continues, his tone measured and unhurried as though he is explaining a very simple equation. his mouth curves faintly at the corner. “that feels like grounds for at least one proper date.”

the sunlight catches briefly in his eyes as he studies your reaction, the quiet amusement there softened slightly by something more genuine lingering beneath it.

then, after a small pause, his voice lowers just a little.

“and i’d like to try kissing you again while medically competent, too.”

the unexpected bluntness of it pulls a startled laugh from you before you can stop it, the sound slipping out warm and incredulous as you shake your head slightly, heat creeping into your cheeks all over again at the memory of the previous night.

“wow,” you murmur under your breath, glancing up at him with a crooked smile, “you recover from concussions very confidently.”

his expression remains calm, though the faint lift of his brow suggests he finds your reaction entertaining.

he pulls the door open then, stepping slightly aside to allow you through while the hallway light spills softly into the apartment.

as you move toward the threshold he adds, almost as an afterthought, his voice carrying the quiet humor that seems to live naturally in his tone.

“and preferably without another vehicle involved.”

the laugh that leaves you this time is softer, warmer, the sound slipping out of you before you even have the chance to temper it, and it echoes faintly down the long hallway outside his apartment as you step past the doorway into the bright, polished corridor where the morning light filters through the tall windows.

you turn back instinctively, looking to see suguru still standing in the doorway, one hand resting against the frame while the other slips casually into the pocket of his slacks, his posture relaxed in that quiet, self-possessed way that seems entirely natural to him now that the fog of the concussion has lifted, his dark hair still slightly damp from the shower and the sleeves of his shirt rolled neatly to his elbows.

he watches you with that same steady gaze, the faintest hint of a smile resting along his mouth as though he already knows exactly how this will end. as though already certain you’ll say yes.

you lean back slightly onto your heels for a moment, pretending to consider the offer with exaggerated seriousness while your heart beats far faster than you are willing to acknowledge, the ridiculousness of the situation pressing in on you all at once as you stand there in the hallway outside the apartment of the man you ran over yesterday.

“well,” you say slowly, folding your arms as though weighing a complicated negotiation, though the grin already tugging at your mouth ruins the performance almost immediately, “since you did make me such an impressive breakfast, i suppose we can go out.”

your eyes flick up to his again, unable to hide the amusement brightening your expression.

“when were you thinking?”

suguru watches you for a second longer before answering, his smile widening just slightly as though he had anticipated the question.

“well,” he says, glancing down toward his wrist as though checking a watch that very clearly is not there, “since we have both apparently taken the day off already, i was thinking you could go get ready and i’ll be at your door by two.”

he lifts his gaze back to you then, the corner of his mouth tilting upward as he continues.

“there’s a little place along the river where they do afternoon boat charters, and afterward i have a reservation at a restaurant in the west loop that serves the kind of food you pretend to understand while someone explains the wine list to you.”

your brows lift instantly.

“oh my god,” you say, pressing a hand lightly against your chest in mock astonishment. “and how did you know i don’t have work today?”

suguru shrugs slightly, the movement relaxed as his smirk deepens. “just had an inkling.”

you stare at him for a moment longer before shaking your head softly, the grin tugging at your mouth returning despite yourself.

“well,” you say, tilting your head as though reluctantly conceding the point, “your inkling might be right.” your voice softens just a little as you take a step backward down the hallway, your eyes still locked on his. “and i might be very excited to see you again at two o’clock.”

he watches you with unmistakable amusement.

“i would certainly hope so,” he replies easily, his gaze dropping briefly toward you before lifting again, “considering you were looking at me like you wanted to eat me last night.”

“hey,” you protest immediately, swatting lightly at his chest as you step forward again, the contact quick and playful as heat rushes straight to your face. “no fair, that was all you.”

the laugh that leaves him then is quiet and genuine, his shoulders lifting slightly as he inclines his head in mock acknowledgment.

“i suppose,” he says thoughtfully, “it may have been a combined effort.”

the moment lingers there for a second, the two of you standing across from each other in the quiet hallway with the sunlight spilling across the floor between you, both of you smiling in a way that feels strangely easy for two people who had technically been strangers less than a day ago.

finally you take another step backward toward your own door down the hall, your hand lifting in a small wave.

“i’m glad you feel better,” you say softly. “i’ll be ready by two.”

suguru nods once, leaning casually against his doorway as he watches you turn and walk down the hallway, your footsteps quiet against the polished floor while your heart thuds steadily in your chest with every step you take toward your apartment.

behind you, you can still feel his gaze lingering, and as you reach your door and push it open, the thought slips quietly through your mind, warm and almost disbelieving:

maybe fate is real.

tags: @happyberryave

He has a little trouble pinpointing the exact moment his feelings for you took a turn from an innocuous coffee shop crush to the twisted mangle of a mess it was now, but he thinks it could have been six days ago when he finally had the chance to interact with you.

You were in line at the only café in town that had mildly decent coffee, and your card wasn't working. It had to be a simple network error, but that didn’t curb your embarrassment, nor your distressed insistence that you had money while the teenage barista only gave you a strained smile in response.

Scouring through your purse but not finding cash, you said you would go to the ATM down the road, but honestly, the entire interaction was becoming a little difficult to watch. So Suguru moved past you and pointed to his hot cup.

He heard you scoff in equal parts disbelief and anger at being cut off, “Uh, excuse me?”

“Hi, I’ll take both,” Suguru said without even glancing your way, and he gestured for his drink and yours while handing a few notes over. “Keep the change.”

The barista smiled gratefully, and when he turned to you with both drinks in hand, he was met with a cute little flush as you pursed your lips together. Suguru handed your drink— which had more milk and cream than coffee—over, and suddenly the cup that was comically small in his hands was huge as you took hold of it.

“Thank you.”

“No problem,” he replied and because he thought he sounded a tad too lovesick, he jerked a finger over his shoulder. “You were kind of holding up the line.”

A quick glance over showed a long queue of people giving you annoyed looks. Some seemed downright blood thirsty, and you apologised with a small wince. Suguru felt his lip twitch as the two of you stepped out of line and you took a few steps before looking at him again.

“Uh, if you don’t mind waiting, I can go withdraw cash and pay you back?”

He was already shaking his head before you finished talking. “Don’t worry about it.”

You stopped at the door, then finally looked him over as if you were seeing him for the first time, and perhaps you were. Perhaps you didn’t study him as intensely as he did you every time you came by.

 “That’s really nice of you,” you voiced, and he didn’t miss the smile you paired with an appreciative once-over. “I need to run, but thanks again.”

A small wave of your cup, then you were gone. So quickly it was as if you dematerialised right before his eyes, and only one thing remained. The purse that you dropped in your rush to leave,

By the time Suguru snapped back to the present, it was too late. Picking up your purse and jogging after you was no use.

So he paused.

The smart thing to do, the right thing, would be to leave your purse at the café because you’d probably retrace your steps back here when you realised you lost it.

But he didn’t want to do that at all.

There was a strange excitement at having something you owned in his possession and it sent pleasure shivers over his skin at the prospect of getting even more.

Now, however, he would have to settle for using your purse as an icebreaker to talk to you again.

Yes, that was it. He would bring it back to you, and in your need to show your gratitude for his second altruistic act, you would most definitely reward him with something too. For now, he was willing to settle for one of those beaming smiles you handed out like hotcakes.

So, Suguru opened the slim rectangular bag and fished your ID out of it. A skim over your address had anxious anticipation bubbling low in his stomach at seeing that you lived so close.

It was almost too easy.

Getting into his car and typing your address into the GPS came like second nature. And driving through the area you lived in, it made sense why you were so aghast when your card declined.

The lawns in your neighbourhood were all neat and well-kempt, the houses painted in the same, boring grey tones. That is, apart from the one a little further down the road, which was a few hues warmer than the dreary grey everywhere else. 

It was deep blue-black, a subtle show of acquiescence the homeowner’s association probably didn’t take kindly to, but it was beautiful.

It suited you.

Because Suguru knew without a shadow of a doubt that the blue house was yours. It had to be. And it seemed he was right because just as he stopped on the other side of the road, he caught sight of you through the blinds.

You were standing near your window, hands under your shirt and face screwed in concentration, then seconds later, he saw all the tension leave your body as you fished your bra out. The look of pure relief on your face as you threw it away like it had offended you, was enough to make him snort.

So this is what you meant when you told him you needed to run.

You moved to your bed and grabbed your phone, lying on your front and legs kicking out behind you as you sipped your coffee.

You looked so relaxed that Suguru deduced you hadn't realised that you had lost your purse yet.

You were so oblivious.

To the long line behind you while you retried your card countless times at the café. To your lost purse, and even now, you were oblivious to the black SUV with tinted windows, poised like a hungry panther lying in wait just on the other end of the street.

You were lucky Suguru wasn’t a creep.

Just as he was about to reach over for your purse, you answered a call, so he faltered. He didn’t want to disturb you, so he had no choice but to wait.

And wait he did.

For close to an hour, all while he watched every expression that crossed your face.

Amusement, shock, and, what, unsettled him most: flirtatious intrigue. The corner of your lip curled into a smirk while you spoke, and he wondered who you were talking to for that long.

A friend? A boyfriend?

 A muscle under his eye twitched and since his coffee was finished, he had nothing to distract him. At first, every time your head tipped back with laughter, he took a sizeable gulp of the all too hot drink.

It scalded his tongue and left his mouth smarting from the pain, but it kept him from the viciously savage punch of negative emotions that threatened to KO him at the thought of you dating someone else.

Suguru was self-aware enough to know that it was unreasonable to feel this way for a virtual stranger, and that discernment is what kept him at bay.

So, he settled on watching instead.

 At first, he told himself he didn’t walk up to the door because he didn’t want to interrupt—what he was hoping was a call with a family member or a friend—but deep down,  he knew it wasn’t the truth.

The man had simply lost track of time as he watched you go on about your day.

You eventually got off the phone and started working on your laptop. And as nightfall came by, purple eyes observed with curious interest how the screen cast a blueish glow over half your face and shrouded other parts in whirling shadows.

You were so engrossed in your work that you didn’t take breaks. Didn’t eat or even bother to get up and switch your bedroom light on. So, Suguru thought it fair that he did the same. That, in his own twisted way, company was the least he could offer as repentance for intruding on your privacy.

Hours sped by while your purse collected dust in the passenger seat, and you remained the sole recipient of his undivided focus. Even when you snapped your laptop shut and left the room, he stayed.

Minutes later, you were back with a steaming bowl of food in one hand and a glass that had more ice than water in the other. The sight made his stomach rumble, but he hardly paid attention to it. He was just glad that you were finally eating something.

You slurped down the noodles at an alarming pace, and a laugh bubbled out of him when you flopped around on your bed after you burned your tongue. A sip of water was used to soothe the pain, and his laughter faded. 

What the hell am I doing? He sighed to himself.

It was only when you closed your blinds and went to sleep that he drove off.

He decided he would return your purse the following day, but once again, he found himself parked outside your house and unable to move.

This continued every time after work when he drove towards your house, so easily it became muscle memory, and just as he was getting used to the routine, things shook up.

On the fifth day, you came home later than usual, and Suguru’s stomach was a tight, nervous knot for the hours he waited.

His thoughts took him to countless worst-case scenarios, and they only confirmed that you needed someone to look out for you.

Then around 12 AM, when anxiety formed a massive lump in his throat that threatened to suffocate him, you showed up. His first breath of fresh air in a sealed chamber personified…except you weren’t alone.

Your purity was being spoiled by the shadowy thing that was clawing at every inch of your skin and covering you like it was trying to snuff you out.

Suguru’s eyes narrowed to slits when you pulled the man into your house and closed the door behind you. He forced his eyes away for a moment, a laugh of disbelief slipping out even while his heart angrily thrashed in his chest.

He was worried you might’ve been dragged off into an alley, but you were only late because you stopped by for a fucking booty call?

Deep down, he was only judging because he had never felt the need to have one before, a choice he now regretted greatly.

He snaps back to the present when he catches movement from his peripheral, and his head swivels back in time to see you switch on the light in your bedroom. Your blinds were open again; in fact, they seemed a little wider than usual, and it left him disoriented.

The grotesque figure of a man held your ass in his pasty hands as he backed you into your room, and the way he kissed you looked…well, fucking gross.

He was slobbering over your mouth, then he all but tossed you onto the bed, not even caring that the force had you bouncing a few times.

He twisted your body, turning you onto your front before pushing you further against the mattress. You sagged into the soft sheets for a moment, then, remembering something, reached forward to pull a small foil packet from the bedside drawer.

You held the condom out for him to take, and the man glared at you as if you'd kicked him right between the legs.

Suguru would have laughed if he had anything other than envy coursing through his veins.

As the scrawny man with beady eyes yanked the condom from your hand, Suguru had to look away when he pulled his trousers down and slipped it onto his pathetic excuse of a penis.

Now he understood why some people called it a wee-wee. It really was wee.

Along with envy, Suguru started to feel angry, and this time it was directed at you.

Not because you were with someone else, but because you chose this man out of all people. There’s no way this is the best you had to choose from. He would gladly take the man’s place, and he’s never been big on sex.

Your face twisted in pain as the man surged forward, and Suguru winced along with you.

Sure, he was a virgin, but even he knew he could do better than this guy. He wouldn’t dream of fucking you until you came at least once—on his fingers, his tongue, or both. And only when you were trembling and begging would he let himself sink into you. Let you clutch him greedily, and he bet nothing would compare to that feeling.

Like the degenerate he was, Suguru felt his cock strain against his zipper at the mere thought, and it shocked him to his core.

This was the first sexual thought he had about you, even though he had watched you get dressed and undressed in front of your window numerous times over the past few days.

He justified his mild stalking by telling himself he was just trying to satisfy his curiosity about you (you didn’t do anything extraordinary with your days) and that he was returning your purse. The very one that still lay in his passenger seat, long forgotten for the fifth day in a row.

But, now that he was watching you have sex, he knew he had crossed the line. Knew this was a whole new level of invasion, and yet, he still couldn’t tear his eyes away.

He watched as you rolled yours, not in pleasure but boredom, and swore you yawned as the man behind you continued at you like a mad rabbit. The whole affair looked like a chore, and Suguru grudgingly took it all in so he could remember what you looked like in your most vulnerable state.

He scrutinised every rise and fall of your body with intense interest, as it made him curious about you in a whole new way. A way that made him wonder how you liked to be held. How would you guide him on handling your body in a manner that wouldn’t make you seem so disinterested?

Suguru's head tilted as he watched the man’s mouth fall open, then he seemed to twitch as if electrocuted. He pulled out and fell onto the bed, and you just stayed there. On all fours, facing forward, with your face full of disappointment, he felt like walking right into the house and kicking the man out so he could wipe that look off your face and replace it with nothing but pleasure.

Surprise he could handle, disbelief for sure, but disappointment? Disappointment meant this wasn't the first time this man prioritised his pleasure over yours. Or worse, he could be one of many who’d taken your body but didn't worship you as he would undoubtedly do.

Suguru felt himself grow more restless, and you seemed to as well because you stood up, grabbed the man’s clothes from the floor, and threw them at his chest. He jerked in surprise and sat up as you said something that made him scowl ugly. Words were exchanged, then he stood up and stomped out of your room.

A few moments later, he left your front door, clothes thrown on haphazardly, and mouth moving as if muttering to himself—probably cursing you.

You sank onto your bed again, and Suguru didn't bother looking at the man driving off. His eyes were fixed unflinchingly on you.

It was safe to assume the gremlin from earlier wasn’t your boyfriend, and it had him letting out a sigh of relief as the knot in his gut finally started to unfurl.

You lay there for some time, for what felt like hours, and Suguru reached for his door handle. He needed to…to—what, offer to help you get off? He was a man even stranger than the one you had just chased out, and there was no guarantee that you would even remember him.

You’d probably pepper-spray him and call the police, but he was still willing to take that risk. He would take anything over the unsatisfied look on your face right now.

He’s about to push his car door open when you turned onto your stomach and stuffed one of your decorative pillows under your hips.

Every drop of blood in his body rushed south, as he swallowed thickly and when you rolled your hips against the pillow, he wasn’t even breathing anymore.

Suguru rasped out a weak sound when you turned your face towards the window, cheek resting on the bed as you ground your hips down a little harder.

The man from before didn't even bother to take your shirt off, so you pulled it over your head and unclasped your bra, hand sliding between your body and the bed as you palmed your heavy breast.

The first breath in what felt like forever forced itself out of his lungs in a ragged gasp.

All he could see was the side view of your naked body as you used the pillow to get off, but the hypnotic ripple of your ass flexing then jiggling, and the way your brows furrowed in concentration, had him reaching to undo his pants before he could stop himself.

What wouldn’t he give to smooth that crease away with his thumb or a soft kiss? You shouldn’t have to work this hard to cum.

Suguru grasped his cock just as your jerks picked up, and he averted his eyes from you for a moment as he parted his lips, cheeks drawing in before he spat right onto his tip.

He smoothed the wetness over the head with his thumb, then spread it over his piercings on the underside and all down to his base, pumping his fist up and down.

Heated eyes zeroed in on you again as he moved his hand, slow, teasingly, while you were frenzied as you became desperate to finish.

God, you were sinfully beautiful, and even if he were told that watching any longer would kill him, he would gladly accept death’s embrace with arms wide open.

With your free hand, you reached behind you, hand falling over the curvature of your ass as you placed your fingers between your thighs. You thrust the deft digits into you while you ground down harder onto the pillow.

Your form dissipated as a new image emerges in his mind’s eye. One where you’d make him sit in the chair you keep in the corner of your room and make him watch you up close.

You’d ignore his pleas to touch you as you worked your cunt to make yourself cum, and he would be utterly helpless, pathetically so, as he gawked at you clenching around nothing and dripping onto the soft pillow below, wishing it was his tongue instead.

On a good day, perhaps you’d let him fuck you prone. Rut into you from behind, with each thrust jostling you both, and forcing the twitchy bud of your clit to rub into the mattress under the weight of your bodies.

Suguru hissed, gripping his cock harder as he fought to keep his eyes from rolling back. You turned your face into your sheets, and he groaned in frustration when he couldn't see the face you made as you came. But the way your body tensed, then shuddered was enough to have his head rolling back against his headrest, cock pulsing in his fist as he spilt all over himself.

His cum dotted his dark jeans, and some dripped down his knuckles, and he just sat there, waiting for the disgust and shame to sink in. However, as he watched you get up with a little post-orgasm bounce in your step while you walked to your bathroom, those feelings never came to the surface.

If the man who left earlier was a fiend, maybe he was an even meaner one.

The only consolation was that at least Suguru knew that you deserved more than a quick hookup with an idiot who essentially jerked off inside of you.

You deserved more than having to grind against your pillow to ease that ache, and he desperately wanted to be the one to give it all to you.

This wanton need to please you scared him, what with him being a virgin and never seeing the appeal of sex before this. But with you? Suguru would relish in your pleasure. He wanted you to teach him everything you liked and expose him to things he didn’t even know yet. He wanted you to use him and take what had been withheld from you for so long.

He wanted all of you.

And that’s why when he arrives at your house on the sixth day, he decides it’s time to make a move.

Today is the day he would give himself to you, and he’s hoping you'd take him, because as far as he was concerned, you were his already.

All his confidence seems to evaporate when you open the door. He watched you so much that it’s a little strange to have you see him too. The last time you looked at him was at the coffee shop, and that was before…everything. Now, your eyes are trained on him, and you arch your brows when he doesn’t say anything. 

“Hello, how can I help you?”

You’re dressed in your favourite oversized tee, and as always, no pants. While your shirt covers all the important bits, your legs are on full display.

It was all so very unfair.

His mouth opens and closes, but no words come out, so he just holds your purse up. Suguru sees your eyes track down, then your mouth gapes.

“Oh my god!” You snatch the sparkly rectangular pouch out of his hand and hug it to your chest, then as if thinking better of it, you pull it open and have a look through. “Holy shit, everything is still here. Where did you find it?”

“Coffee shop.” He supplies, forcing himself to finally speak, and you look at him again, eyes gleaming with recognition.

“Wait, aren’t you that guy? You paid for my coffee.”

That guy.

Suguru supposed that was the downside of watching you.

While it helped him know so much about you, you knew nothing about him. He doesn’t like it, but he nods and forces a smile to his lips. One that becomes a little more genuine when you grin widely.

“Yeah. Sorry, it took so long to bring it. I was kind of busy.”

Busy watching you from the other side of the street, that is.

“Please,” you wave a hand, dismissing his words entirely. “You brought it, that’s all that matters. Thank you so much.”

Your smile lights up your whole face, and he knew from that moment that he would do just about anything to keep it in place.

“Don’t mention it.” And now it was time for the hook. “I’m gonna head out but enjoy the rest of your day.”

Suguru turns on his heel and counts down in his head for you to stop him. He doesn’t actually want to leave; in fact, if you don’t say anything, he would make a half-assed excuse to stay. He just needed to be tactful. Couldn’t creep you out by overstaying his welcome when you didn’t want him there. You had to invite him.

And thankfully, he only makes it to the first step when you clear your throat behind him.

“Wait, I feel like I should offer you a cup of coffee as a thank you at least? I owe you twice as much now.” An airy laugh follows the offer, and it sounds a little nervous.

He likes it. The possibility that he made you nervous.

He turns back to see you opening your door wider, and he swears if his heart beat any faster, it would explode right out of his chest.

“Would you like to come in?”

Would he?

A small part of him is concerned that you were so willing to let a stranger into your house. You didn’t even know his name for christ’s sake, or how he knew where you lived, but it only reinforces his belief that you need him to protect you just as much as he needs you in every other sense of the word. And so, he brushes it all off.

Taking in the look in your eyes, you’re gazing at him like he was some sort of saint instead of a stalker who’s been obsessively watching you through your bedroom window for almost a week. And your naivety makes him a lot happier than it should.

“I don’t want to impose.” He says mostly for your benefit. You didn’t know it, but he’s giving you an out. An opportunity to fall back because once you let him in, there was no turning back.

You beckon him over with a small jerk of your chin. “You came all this way.”

He hesitates again, and you raise a brow with a soft smile, as if you liked his polite hesitance.

If only you knew.

“Please? It would make me feel better..”

Well, how could he possibly say no when you asked so nicely?

Suguru steps over your threshold, brushing up against you as he goes, and he hears the door close behind him. He feels a gentle touch on his arm and looks down to see you gesture for him to follow.

“This way.” You walk ahead, and he falls into step behind you. Your oversized shirt is so big it tries its hardest to hide your curves, but comes up short because he still makes out the glorious silhouette of your body as you walk.

You lead Suguru to the living room, telling him to make himself at home before going to the kitchen that was opposite it. He practically ogles you as you move around in it; thankfully, you don’t notice.

“I realised I never asked for your name.” You say over the soft whir of your coffee machine, and he takes a moment to look around the living room.

His eyes eat up every detail, from the suede nude-coloured couch in the centre, to the flatscreen TV on the wall and the countless pictures of you on the shelves. Suguru sees a baby picture, and his lips tip up at the megawatt gummy smile you flash in it. In another, you’re surrounded by a group of girls all around seven years old, still missing teeth, as you all beam at the camera and throw up peace signs.

Then there are more recent ones, a high school graduation photo, what he assumes is a family photo of you being hugged by an older couple who look just like you and lastly, a picture that had to be taken a year or two ago. Where you hold a bouquet and wear the shortest dress he has ever seen.

His hand twitches as he fights the urge to take his phone out and snap a picture or two. He tells himself that if things went according to plan, he would be well acquainted with every single room in your house one day, so he doesn’t need to.

He remembers that you asked for his name, so he shifts his attention back to you. “Suguru.”

You repeating it has him biting the insides of his cheeks to stifle his excitement.

“Nice to meet you,” You take two cups out of the cupboard and glance over your shoulder, “I’m–”

“I know.” You were going to put the cups on the counter, but when he says that, you pause, and he mentally curses.

Way to sound like a serial killer. He mentally scolds himself.

He glances at your purse, which you had set down on the countertop, and you follow his line of sight.

“It was in your purse. I had to look in it to find your address, too.” Suguru makes sure he speaks slowly so he doesn't show his brief moment of panic, and he almost sighs in relief when you let out a hum of understanding and continue making coffee.

“I suppose you know my social security number, too, then?” You tease, and he shrugs a shoulder.

“It’s easier to remember than mine.” His skin prickles in delight when you laugh.

“You’re funny, Suguru.”

And you were adorable for thinking that he was joking.

“How do you like your coffee?” You ask as you put so much sweetener in your cup that he gets a second-hand sugar rush.

“No milk or sugar, please,” he begins to say, then chuckles when you pull a face. “What?”

“It's just a little on the nose, don’t you think?” You pick up both cups and saunter over. “Wearing all black and preferring your coffee to taste like rocket fuel.”

Rocket fuel?

If he smiles anymore, he won’t be able to feel his cheeks tomorrow.

“No offence, but I’ll take that over whatever it is you have in there.” He jerks his chin towards your cup. “Wouldn't pouring yourself a glass of milk be easier?”

You gasp, eyes set alight with playfulness.

“Excuse you. You don’t judge the host’s tastes in her house.”

Laughter fills the room just as easily as the smell of coffee does, and he leans forward to take his cup from your hand. Your fingers brush, and while you have no reaction, Suguru’s hand twitches as a jolt is sent through all his nerve endings, and goosebumps coat his skin.

“Thank you,” he grunts out, and you nod while taking a seat on the smaller couch opposite him. His excitement gives way to a little disappointment as he wishes you had sat next to him, but he didn’t want to be too demanding.

“So how old are you, Suguru?” You say his name so casually, even when you don’t really need to, and it makes him preen in delight. “If you don’t mind me asking, that is?”

He didn’t mind. But he was curious as to why you felt the need.

His eyes flit about you as you sit before him, landing on the shirt that hikes a few inches higher as you cross your legs and lean back on the couch. You do this while studying him just as intently as he was you, and cupping your mug between both hands.

“I’m twenty-eight.” He finally answers you, and you nod again.

“I’m—”

“I know.” His mouth seems to rush out like word-vomit, and he bites his tongue a till too late in self-reproach.

You tilt your head at him, and he averts his gaze, fearing you’ll see too much and takes a sip of coffee to busy himself.

“I’m not sure whether I should be flattered or concerned that you seem to know everything about me.” Dark eyes find yours again and, yes, he clearly sees how your eyes gleam with amusement.

You aren’t creeped out. You’re teasing him, and that eases some tension from his shoulders.

“The former, I hope,” he quips as charmingly as he could, only to grin when you snort in response. He drinks more coffee, and he isn’t sure whether this is the best he has ever had or if he only thinks that because you made it. “And I don’t know everything about you.”

You hum softly, “There’s something left? Do tell.”

The tension returns to his shoulders as he steels himself. He knows he needs to be bold. You seem friendly enough, actually, you were borderline flirting, so maybe it could work. Maybe, but there was only one way to know for sure.

“I…I don’t know if you’re single or not for one.”

A beat passes, and the longer the silence stretched, the more he feels like finding a very tall building and somersaulting off of it.

Maybe he was being too forward?

You only invited him in because you felt like you had to after he brought your purse back. It’s possible you were only being nice for that same reason. And here he was, trying to make moves on you. He’d blundered it. Gotten too hasty—

Your lightly glossed lips quirk up at the corners, in a grin that seemed both satisfied and seductive all at once. Then you inclined your head and lush hair following the movement.

“And what if I am?” 

 Woah. Did that work? And has your voice always sounded like that? All honeyed and prodding?

Suguru didn’t have a lot of experience with women, not that they weren’t attracted to him, but the company he kept drew the attention away from him almost instantly. Because why bother yourself with the brooding man in the corner of the room, who gave short yes or no answers while his richer, friendlier and more charming friend was right there?

Women were definitely interested but as soon as he started talking, or perhaps when he didn’t talk enough, he watched as their eyes glazed over in boredom and they set their sights on his best friend or someone else instead.

All that was fine by Suguru; he likes being left alone, and small talk was pointless to him…or at least it used to be because the two of you have been at it for quite some time now, and not only does he not mind it, but he actually likes it.

Perhaps his lack of experience in the romance department is why his feelings are so potent now.

He enjoys the simply things a little too much. The teasing quips that bounce to and fro between the two of you. How easy conversation was as you spoke to him like he was an old friend and asked personal questions to get to know him more, but most of all, he liked that you were looking at him.

Really looking at him and practically hanging off every word he said, so fixated it would have been unnerving if he didn’t look at you the same way. And even as he stumbles over his words, interrupts you often and says things that should have you running the other way, you only laugh.

His shoulders sag again, and your smile summons his own. Maybe he will take his friend’s advice and assert himself more.

Suguru Geto was a lifesaver.

When he held your purse out, the small brightly coloured slip, so out of place with his whole aesthetic, you nearly wept.

It took two whole days to realise you lost it, and you nearly drove yourself mad looking for it all around your house and in every nook and cranny of your car.

You eventually gave up, and on the day you planned to run all the errands to renew bank cards, your ID and driver’s license, he came up to your door, and the gloomy day turned around immediately.

It didn’t hurt that he was easy on the eyes and asked you on a date, either.

That leads you to the present. Two weeks after that first meeting, the two of you are sitting in some fancy restaurant with bite-sized, extortionately priced dishes you can’t even pronounce.

When he picked you up earlier, you froze at the sight of him on your doorstep. Suguru Geto was a mountain of a man, lean and muscular in all the right places and standing so tall you needed to crane your head up to look him in the eye. His glittering gaze is usually framed by the jet black curtain of his long hair, but he has it tied back today. Loose strands fall over his forehead like spilt ink, and some even graze over the thick gauges in his ears.

Suguru studies you through the soft tresses, barely paying attention to the menu before him. And peculiar eyes—they almost seemed violet in certain lighting—eat you up and drink you in with that gluttonous intensity he usually reserves for when he thinks you aren’t paying attention.

But he definitely isn’t hiding it now.

He’s attracted to you, wanted you, that much is clear.

However, something tells you his interest doesn’t stop at wanting a romantic or even sexual relationship. There was something a little more all-consuming about it. Darker.

“You look beautiful tonight.” He folds his plush lower lip between his teeth, and your cheeks warm. “Not sure if I told you that already.”

“Oh, only a hundred times,” you wave a hand and shrug in faux nonchalance. “But feel free to continue.”

His laughter is like liquid heat. It burns up your skin, then seeps under it, gliding down and spurring in your lower stomach before finally settling between your legs.

Fuck. Me.

“Oh, I plan to.” He says like he heard your internal horny ramblings, but no, it was just banter as he replies to your earlier comment.

“You know you don’t have to flatter me, right? You already have me on a date.” His smile only widens, eyes shaping into tiny crescent moons and it’s like he waits until you take a sip of your drink before he speaks up.

“And what if I want more?”

The wine is spat right out, and you choke. Somewhere between coughing and teary-eyed wheezes, Suguru hands you one of the serviettes, and you hear his barely stifled chuckles.

“You did that on purpose.” You rasp as a laugh accidentally slips out of him.

“I swear I didn’t,” he insists with his hands raised in faux surrender. Then he pushes his glass of water over to you. “But I was being serious.”

“Mhm.” He watches as you wipe your mouth, then take a sip of his water. You swiftly pat down the droplets of wine that trickled down your chin and splattered onto the tops of your breasts.

There are a few wet dots on your navy dress that you can’t do much about, and the image sends his mind places it definitely shouldn’t be, so he focuses on your face again.

“Thank you,” you give his glass back to him once you’ve taken enough gulps. “And what more do you want, huh?”

It would be a much shorter list to ask him what he doesn’t want.

“Everything.” He took the glass from you and set it down on the table.

Surely, he’s joking, and you’re so wrapped up in trying to find a snarky remark that you miss it. Miss when he rotates the glass you just drank from until he finds the lipstick stain you left behind on the rim. Then he causally raises it to his lips and takes a long sip, right over the same spot you placed your mouth on.

Once he’s done, his tongue wets his bottom lip, eagerly chasing the dregs of sweetness left behind. It’s good, but he knows it would be even better from the source.

“You know, usually people get to know each other a little more before they start saying those kinds of things.”

“True,” he half concedes, “But I already know everything about you, remember?”

You laugh again, but he’s only partly joking.

“Fine then I should at least catch up. Tell me about yourself.”

A sable brow lifts, “What do you want to know?”

You shrug a shoulder and decide to throw his vague answer back at him.

 “Everything.”

Oh, you had no idea how happy you just made him.

The man isn’t even a fan of talking, but if that’s what you wanted, he would chat your ear off. He’d tell you everything you wanted to know and then some. Ah, minus the stalking, of course.

And he does.

He mostly talks about his family, and you listen with interest as he tells you about how he migrated from Japan with his aunt when he was a few years old.  He visits the rest of his family once or twice a year and judging by the strained smile that pulled at his lips, you gather that while he loves them dearly, he isn’t very close to his parents.

Suguru’s smile becomes less forced when he speaks about the aunt who raised him though.

The two of you even talk about your friends. And his are…interesting to be sure. You’re laughing a little too loudly for the prestige restaurant you’re in when he tells you all their antics, and somewhere along the line, you get through all six courses and two bottles of wine.

Your hands are a few millimetres away from each other as you talk, and as if you were possessed, you gently placed yours atop his. To you, Suguru barely blinks as he hooks his slender fingers between yours, but in reality, he swears his heart skips a beat.

The touch lands with a lot more tenderness than you were used to, so you feel the need to comment. 

“Hm, you’re almost too good at this. Has me wondering how many women you’ve wined and dined.” You say as he traces over one of your palm lines with the pad of his finger.

“Sweetheart, what kind of men have you been on dates with? All I did was take you to dinner.”

You aren’t sure if the buzz you feel is from the petname or the helpings of wine, but you like it a little too much.

“Don’t ask. I’d rather not go down that rabbit hole.”

Suguru hums in response. He wouldn’t ask. Those men were in the past, and if you aren’t paying them any mind, why should he?

“But what about you?” You ask with your eyes steadily trained on him, and he quirks an eyebrow.

“What? The men I’ve been with?”

What a smartass.

“Yes,” your fingers tighten in his a bit. “Though I hope there are a few women in there, too. Otherwise, this is going to get really awkward, really fast.”

Purple eyes danced with amusement and smugness.

“I’ve gone on some dates, but I haven’t really been in a relationship.”

Huh? Your head rears a little.

“So, you’re a one-and-done type of guy?”

A myriad of emotions are held within that simple question. Curiosity, concern, jealousy. You weren’t opposed to a one-night stand, but well…you were hoping that's not all Suguru would be. After all, it has been a while since a man has held your interest as much as he did.

So, when he shakes his head, you nearly sigh out loud in relief.

“Hardly,” he reassures you with his thumb tracing along your knuckle. “I mean, not sexually anyway. I haven’t even been with anyone, so that’s kinda impossible.”

You hum in what you thought was understanding. “Oh, you haven’t been with anyone for a while then?”

That makes you feel a little better. Maybe you truly have nothing to worry about. Or at least you thought so until he shrugs, “If by a while you mean never, then sure.”

You blink at him like he sprouted an extra head, and your brain is struggling to comprehend what it is seeing.

“What do you mean by that?”

He gives you a dry look, though he is still smiling too. And it’s as if he were saying, “What do you think I mean?”

But if he has never been with someone, then…well, that means…

Your eyes nearly bulge out of their sockets.

“Are you—?!” Then, realising your voice is a little too high, you lean forward a little. “I’m sorry. Are you…trying to tell me that you’re a virgin?”

The look of sheer disbelief on your face and your conspiratorial whisper, as if you were asking a top-secret level question, has him stifling a laugh as he leans forward too. Your faces are inches apart as he breathes one word just as dramatically as you asked the question.

“Yes.”

“No.” You recline into your seat, about to draw your hand away from his, but he tightens his grip.

“Yes.” He repeats with a snicker when you vehemently shake your head.

“You’re a virgin?” You whisper again and give him a once-over. “You?”

There’s no way that no one has gotten on that. You’d do it given the chance.

Then again, it’s a shock that he’s single to begin with.

“Uh-huh,” He takes no offence to your disbelief; in fact, he likes the sight of your wide eyes and full lips parted.

“Wow.” You huff out a breath and look him over as if you were seeing him for the first time.

“You’re really hung up on this. Is it a deal breaker or something?” A small lump forms in Suguru’s throat. He really hopes that wasn’t the case.

“No, not at all. And I don’t know your reasons for abstaining, but you should know that I don’t, at all.”

Hm.

“At all, huh?” He sniggers because he already knows that. He saw it, but he just doesn’t care. For what did your past sexual partners matter when he’d be the last, and the one who actually put your pleasure first?

“Nope. So, is it for religious reasons? Or are you waiting for marriage…?” Suguru is already shaking his head before you finish talking.

“Don’t get me wrong, I’m not a prude. I just haven’t been interested enough to go all the way,” he looks down at your joined hands, yours so warm and soft in his. “Until recently.”

When he finishes that statement, he peers up at you and he’s pleased to see a faint blush instead of horror in your face.

Your lips part, but before you could say anything, the waitress comes back and looks down at him, her eyes appreciative as they flit over his all-black-clad form.

You can’t even blame her.

“Everything alright here, sir?”

“Yes, thank you. May we have the bill?” Suguru spares her a glance and a polite smile before turning his amethyst gaze back to you.

“Of course, sir,” she all but purrs, and you shoot a quick look at her. Admiring a handsome man was one thing, but flirting when he’s clearly on a date was out of line. “And I can't get you anything else? Anything at all?”

Suguru simply shakes his head again, but she presses on, “You sure?”

His head turns to her, and it’s only because you are looking at him that you see it. See all the warmth melt away from his expression until all that was left was an unbreakable, solid block of ice. Suguru’s face becomes cold, so devoid of emotion, so quickly that the hairs on your arms stand up in trepidation.

Sure, the waitress was being rude, but the look? It’s so different from his crescent-eyed smiles and hearty chuckles that it genuinely makes you uneasy.

“The bill.” He repeats, and all the earlier politeness is gone from his voice. In its place, a guttural rasp echoed, and it has you shivering, mostly in discomfort but maybe a little arousal too?

Man, you were a lost cause.

The waitress must not share the same sentiment of finding that voice sexy because her back straightens and she clears her throat, ever the professional now. “Right away.”

She leaves as quickly as she came, and when Suguru’s attention returns, his face loses its harsh quality instantaneously. “Sorry about that. Where were we?”

Hm, very interesting.

He falls back into that easy-going mood so naturally, you have no choice but to follow suit, even as you file away the interaction in the back of your mind.

“We were talking about your virtue and my lack thereof.”

He barks out a laugh, and your eyes flicker over his face. Suguru is handsome all the time, but even more so when he smiles.

“My virtue?” His shoulders quake. “You make me sound like some sort of priest.”

The image of him wearing vestments pops into your head, and you take another sip of wine in hopes of making it hazy.

“Might as well be.” You murmur over the rim of the glass and get a wolfish grin in return.

Suguru leans back in his chair, but he doesn’t let go of your hand. If anything, the gentle brush of his thumb over your hand becomes lascivious. Charged. And the change isn’t lost on you as you curl an eyebrow at him.

The waitress comes back with the bill, and he makes quick work of paying it. Once he’s done, he stands up and goes over to your side of the table. A large hand spans over your waist and draws you closer to him.

It’s clear Suguru feels a lot bolder after dinner, and maybe that’s why, as you two walk out of the restaurant and towards his car, he leans down to your ear, soft lips brushing the shell as he drawls, “I don’t think my words were convincing enough. I could prove that I’m the furthest thing from a priest if you’d let me?”

As soon as the words leave his lips, he sees—and feels due to your proximity— a full body tremor run through you. Your head tips up to look him in the eye and at the sight of your pupils blown wide, he already knows your answer.

There’s a part of your brain that screams at you to get up and run as fast as you can, but the rush of blood roaring between your ears mutes most of the sound.

You find yourself backed against your front door, and you only have time to take a wavering breath before Suguru presses his mouth to yours. At first, the kiss is tentative and so soft that you can barely feel it—a mere peck both sweet and chaste as his lips catch yours.

This softness lasts for all of five seconds before he covers your body with his and slants his lips over yours completely. He kisses you like a man starved, nipping at your lips and groaning into your mouth, as if the meal you had moments before did nothing to satisfy his appetite the way kissing you does.

By the time he pulls back, your body feels like a helpless puddle, and the look flashing in his eyes makes your chest seize. The dark crackle within the once fiery purple irises cools and settles into the kind of pitch-black frost that only blankets the tallest of mountain peaks.

You should note this change too, but as your door swings open and he advances, you can’t seem to dwell on it for long.

Suguru kisses you again, manoeuvring your tangled bodies further into your house, and you’re lucid enough to realise that he easily leads you to your bedroom, as if he knows exactly where it is.

His mouth is ravenous as it works its way over the supple skin of your neck and lower to your chest, licking and sucking at the remnants of wine that you spilt over your tits.

You’re pulled into strong arms so easily, it makes you lightheaded, and you only come back to your senses when he places you on your bed. Right in the middle.

Your blinds are open again, and Suguru makes no move to close them. Part of him hopes someone does pass by and sees the two of you together. They may as well get used to it now that it would be a frequent occurrence.

You let your thighs spread, and he kneels between them, looking down at you again with that strange stare.

“You’re perfect.”

You scoff at him even when you feel your cheeks warm. “Hardly.”

He shakes his head, and soft hands caress the underside of your calves. “You are.”

His instance makes you bite your lip, and more pain blooms over it when you sink your teeth in deeper as his hands skate up to the hem of your dress.

“Can I take this off?” He intones with his eyes firmly on your face, and your nod doesn’t seem to be enough because he purses his lips. “I need to hear you say it, baby.”

There he went with the petnames again. He said them with so much familiarity that one would think you two have been together for years instead of just talking over the phone for a few weeks.

“Take it off.”

With you usually being submissive in bed, the command shocks you even as it leaves your mouth. For the first time, not bothering to say please and watching as the enigma situated between your legs only smiles in response.

Eyes still dark, he leans down to kiss you again, and somewhere between the desperate clash of teeth and tongues, he pulls your dress off, and you follow suit by pushing his blazer over his shoulders.

His dark dress shirt comes off next, and you break away to ogle the tattoos on his arms and chest. The dark swirls of black curling along his tan skin make your lips part, and you must have made some sort of strangled noise because he chuckles and pecks them again.

“How will my ego ever recover with that kind of reaction?”

Your lips tip, and you reach for his belt buckle, but don’t get far enough when he gently takes hold of your hands “You first.” Always.

He lets go, and his hands go to the hook of your bra, trying to unclasp it. His limited experience comes through as he struggles a little longer than most to get it undone, fingers trembling with anticipation and a pink tint touching his cheeks.

You don’t make a big deal of it when you fold an arm behind you to help out. In silent thanks, he presses his lips to your shoulder before he pulls the straps off them and down your arms.

A soft thud sounds as the bra hits the floor.

Suguru’s chest shutters and he hesitates only for a second before his hands cup your breasts. Their warmth and the timidity of the gesture make you a little breathless.

“Good?” Midnight purple eyes lift to yours as you check in, and he only manages a nod.

“You?” Your nipples pebbling under his palm should be enough of an answer, but you still voice your approval.

His hands slide down your body, pawing over the soft planes and curves they find along the way until they reach the waistband of your underwear. Lithe fingers hook underneath, but before he slips them off, his eyes meet yours again.

“You know you can stop me at any time, right?”

If you weren’t wet before, you definitely were now. Your hands squeeze his shoulders.

“I know.”

That’s all the confirmation he needs to roll the lacy slip down the length of your legs. You wait for him to throw it off the bed, too, but he doesn’t. And you think you see the panties disappear into his pocket, but…that can’t be right. Can it?

“Did you just—” you yelp as your legs are pried open wider. Whatever questions you had are forgotten at the sight of his paralysed attention on the apex of your thighs.

The gaze so enraptured, you subtly try to close your legs, but his hands grip your skin and hold you open, allowing no escape. No chance to hide what has saliva pooling in his mouth and nearly makes him drool.

This goes on for a few moments longer, and just as you’re starting to get a little concerned, he moves off you. Kneeling at the edge of the bed, he grasps the tops of your thighs and yanks you closer to him. 

“I want you to show me how you like it.” He gently takes your hand in his and places it over the mound of your pussy. When you don’t move, eyes flicker up to yours again. “Please?”

Fucking hell.

Your chest heaves, and you let your legs fall open a little more, middle and ring fingers gathering up slick wetness and gliding to your clit. When you circle the button, his sharp inhale echoes through the room. Suguru leans down and watches while you keep touching yourself, fingers so skilled he feels his cock harden to the point of pain as more blood pulses to it.

His eyes glazed over when you spread puffy folds open, all glistening and plush, and your scent so sweet, so naturally you, that he breathed it in as deeply as he could.

You sigh as a finger slips inside, and he presses a kiss to your thigh. Fire and ice shoot through your veins, and just as you feel like you can’t take any more, Suguru knocks your hand away and replaces it with his. Always a quick study, he rubs over the same spots you showed him, just as good, if not better, than you had.

You’re panting already, but when his head sinks between your thighs, you stop breathing altogether at the flick of his tongue along your slit. Just once, then he pauses. Panic threatens to creep in, but it’s cut off by the knees when his strong hands grow rough, lifting your lower half and drawing you to his mouth.

“Shit,” you gasp in surprise, and Suguru pulls out sounds you didn’t even know you were capable of. Sounds you’d never admit to making if he teased you about it later, but in the moment, your hips buck up into him with a choked moan. “Don’t stop.”

Pleasure zips along the base of your spine, and your hand runs over his hair, marvelling at its softness and wanting to feel more all at once, so you give in. Undoing his bun and pulling the hair tie onto your wrist before grasping two handfuls and tugging him forward.

“Fuck, yes,” Suguru’s eyes roll back at the sting of pain, tongue lolling out to drag over your entrance, then plunging right inside. Fingers follow its path, slotting into dripping heat that clenches hard around him as your brows furrow.

“Oh my god,” your heels dig into the toned muscles of his back, thighs closing tight around his head. Your hips spasm, once, twice, then you’re cumming all over his face.

Suguru makes a satisfied slurping noise, and he stiffens when his cock pulses in his pants, precum making him so messy that a single press of his hips to the edge of the bed makes his release lash out like a whip and leaves him tingling all over. He cums in his pants like a…well, like a virgin, so at least he has an excuse, just this once.

He doesn’t give himself time to catch his breath or let the embarrassment settle in. He just stands up and unzips his pants. Seeing you sated, practically glowing and hair gorgeously mussed as you sprawled over the bed almost makes him want to take a picture. Your body that once seemed so out of reach is now laid out in front of him, and when your pretty eyes flutter open, lashes brushing over the apples of your cheeks as you smile, all facts set in stone.

You successfully reduced him to a mess. A mindless mongrel who would live only for your pleasure and happiness, even if you gave nothing but a bruising lash in return. Wound up so precariously around your short leash, he would sooner snap, bite and tear into anything that tried to cut him loose than allow it to set him free.

Suguru shoves his pants off, and you draw yourself up to your elbows to take him in.

His cock is flushed, dark and points right at you despite just cumming. The length and girth of it are as intimidating as they are inviting, and the fact that it still glistens with his cum has a shot of pride easing down your throat. Except, the shot changes from sugary sweetness into something more pungent when you catch a flash of silver winking on the underside of his cock.

You sit up and take him into your hands. Sex takes a backseat, even at his low curse, when you lift the thick length until it slaps over his abdomen.

Oh.

What you saw wasn’t cum, or at least not only that. He has piercings.

“Jacob’s ladder,” he murmurs as you trace a thumb over the jewellery. When you look up at him, he clarifies. “That’s what it’s called.”

“Did it hurt?”

“Nearly died.”

Your mouth twitches, but then you force your eyes to narrow on him. “A virgin with a Jacob’s ladder? You’ve been holding out on us.”

He chuckles and tucks his hands under your arms, lifting you, then laying you down on the bed again. His body immediately covers yours, and he kisses the tip of your nose. “Been waiting on you.”

Your eyes roll, and his chest rumbles against you with his soft laughter. “Yeah, yeah.”

“I’m serious.” His voice is clipped as he reaches down to grasp his cock and lines up with you. The condoms in your drawer will have to wait for another time. You needed a proper feel of the piercings just this once.

Both of you take a breath as he slowly eases in, and when you take him to the hilt, he buries his face against your neck with something akin to a whine. He just stays like that, small tremors making him tense on top of you as you tighten around him.

“You can move now.” Even though the words are meant as a joke, you were also growing impatient.

“Baby, give me a minute,” he pleaded against your skin. “Or I’m going to embarrass myself.”

Again.

Suguru takes a moment to flex his hips experimentally. Your moan of approval has him doing it again, and soon enough, the two of you are moving together at a dizzying pace. It’s languid, but every time he moves, he nudges against a spot you’ve only ever been able to reach alone, and the piercings only add to it. The metal beads slither over gummy walls, their coolness trying and failing to snuff out the heat they find inside of you.

The slow writhe of your bodies becomes more desperate, and your nails cut into the skin of his back as he grinds his hips into you harder. Suguru keeps one hand beside your head, holding himself above you, but the other goes to your ass, and he paws at it and urges you further onto his thick girth. Hips snap into you, thrusts becoming desperate and making an obscenely wet sound fill your room.

As you meet his thrusts, his name comes out as a mewl, and he lowers his forehead to yours. His hair forms a curtain around your faces, and the feeling of his tense body, eyes wild and brimming with barely leashed violent tension, makes your toes curl.

“Say it again.”

Only the first syllable of his name leaves your mouth before he kisses you again and from how bruising it is, you aren’t sure whether he likes you saying his name or hates it. His sharp teeth bite catch your lip, and he bites hard. Your yelp of pain is accompanied by a particularly overwhelming clench of your pussy walls around him, and he breaks.

“I’m gonna cum.” He groans with a soft hiccup at the end. His eyes find yours again. “Where do you want it?”

“Inside.” You pause to lick your lip, and the faint taste of blood has a fresh coat of glittery wetness gushing onto him.

You move a hand down to circle your clit, but it’s immediately pushed aside as he takes over. Suguru ruts into you, toys with you, and when you feel him pulse, you are done. You cum with nonsensical blabbers leaving your mouth and your legs as tight as a vice around his body as he empties himself inside of you. 

Suguru keeps moving even as you both tremble with overstimulation. And it was only when you grunt and pat his chest that he slowed down.

But he didn’t stop.

Strong arms loop around you, and he meanly bears down all his weight on you, hips smacking nastily into yours, and a thick white ring around his cock making a mess between you.

“Suguru—” He kisses you again and cards a hand through your hair while you whimper against his mouth.

Your sharp nails cut through skin, and you scrape them over his back, leaving thick red lines and making him shiver with pleasure. God, he hopes you marked him. So people would know he was yours.

“One more,” he rasps heavily into your mouth. “Gimme one more.”

Sweat trickles down your temple as you gaze into his eyes, and they churn with so much lust, you begin to worry that you have just created a monster.

“Nngh j-just one, yeah?” Suguru repeats and doesn’t even wait for your response as three fingers go to your clit and rub over it with a ferocity that knocks the air out of you.

His thrusts are slow and a little jerky as he gets close again, but his fingers? Those were relentless. Almost punishing, and you were so sensitive that instead of a scream coming out, your mouth just soundlessly gapes.

His tongue swipes over your bottom lip, then laps down your neck and to your chest.

“Cum on it. Cum all over your fucking cock.”  Lips latched around your nipple, and as you see white, that’s exactly what you do.  

Your body convulses when he falls off the edge right behind you, less cum dribbling into your cunt, but the whimper he breathes against your nipple lets you know this orgasm is a lot more intense too. He eventually stops, but doesn’t move off you just yet and the gentle press of his pelvis against you nearly tips you over again.

“Holy shit.” Are the first words that come out of your mouth and he barks out a laugh. “Don't go getting a big head, but I think that was the best sex I’ve ever had.”

“Yeah,” he blows out a breath and his head stays buried between your breasts. “Same.” he snickers when a hard smack is delivered to his arm. “What?”

“That was the only sex you’ve ever had.”

“So? I can’t imagine it gets better than this.” He shrugs, as if what he said means nothing, but your eyes flicker over his face with renewed interest.

“Mhm.” Your nails glide along his scalp, and he sighs against you.

Yes, this was all he wanted. Just to be in your arms after he gave himself to you in a way no one else would have him, and coming down together after you did the same. He breathes in your scent like it keeps him alive, and as he burrows further into you, his eyes sleepily flutter from your fingers twisting in his hair.

“I imagine it’s an upgrade from watching through my window.”

Suguru freezes.

His once restful body turns to rock above you, and his heart shutters to a stop in his chest.

You knew?

Hesitantly, he lifts his head to look at your face, and he is startled to find you already watching him. Your eyes on him with unnerving scrutiny and impossibly dark as you tip your head to the side.

Oh, you absolutely knew.

“What, you don’t agree, baby?”

Your voice is sickeningly sweet, but all he can think about is how royally fucked he was. It turns out you aren’t nearly as oblivious as he thought you were, and it scares him just as much as it makes him more obsessed with picking apart your brain further, even if you left him in shambles at the end of it all.

“the warm breeze outside might fix the low oxygen levels in your heads.” yaga sarcastically reasons when satoru makes his complaints known about the origins of the mission.

the raven haired sorcerer reprimanded his tone but expressed similar concern in a more diligent manner.

anyone with half a brain would know it would take decades to successfully pawn through each and every bookshop in the jimbocho district for a specific book, that neither of them obtains the slightest clue as of what it looks like.

nonetheless, they were shooed off campus with a pat on the back and a simple: “you’ll know it when you see it—or rather feel it.”

suguru now navigated through the busy streets alone, —his white haired companion taking off a few hours ago on his own journey— with both hands in his pockets taking in the simplicities of life that surrounded him while keeping his eyes sharp for any unusual curse energy.

each corner he’d turn the storefronts would be filled with colourful book spines neatly lined adjacent to one another. the harsh sound of crimped sandpaper occasionally made its presence known when a customer would flip through the pages.

a bitter earthly aroma tangoed with the wind. one would simply scrunch their nose up and turn the other way but for suguru, the olden smell of books filled him with comfort.

elderly couples hand in hand, a few children accompanied by their parents, and the complementary store cats that would linger in the isles or be found curled up on a random stack of books.

after roaming about and checking a few stores for their recent inventory stock, suguru oddly felt inclined towards a particular store that was quite larger than the others.

he enters. a ring of a bell from above signals his arrival. immediately, the smell of different assortments of tea wafts in and lingers in his nose.

a café combined with a bookstore. that’s definitely convenient.

he eyes the “ring for assistance” bell that rest apon the main counter, he lightly scoffs before ringing it.

“how many times do i have to tell your ass, no, you can’t conduct a séance here—” you round the tight, abelit, breathable corner to face the person it seems like you weren’t expecting. you slightly jump back in a frightened manner then regain your composure.

or more so your customer service demeanour.

“my apologies! business is slow today and i thought a rather persistent customer had came back. do you need help with a book or would you like to order something?”

you enunciate your words with care. trying to not let any vocal cracks slip as you fiddle with your colourful apron, which is a rather stark contrast from your all black work uniform.

suguru would pride himself as goal oriented man. the kind demands of asking to take a look at your recent stocks to see if the cursed book has fallen onto your shelves, nearly wavers past his lips but the faint smell of his favourite tea clouds his better judgement.

“yes, i’d take chamomile tea with honey please.”

“coming right up!” you popped the ‘p’ at the end of your sentence, scurrying off into the back to prepare his choice of beverage.

alone with his thoughts again, suguru observed his surroundings with more precise clarity.

the store has a whimsical charm to it. different array of ambiance lighting scattered throughout the establishment, vintage burgundy rugs made an appearance here and there, a few wooden chairs cushioned by velvet and a long couch that looks as if it has been passed down through many generations.

a sturdy coffee table in the middle, and of course, the probably hundreds of thousands books neatly tucked in the shelves.

he wonders if you run this big place by yourself, must be a hassle if you do. he also wonders why a séance was mentioned by you in an irritated tone. maybe it could connect to his current mission? he plans on subtly bringing the topic up.

“one chamomile with honey!” you cheerfully announce, handing over his mug. you don’t miss the way your heart skips a few beats when your fingers accidentally brush against his.

suguru nods his head to express his thanks. while digging for his wallet, he brings up what’s been on his mind.

“what was that séance you were talking about before?” he lightheartedly inquires.

you cautiously look over your shoulders and nibble on your bottom lip as if you were scared someone might hear. “nothing too serious i suppose. these past few days business has unfortunately plummeted because there’s been talk about how this place is haunted.”

a small beat passes.

“which it isn’t by the way! just some silly stuff kids say when they wanna get under uncle daichi’s skin,” you grimace under your breath.

you then go on a bit of a tangent about how these alleged “hauntings” started a few weeks ago. just about the same time you gotten a new inventory restock.

books would fly off shelves, unnerving whispers can be heard, lights would flicker and the atmosphere would turn unsettling.

suguru is unfazed yet intrigued by this. he calmly listens as his sharp eyes never leaves your face. he notices how animated your expressions are when retelling the events; you talk heartily with your hands as well as your voice that creates a certain bass to match your feelings.

he hums as he takes a slip from his mug, “can you show me the known hotspot for these hauntings?”

you nod eagerly and swiftly move from your spot at the front desk to the back of the store.

yaga wasn’t kidding when he said he’d be able to feel the cursed book, as the cursed energy in the air multiples a tenfold once you two step into the secluded part of the store where the ambient lighting couldn’t reach.

he wonders just how a cursed object this powerful was able to conceal itself from being spotted for so long.

suguru plucks the hefty grimoire off the shelf, small dust particles flying in its wake. “i’d like to purchase this one.”

you look at him as if he grew an extra pair of eyes, but quickly shrug off any confusion and lead him back to the front of the store to cash him out.

as you process his payment you feel conflicted about letting this particular stranger go so soon. holding him up for a few minutes couldn’t hurt, right?

“uhh..wait!” you sputter out in a haste, “with each purchase, a tarot card reading is offered free of charge. would you like to know what the future potentially has in store for you?”

suguru presses his lips in a thin line and sighs. he doesn’t have time for this and doesn’t believe in cards beholding a hidden future.

however he is a sorcerer that had just bought a book that would be a great danger to society if not soon contained. raining on other peoples parade simply isn’t his forte.

he softly smiles at you with his eyes turning into small crescent moons. “hit me.”

you try to conceal your excitement as you bring out a deck bound together by a rubber band. you start hastily shuffling them until four different cards slip out of the deck.

death, judegment, eight of cups, and the lovers.

“intresting…” you quietly hum to yourself.

“don’t be too alarmed by the death card. it could indicate the decay of a friendship that doesn’t hinder towards your beliefs or an troublesome habit finally coming to an end.”

your fingers graze on the next set of cards as you continue. “judgement and eight of cups go hand in hand. your new calls for action may put certain things into perspective for you, as this chosen path may lead to dissatisfaction.”

“and finally, the lovers card is the nice light at the end of the tunnel. someone you can confine in and pour your heart out to.”

you smile as you start to put away the cards to bid the friendly stranger farewell. “tarot cards can be interpreted in a million different ways so take what i say with a grain of salt.”

suguru stares astonished absorbing this information. you’re good, he’ll give you that much.

he quickly clears his throat, “well, thanks for the reading and the tea. have a great day.”

and just like that, he turns his back to leave until he stops just in front of the entrance door with a small smirk. “oh yeah, and i can assure you that the “hauntings” should come to an end now.”

you wave him goodbye with a smile until he fully leaves, which is when the realization hits that you didn’t even get the chance to catch his name. you frown as you groan into your palms.

maybe he’ll swing by again…hopefully.

being a jujutsu sorcerer was a harsh line of work, really. but it was about saving people; no matter the selfish reason behind it. everyone knew that, including kirara. but when you got hurt, when you were crying and crashing on hakari's couch as he patched you up, because they were the nearest to where you got hurt? that triggered something inside her. presently, your legs are perched over kirara's shoulders, clothes long gone and tossed into a pile on the floor. you've been whimpering, tears pricking at your eyes from the overstimulation of her pounding into you for so fucking long.

your thighs are on fire, pussy unbelievably numb and seeping out milky white cum because you aren't really capable of holding yourself back. you can feel her piercing drag through your walls every single time she pumps in and out, and it's driving you insane. she can't stop, though. you have to understand. she has to make you understand that you're hers. that you can't just fuck around and get hurt. that's why she's been thrusting into you relentlessly, cumming loads into you and watches you pulsate just to greedily slurp it up. "why didn't you just come with us?" she whines, words all breathy from the exhaustion she's powering through just to breed you. "you would've been safe here. safe with me, safe with kin-chan." your eyes feel jammed in the back of your head, but you manage to meet her gaze for a second. you think you were about to mumble an apology, but you give up mid-way when she fills you up again, whining and moaning so loud because of the sensation. this time, she gets frustrated at the fact that it leaks out of you -- gushes, actually, like a river overflowing. you're so gone. kirara can see how gone you are, eyes all glossy, body squirming around her cock as your mouth falls wide open and doesn't know how to close, like you forgot how to use your own body when she's using yours so well. she pulls out of you, but you don't really register it. no; your brain instead feels the phantom slams of her cock inside you. it only clicks when you feel her eating you out. more accurately, she's swallowing her own cum that's leaking out of you to make room for another load. all you can do is watch and roll your hips. god, you're so stupid for her. "so good. doin' so good for me. you can take it. you'll take it for me." the tone of patheticness in her voice, the cadence of gentleness only to be interrupted by her voice cracking like she's gone, too, is all you're going to think about when you fall asleep in her arms after this. you let out a sob when she pulls her head back up to push inside you again, arms pathetically flailing to grab onto her shoulders, plush lips pulled into a pout and hot tears running down your cheeks while your head gets all foggy again. you'll just have to learn that you can't get hurt. and you'll just have to stay here after this, because you won't be able to move a single inch in the morning. and when you aren't sore again, she'll just keep fucking you rotten until you stay. you'll let her breed you over and over and over again until you don't want anything else but her, won't you?

a/n: kirara using u as a cumdump occurred to me at 2 am i think i am an evil genius also honorable mention lanternsappling for the PLAP PLAP PLAP get pregnant thing really big inspo