angel .

 “Nothing!” Coco squeaked. Tetia stood with her back to the player and her arms spread like she was hiding a secret.

“Are you sure?” You asked.

“We were trying to fix it.” Richeh said, still poking at the wood.

“And did you?” 

“No…we can’t figure it out.” 

“That’s alright.” You couldn’t ether. They were charming, the four of them. They knew how important the thing was to you and they were always so eager to help that they’d try and meld their minds together to come up with a solution. A trait you were so happy they continued to nurture. They’d need each other, even when they thought they wouldn't. They would. Always. 

But right now, there were other pressing matters to attend to. Like feeding a small herd of children and two grown men.

“Let’s focus on that later, hm? How about breakfast?” 

Tetia bounced on her toes and skipped to the kitchen, the others followed. They went to their respective stations, moving around one another like a song, melodically weaving under arms to reach low cabinets, spinning to avoid crashes. It’s practiced. 

You’re used to this and, well, you loved it. To be able to do anything with them was an honor and you cherished every moment they chose to spend time with you. Even if it was as simple as cooking breakfast in the morning.

“Girls, did any of you lose your palm quire?” You asked as you cracked eggs into a bowl for Coco to whisk. Richeh, elbow deep in a bowl of dough and Agott with flour on her cheeks, shook their heads no.

Coco popped up for a second, thinking, but paused, “ah, no, I don’t think so?” You could see her racking her brain for where she last left it. Honestly, if anyone was going to lose theirs she was the likely culprit. Too much excitement left her scatterbrained.

“Yours is on your desk, Coco.” Agott said casually. Coco beamed, “oh, you’re right! So, it wasn’t me.” She went back to whisking, you casually added spices to the mixture. 

“Tetia?” The girl was facing away from you, dividing fruit amongst 7 bowls. She stiffened and turned, cheeks filled with fresh strawberries. She wasn’t supposed to be eating them yet. You playfully glared at her, placing one hand on your hip.

“Ah—um,” she gulped, “no?” Her fingers were stained red from the juices.

“Tetia!” Agott said.

“I’m sorry but they smelled so yummy!” 

“No more Tetia, we need to make sure everyone gets some.” You said, chuckling. 

“Yes, ma’am…” She dropped the strawberry into a bowl, counting to make sure each one had an equal amount.

“Is the palm quire Master Qifrey’s?” Coco asked, “He was looking for it the other day.” 

“I found it,” Richeh said. She took the dough that Agott had rolled and slowly pushed it into the oven. The bottom of it was glowing from a soft flame. A contraption Olruggio had made to make managing the temperature easier. You watched her hands, ready to say something just in case.

“Ah, okay, nevermind then.” Coco said. 

The girls didn’t pry into your inquiry so you let it die naturally. When Coco was done with her eggs she waddled over to the stove top and poured them into a pan. Richech watched her and they spoke quietly as Coco scrambled the mixture. 

You tried to push down the unsettling fact that the palm quire was none of theirs so you moved to set out the plates. Yes, keep your hands busy so they don’t start to tremble. 

Typically, a palm quire will have a name or a symbol stitched into the back cover to help identify the witch it belonged to. Like a cap was a calling, so was a quire. It was common for a witch to customize it and you knew the girls loved to cover theirs in embellishments. The palm quire Senaka gave you negated any personal touch but at the root the lack of personalization was not the issue. The problem with Senaka’s delivery was that the last page of the book had a complex spell that none of your children would have or should've known. 

They were symbols you were even unfamiliar with and you hoped, somewhere deep down, that it was just a misplaced drawing. You’d have to show Qifrey and Olruggio. Coco was already toeing the line. When Qifrey brought her to you, you’d at first been on Olruggio’s side. Sending her to the Knights was the only option, but when you saw her, terrified and confused, you knew you were going to have to fight tooth and nail to keep her safe. 

BUt, if this was another forbidden spell, you couldn’t risk it. They’d take her away, even if she technically wasn’t involved.

You heard the door to Qifrey’s study open swiftly and Olruggio’s step soon echoed his. When had he snuck into the room with him? He was usually comatose at this hour. They both came scrambling into the kitchen. They pawed for toast and pieces of sausage, popping a few bites of fruit in their mouths as they simultaneously tried to secure their cloaks around their shoulders. 

“Woah, where are you two off too.” You asked. Breakfast together was a tradition. 

“Great hall called,” Olruggio said, pouring himself a glass of orange juice to wash down his frantic meal. “Oxen trampled a village. We’re the closest.” 

You followed them as they descended the stairs. Qifrey was placing his cap on his head when his eyes caught your worried face. “It’s alright, no one is hurt, but a farm house collapsed and there are people trapped inside.” 

“Girls!” Qifrey called. The four of them popped up, heads floating above the stone divide. “Personal lessons today, work on your lines and keep a steady hand.” They saluted him. 

“We’ll be back by lunch,” he said gently. He pressed a hand to your cheek and pulled you in for a kiss. The gesture was soft and reassuring.

“You better be,” you said. 

“Ready, Olly?” The dark haired man grunted, swinging a satchel of supplies over his shoulder. 

“Lead the way,” he said. Qifrey stepped out first, waving goodbye. You grabbed his wrist and brought close for another peck to the cheek. Habit, really.

As Olruggio passed you, however, you also grabbed him. He jolted, “Oi—!”

You pressed your lips to his cheek in the same way you did to Qifrey. You both froze. Your lips tingled from the scruff that decorated his face. Your eyes searched his. 

Olruggio broke the awkwardness first, clearing his throat. “Right, well, see you later.” He said before he scurried out the door like his ass was on fire.

“Bye, be safe…” The words fall from your lips slowly. What was that? Qifrey was far ahead and Olruggio caught up to him swiftly. You watched as he immediately started a conversation but you caught his eye when he glanced back at you. You looked away, face warm. 

You closed the door with a quick, ‘click’ and tried to ignore how girls scrambled back to their stations. By the stars, why did you do that? 

They don't make it back by lunch but you’re not worried.

The girls finished their practice for the day so you now found yourself relaxing in the field outside the atelier. The sky was clear and vast and three of the girls were playing down by the trees. Richeh's reflective ribbons catching your eye every so often. You had a book in your lap but you were using it as a shield, the palm quire tucked between the binding. You stared intently at the seal that covered the last page. A water sigil? Maybe? No, not fluid enough. Earth, it looked like. Despite its complexity it'd been drawn quickly, the ink lines weren’t even and the weight of the sigils together leaned more to the left. There was an inch long gap that kept it from activating. 

The grass swayed hypnotically, the wind was low and sweet, but did nothing to ease the tension in your neck. You sighed and slipped the palm quire into your front dress pocket, buttoning it closed to ensure it stayed on you. 

You reached down at your side and ran your fingers through Tetia’s hair while she napped. Her body was curled against your hip, soaking in the warm afternoon sun. The contact settled her and every time she shifted you would repeat it. 

The laughter from the others suddenlt fell off and the silence made you look out in the distance. Your breath hitched and you yanked your hand away from Tetia. She blinked blearily at the sudden disturbance, “Wha?”

You weren’t, generally, a fearful person. Raising four girls instilled a specific level of calm in you, whether you wanted it or not. When you panicked, they panicked, so you learned quickly that controlling any form of fear or anxiety was crucial. 

Right now though, you couldn’t hide that fear as you watched the new body in the field approach your girls.

Senaka was towering over Coco, talking to her. She had her arms tucked close to her chest, shrinking in on herself as the man stepped close. He's trying to hand her something but she’s vehemently declining. 

You stumbled to your feet and bolted down the small hill to your child. 

“Hey!” you yelled. They turned to you. Coco’s shoulders shook as she shifted. She felt so far away, and your legs were so slow. She fought through the grass like it was pushing back at her before she anchored herself to your side, swinging around your hip to hide behind you. Her shaking hands grasping your waist. Senaka straightened. 

“Hello, again.” 

“You need to leave,” you said. You don’t care why he’s here, you don’t care what he wanted or how he kept finding his way back. He just needed to get off your property. 

“Coco, get the others and go inside.” You said, not looking down at her. You felt her nod, reluctant to release you, before turning heel and rushing to find the girls.

You waited until their trails fell silent, the grass no longer disturbed by their movements. It's a stand off with Senaka and you're the one to fire first. “I won’t repeat myself.” 

“I was simply passing through.” He said casually.

Your first interaction was strange, yes, but easily brushed aside, the palm quire was a warning, and this was a threat. 

“You stay away from me and my children, do you understand?” He looked like he was going to say something else, but you don’t give him the chance. You knew you wouldn’t be able to handle him on your own. You needed Qifrey and Olruggio. Your best bet was to get away. 

So you did.

You turned your back to him, you knew you shouldn’t have but you weren’t going to entertain whatever sick thing he was doing. The march home felt longer than it was, and you wanted to look back after each unsteady step but you didn’t.

“You think you can replace them, don’t you?” Senaka called. The wind picked up and dark heavy clouds started rolling in. “Their mothers.” Your march lost its rhythm, but you continued on. 

Thick droplets of water hit the top of your head and rolled down your neck. You glanced up, the sun was engulfed by a sudden storm and there were cracks of lightning in the distance. 

“That girl is worth more than you know!” He sounded like he was right next to you even though you were steps away from your front door. You were drenched to the bone, hair plastered to your cheeks and skirts dipped in mud. 

Right as your hand reached for the door, there was a heavy whisper in your ear, “Give her my gift, will you?”

When you touched the knob the voice faded and only the storm rumbled up above.

The girls didn't question you when you stumbled back inside. They didn’t ask where the picnic blanket was or where your book had gone. You left that in the field, abandoned, to be consumed by the storm or taken by Senaka. You didn’t care what happened to it. 

You sat on the couch, hands trembling. From the cold or your fear you don’t know. Maybe it was both.

"Um..." Coco said your name. Your head jerked up, your eyes like saucers. It took you a moment to realize that Coco was speaking to you. She’s holding a towel in her hand, with a twisted look of concern and confusion on her face. “Here…” she held the towel out to you, encouraging you to take it. “Master Olly’s door is locked, I couldn’t get the link rings…”

You reached out with jerky fingers, pulling her into your chest, the towel caught between you. Your cheek rested on the top of her head. “Are you hurt?” you asked. 

“N-no,” she stuttered. You heard her sniff, “who was that?” 

“I…I don’t know, Coco.” You let her pull away from you, she brought the towel to her face to stop the tears that bubbled just below the surface. The front of her clothes are damp and you pressed a hand to her cheek, “What did he say to you?” 

“He had a palm quire,” she whispered, “he tried to give it to me. B-but I kept thinking about when I got the book the first time, and something felt wrong. So wrong. I-I didn’t take it I swear!” 

“Oh, sweetheart…” You cooed, “I know you didn’t.” 

You took the towel from her, “nothing is going to take you from us. Do you understand? Nothing.” Coco nodded, whimpering and rubbing at her eyes. Your heart sank. The three of you had been trying so hard to keep her from spiraling. With the Knights Moralis constantly checking in, Olruggio’s status as a watchful eye, and the Brimcaps chasing her, Coco was living life in a state of anxiety induced limbo. 

“Do you understand?” 

“Y-yes.” She nodded again, sniffing. You pat at your neck with the towel and stand, unsticking yourself from the fabric of your seat. The other girls were watching you from the opposite of the atelier. You opened your arms to them and the three barrel into your embrace. Your heart clenched at their unease. 

“Let’s get ready for bed, yeah? How about that?” You said it for them, but you needed it just as much. A bath, a cup of tea and to curl up in your bed and go to sleep. You looked at the door, the rumbling of the storm low and vibrating. The door rattled with the wind. Where were Qifrey and Olruggio? You needed them here.

You should have told them earlier. You were such a fool.

When baths were done and everyone was a little more calm, you’d corralled the girls into the living room where you all curled up against each other. You were closest to the door, your body a shield to whatever may enter. Sleep was a liberal word to use in this situation. Every time you dozed off, you’d jolt awake from something. One of the girls is turning in their sleep, the brush buddy rummaging in the sheets, an ember popping too loudly in the hearth. You couldn’t relax, but, god, who could blame you? 

Just as you had fallen into another semi-lucid rest you were startled awake at a particularly loud crash of lightning. You jolted up and immediately eyed the entrance to the atelier. What time was it? The magic lanterns burned soothingly, casting a soft glow. The girls were still asleep. 

The knob shook and you froze. The wind rattled the kitchen windows and the brush buddy that slept curled in Richeh’s arms popped its head up at the sound. The knob shook again and your heart skipped. Had he come back? You scrabbled to find something to hold him off. Would you have time to get to the kitchen, a knife would work? You couldn’t remember any offensive spells and it wouldn’t matter since your palm quire was soaked and you didn’t have the energy to dry it. 

The hinges on the door squeaked. You’d have to think fast. Quick. What was there to grab, what could you get? 

The door opened and the figure behind it stepped inside. They knocked their muddy shoes against the door trim, a small flash of light zapping away the debris. You heard rustling as they removed their outerwear before taking a step into the space. You kept a hard face and a stiff figure, intimidating. You hoped.

“Darling, what are you still doing up?” 

Your lip quivered and all of the tension expelled itself from your body when you realized who it was, “Q-qifrey?” Your voice was unsteady, the adrenaline of what could have been rushed through you, but your relief was flooding. You’d never been happier. He was dry, unsurprisingly, despite the raging storm and his eyes were filled with worry as he took off his cap and cloak. He hung them on the hook next to the door. You caught sight of Olruggio stepping in behind him, shaking off his shoes. When he looked up, he paused, brows furrowing in confusion. “What’s wrong? Why are the girls out here?”

You stumbled to your feet and Qifrey dove for you, “What happened?” he asked. He steadied you under the elbows. You tried not to step on the children. Your knees wobbled and Qifrey guided you to sit.

“Help me get the girls to bed,” you said, “...please.” You knew this conversation would go on for a while and the girls couldn’t stay out here all night. They’d wake with crooked necks and aching backs. 

Qifrey and Olruggio don’t question you as they move to gather the children. You fall onto the couch watching them closely. 

“Richeh, come on kid, let’s get yuh to bed.” Olruggio muttered. She mumbled something tiredly before standing, leaning heavily into Olruggio's side. When Tetia responded to the same command with a swat of her hand and a quiet, “Go away,” Olruggio picked her up effortlessly. With her head against his chest and arms secured behind her neck and knees he cradled her close and slowly marched them to their room. Every few seconds checking to make sure that a half asleep Richeh still clung to his pant leg. 

Qifrey did the same with Coco and Agott, both girls coherent enough to stumble their way through the darkness to their room. The brush buddy was close on their heels.

You were left alone, with the cracklingly hearth and the heavy rains your only company. It only took a few minutes for Qifrey and Olruggio to get them settled but the time dragged. Every creak of the atelier left you questioning where the sound was coming from and who was causing it. 

You were so hyper focused that you didn't realize both men had returned. Olruggio fell into the seat next to you, the shift from his weight doing little to catch your attention. It took Qifrey, kneeling at your feet with his hand pressed against your knee, for you to be pulled from your trance. 

“My love,” he rubbed his palm up your thigh and back, repeating the motion as he spoke, “what happened?” Olruggio shifted, his knee knocking gently into yours as he placed his arm along the back of the couch. He tilted forward and you subconsciously leaned closer to him.

You licked your parched lips. Qifrey’s eyes never left your face, even when you couldn’t look at him. 

“The man at the market,” the air chilled when you started, “he talked to Coco today.” 

“What?” Olruggio hissed. Qifrey held up his other hand, stopping his friend from speaking further. Olruggio bit his tongue. He prompted you to continue, removing his hand from your thigh and grabbing your fingers. You’d been pulling at them, they were rubbed red from the friction and ached some but you didn’t care. He let you pull at his instead. 

“Start at the beginning,” he said. You cupped your hands around his and squeezed. He always spoke so gently when others were panicking. He never rushed but he made sure to kept you speaking when it was needed. 

“His name is Senaka.” you said, “when we were at market he was flirting and he was creepy but you both ran him off. I didn’t think we’d see him again.” 

“Was he the one who was at the door last week?” Olruggio asked. You nodded. 

“He gave me a palm quire. Said he thought it was one of the girls.” You stood slowly, Qifrey was reluctant to let you go but allowed you to do what you needed. You shuffled to the kitchen, tapping a lantern awake before moving to the locked tea cabinet. You pulled a tin box from the top shelf and unearthed the mysterious palm quire.

“I asked the girls if they had lost theirs this morning and they said no.” You handed it to Qifrey, who flipped through the pages.

“Last one,” you said as you sat back down, settling between them. “I thought it was blank but the last page—” 

Qifrey let out a defeated sigh. “Forbidden magic.” 

“Shit,” Olruggio cursed. He rubbed at his brows. You felt awful, “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you earlier, I was going to but he—he showed up again.” 

Qifrey snapped the book shut. “When?” 

“After lunch? The girls and I were outside. Tetia was taking a nap, I was reading, and when I looked up he was just…there. He was trying to hand Coco another palm quire. She refused to take it.” You shuddered, “and when I confronted him he said things that no normal person would know.”

Olruggio’s hand fell to the center of your back as he encouraged you to speak, “What was it?” 

"That girl is worth more than you know. Give her my gift.’” you could hear him in your ears, taste the water of the storm on your tongue. “I think I heard him on the day of the picnic too. Whispers on the wind, but I didn’t want to believe it.”

“That’s why you were—why didn’t you tell me?” Qifrey asked. Why didn’t you tell him? You don’t know. There was no sense of entitlement or desire to prove yourself by solving this mystery on your own. 

“I was going to tell you both today, but you left so I was waiting until you got back.” This had become bigger than you ever thought it would be.

Olruggio said, in frustration, “We have to report this Qifrey.”

“No!” both of you cried but you’re the one who continued speaking, “Please, Coco is terrified. She didn’t take anything from him, I swear.” 

You knew Olruggio had a job to do. Being a Watchful Eye gave him a unique position in the atelier but he had bent the rules before and you hoped he would again. 

“We’re just goin' to let a brimcap wander around out there?” Olruggio asked. Both men wanted to help solve the problem but they had vastly different ways of doing it. “Let whatever that thing is harass our family.”

“I will figure something out,” Qifrey said. 

Olruggio rolled his eyes, “Yeah an’ if I leave it to you, you’re goin’ to come back hurt. O’ worse.” 

“Please don’t leave, not now.” Your voice painfully cut through their conversation. You couldn’t fathom the idea of either of them walking out, the atelier was vulnerable. If Senaka really was a brimcap that meant they knew where you lived, where your home was. Tainting the sanctity of your life with their poisoned ink and cursed hands.

Qifrey sighed, “give me a few days. I’ll make a plan.” 

“We’ll make a plan,” Olruggio emphasized. 

“Right, we’ll make a plan.” He smiled at you gently, reaching up and brushing your hair from your forehead. He was on his knees, arms supporting himself on the couch, taking his weight, as he leaned over your lap. He pushed up, kissing you reassuringly. You whimpered but immediately kissed him back, your shaking hands cupping his face as you accepted his touch. It was more grounding than anything else. I’m right here, it said, I’m not going anywhere. He pulled away first and you smiled gently as you rested your forehead against his. 

“Let’s turn in for the night,” he encouraged, your eyes weren’t open to see but Qifrey’s gaze cut up to Olruggio after he said it. The dark haired man was watching the hearth in front of him, trying to ignore your exchange. 

“Okay…” You whispered. You sighed and let Qifrey guide you to your feet. You wrapped your arms around his and leaned into his side, resting your head against his shoulder as he stepped towards the exit.

“Is Olly going to join us?” you whispered. You don’t know why you said it, but the idea of him being away from the two of you made you anxious.

When Qifrey turned to inquire he was shocked to see that Olruggio had already gone back to his room. The soft click of his bedroom door echoing in the distnace. Qifrey’s chest clenched, he wouldn’t have minded if the man had joined him. “Qifrey?” 

But you hadn’t been prepared for how much more powerful the experience would be when it involved a real person written between those pages. Especially not in the way you had crafted the encounter, a short but intense scene meant to convince you to never return to the Dessendre manor, to burn the paper and leave for the countryside with Soleil the next morning, letting time bury both the matter and your feelings.

Instead, the written words had devoured you whole, so much so that you’d momentarily lost touch with what was fiction and what was real. The written Verso had entered your bedroom, carrying the hungry look you had given him, had grabbed you tightly, loved you roughly.

Somewhere in the maelstrom of emotion and sensation, you’d started to accept it as a new truth. You’d felt the exact moment hit, so revealing, it had allowed you to take back control. Your story had, for a short while, refused to be seen as just that, and you’d had to pull yourself together, had to remember that you had deliberately not described how you actually perceived Verso, so this false version of him would be the last thing you experienced with him.

Your plan hadn’t quite worked out. You now understood why the council members argued so fiercely over the ethics of it all. With just this one manifestation, you had almost lost yourself in what you had shared with a real person in there. Worse yet, it consumed you even now, knowing that you could write what you truly thought of Verso, and how he would treat you in this room, with reverence and abandon instead of roughness and possession. You wanted to experience it. Your plan had failed, you wanted more. You never should have tried, because now you knew what it could feel like.

You pressed your hand on your throat to feel your racing pulse, to ground yourself in reality and get your breath under control. How long had you spent between the pages? It had taken you quite some time to write it in the first place. It had to be the middle of the night by now. The breeze from your open balcony door dried the sweat on your forehead.

You moved to get up and close it when suddenly a small projectile sailed through, and you had to dodge it with another yelp. It landed on your duvet. Soleil, back on the bed after you had been sitting quietly in front of your desk for long enough, immediately perked up and leapt playfully after the tiny thing.

“Soleil, don't!” you implored her, alarmed.

You rushed over to see what had just come flying through your window and was now pinned under Soleil’s paws. The little cat meowed in protest as you removed her from her prey. What came into view was just a pebble. Confused, you picked it up, turned the tiny stone between your fingers, inspecting it under the faint glow of your bedside lamp. It really was just that.

At that moment, another one hit the back of your head. “Ouch! What the…” Cautiously, you made your way to the balcony door, stepping outside to peer down at the street in search of the source of the attack.

“Oh, merde…” you muttered, then raised your voice in a sharp whisper, “What are you doing here?!”

Verso stood below, near the entrance of your house, already mid-motion to throw the next little stone through your open window. He paused when he saw you, lowering his arm. The silence of the night stretched out between you. His face was barely lit by a distant streetlamp, his features half hidden in shadow. Shifting restlessly, he glanced down at the uneven cobblestones beneath his feet, then just threw his arms into the air.

“I couldn’t just let you walk away,” he said, dragging a hand across his face.

“You did,” you replied, still trying to tame the storm inside you, the wind at your back pushing you toward him.

“And then came to find you.”

“Well, that’s just creepy.” You rolled your eyes. “How did you even find my house?”

Verso gestured around vaguely. “I asked the neighbors.”

You raised an eyebrow. “But it’s the middle of the night.”

“I might’ve asked a few more people.”

Your expression softened. He’d searched for you until the moon stood high in the sky. Had asked more people than he could count, only to end up at your doorstep, too afraid to knock, scared you wouldn’t open the door.

“Verso, you can’t…” you began, and even just starting the sentence made the barely patched-up wound in your heart split open again.

“Let’s just talk,” he pleaded, his raised voice echoing into the night.

You winced. “Please don’t be so loud.” This wasn’t his part of town. Writers lived here. Who knew who he’d asked. Chances were the council would be informed by morning that Verso Dessendre had come asking about your address. Some people had likely refused to tell him anything, surprised he was asking about you at all. Some kind soul, probably the old lady from down the street, must’ve been swayed by his handsome, longing face.

“I don’t care who sees or hears me,” he shot back, a little louder this time. “And I won’t leave until we’ve talked.”

“Putain, Verso,” you complained in frustration before pushing away from your balcony railing without another word. You absolutely believed he would wake the neighbors and put himself in danger just to make his point.

You hurried down your narrow hallway staircase, past the turnoff to your living room and into the equally small entrance of your home, yanking the door open. He had already positioned himself in front of it, so you grabbed him by the collar to pull him inside quickly, and hopefully unnoticed.

“Alright, listen,” you tried to be the voice of reason, “you can’t do that. You can’t be searching for me in this part of the city. You know how dangerous that is for you. And we can’t…” The words caught in your throat. You’d managed to say them with conviction once, but a second time? Not when he looked at you like that. With that soft, dreamy look in his eyes, that gentle smile on his lips.

“You think this is funny?” you asked, folding your arms, his tender gaze tightening around your heart like a vice.

“I don’t,” he murmured, lifting a hand to brush a stray strand of hair from your face. You inhaled sharply. “It’s just that –” he watched his fingers trace softly along your cheek, tucking the hair behind your ear as you held your breath, “I don’t care how dangerous it is. I told you, I don’t care. The time I spend with you, it’s…” He inhaled shakily. “It’s the first time I feel like I can actually be me. You know me. I never thought anyone would. I’d go through hell to be with you.”

Your resolve faltered. This was the man you’d write poetry about. The one you were too afraid to experience, because you feared he would consume you, that you’d never want to leave his arms again.

“You have to go,” you snapped yourself out of the trance he was pulling you into. Waving your hands, you forced his touch away, then pushed past him head over heels, fleeing upwards, nearly tripping on the stairs, darting past Soleil, who was trotting toward Verso with her tail raised.

“You little traitor!” You exclaimed, pointing accusingly at your fluffy cat, now contentedly hanging in Verso’s arms at the base of the staircase. “Leave, Verso – but don’t take my cat.” That made Verso smile, not your intention, but he was breaking down your barricades, one by one, and you wouldn’t be able to resist him much longer.

You heard him follow you up the stairs, his pursuit only fueling the excitement and confusion bubbling inside you, conflicting feelings tearing you apart. Your door never reached the lock; it was stopped by Verso’s hand. Standing in your bedroom, you turned to face him. Soleil had disappeared from his arms.

“We don’t really know each other, Verso. Look,” you pointed to your desk, where the papers now lay scattered, no longer in the neat order you’d once arranged them in, disheveled by all the chaos of the last hours. You reached into the mess, pulled out a single page and held it up to his face before turning back toward the window, your voice building into a blind, frustrated tirade. “I am a Writer. You don’t know anything about me. You are a Painter. I don’t know anything about you.”

What you did know about the craft of Painters came from secondary sources, admittedly, but it was enough to understand how utterly opposite the two of you were. Writers, those who scripted things into perfection and manifestation. The more advanced ones could absorb words to invoke states. And Painters, those who created imperfect, sentient worlds with free thought, essentially playing God. Within your circle, there was always consensus that the powers of Painters were unnatural, an abomination, and that their works should not be traded for such absurd amounts of money. What might they say in his circle about the Writers?

You scoffed and turned back toward Verso, ready to repeat that you didn’t know each other, even though you knew exactly what he meant. But you were forced to stop in your tracks. Verso was holding the page you had just shoved at him, reading it with rapt, almost haunted attention. Your heart dropped to your stomach. You glanced back at the stack of papers from which you’d pulled it. Your hand shot to your mouth the moment it opened in shock. Eyes wide, you froze, caught in a moment of horror you couldn’t yet escape.

“Well, maybe we really don’t know each other, because that is not how I would…” He trailed off, a startled snort escaping him as he reached the end of the page. He flipped it over to check the back, then lifted his eyes, clearly surprised, to look at you.

The instinct to explain yourself hit you instantly. You couldn’t possibly let him believe you really saw him the way you’d described him on that page. You snatched the paper from his hands. “That was clearly not meant for your eyes. And, I know this is not how you would –” You paused briefly. “How you would do this. In fact –” You inhaled, exhaled, “I should never have done this. It’s highly forbidden where I come from to weave others into your writing. I wrote it like that because I hoped it would help me get over it.”

Verso raised an eyebrow and crossed his arms. “By describing me like some kind of manhandling caveman?”

“Hey, it is not that primitive,” you defended your prose. You had tried to write it poetically, hadn’t you? Had given him warm, praising words to say. “Besides, if you think it’s that unflattering, then maybe I did the job right.” You placed the sheet back on your desk.

He looked at it again, this time with a stricter, more confused, and troubled gaze. “And what do you do with this, exactly? Did you plan on using it on me? So I’d take you like that, and then you could definitely not look me in the eye after?"

You blinked, baffled by the implication. What did he mean by that? “N-No. It’s –” He didn't seem to know much about the power of the Writers. Or maybe he only knew about the most powerful ones. “It’s not like that. I wouldn’t even know if it’s possible to affect someone like that, let alone with normal ink. I just… lived through it.”

Verso’s tense, angry features softened a little, though his arms remained crossed. “Lived through it? Like, you entered it?”

You nodded.

Now his posture eased as well. “I see. I can see why you think it to be forbidden.” A small smile tugged at his lips. “I feel a little violated.”

“I’m so sorry.” You scrambled to gather all the pages on your desk, shoving them into a drawer to get them out of his sight, so he wouldn’t have to bear the shame of seeing them. “I shouldn’t have done that. It was deeply wrong. It stripped you of your agency. It was dangerous. And it didn’t even help.”

All those warnings your family had drilled into you had been right. You had violated Verso’s deepest privacy, to him, off all people, you should have shown more respect. And your shame over it didn’t exactly help you push back against his presence. It gnawed at you, eroded your defenses from within.

“It’s okay,” Verso tried to ease your guilt. “I get it. It’s the desire to experience something you don’t believe you can ever truly have.” He moved toward you with a smooth motion, his fingers trailing lightly along the edge of your bed frame. Nervously, you watched his approach. If he didn’t leave now, if he so much as uttered another declaration of affection, you wouldn’t be able to resist him any longer.

“So what you’re really saying is, you didn’t like it? What you wrote?” His eyes sparkled with the slightest hint of mischief as his gaze shifted from the bed to you.

Your heart, which had only just begun to settle, picked up its pace again. You cursed yourself for having accidentally handed him that sheet of paper. “I really thought I would… just get over you with this,” you said, your eyes drifting to a small uneven spot in the wallpaper opposite you, desperate not to meet his inquisitive gaze. “That I could create a moment that was enough without being real. I should have known better. So, no, I didn’t like it. Quite the opposite…”

“You asked yourself what the real thing would be like,” Verso said, reading your innermost thoughts with eerie precision.

You saw him come closer out of the corner of your eye, so close you were forced to look at him if you wanted any hope of stopping what you both actually wanted. The hardwood floor creaked under the weight of his meaningful steps. It fell silent when he finally stood in front of you. You looked up at him as his hands gently found your upper arms, the touch so innocent, yet it made your nerves spike up uncontrollably.

“Verso…” Your voice faltered, barely a whisper, and you knew you’d been lost the entire time, your restistance merely a self-prompted spectacle.

His soft, sincere smile only began to quench the thirst you had for him.

His careful touch sent a shiver down your spine as it hovered just above the fabric of your loosely buttoned, dark cotton shirt, gliding upward until his fingertips met the heated skin of your neck. All the while, his eyes followed. He took the edge of your collar between his fingers and moved it just far enough to expose your collarbone. Breathing became harder, and you knew he noticed.

“I think we know each other just fine,” he said, “in spirit.” He closed the remaining space between you, his chest pressed softly against yours. One hand slipped to the nape of your neck, his fingers tracing the edge of your hairline. “I know that you are so idealistic you’d hurt yourself trying to be perfect. And you know that I am very much imperfect.”

Your eyes met. Whatever fire had existed between you had never burned out, only smoldered. You shook your head gently. “Not to me.”

He smiled, visibly touched. “And that’s why you know me. You embraced the man behind the mask without even knowing I wore one.”

No longer able to hold back, you brought your hands to his chin, the roughness of his beard familiar now from the first time, just hours ago, when you had touched him. He exhaled and closed his eyes for a second. You rose to your toes, leaning toward him, your lips already impossibly close to his.

“What does that mean?” you whispered.

His forehead met yours. “Doesn’t matter. All I know is, you know me. And I want to be with you, in spirit… and in body. I want to make love to you in the truest way I can. Bare myself to you completely, if you’ll have me.”

Your breaths mingled as you smiled. “And here I thought I was the Writer.”

The crooked, adorable grin you’d come to know appeared even through your blurred vision. “Can I kiss you already?”

A flicker of trepidation returned to your burning nerves. “I am afraid,” you admitted, still grounding yourself in the gruff of his beard.  

“I know.” He ran his fingers through your hair, looking down at you with quiet reassurance. “We don’t have to tell anyone just yet. Not until we have a plan, or maybe even several. Making you uncomfortable is the last thing I want. We’ll take it slow. Would that be alright?”

No answer came from your lips, your lips were the answer. You leaned forward, just a bit too fast, to reunite with him. No matter how selfish, no matter how wrong, you couldn’t fight the pull of him. He pulled, and you pushed too deep, falling right back into him.

The way he kissed you now was passionate, but so much more reverent than the false version of Verso you had written. His lips were softer, his touch more intentional. Once more, your fingers moved through his midnight-black curls, smooth against your skin, opening your body to him, and he let himself in.

Verso wrapped his arms around you, pulling you gently against him, wanting to envelop you, to show you how deeply he cherished you. He didn’t want to possess you, didn’t want to take you, he wanted to love you, in body and in soul.

Without removing his lips from yours, he lifted you effortlessly from the floor, turned with you in his arms, and carried you toward your bed. Like a princess, he gently laid you down in the sheets, your head resting on the delightfully soft pillow, and Verso’s body moved atop yours.

He felt the slight, nearly imperceptible tremble that ran through you, and your racing pulse, as he placed his hand on your neck, brushing his thumb over your chin, only seeking grounding and the thrill of your skin, sending tiny electric jolts through his fingers. He could have stayed like that with you forever, feeling your closeness, sensing you, but then there was that little devil on his shoulder, urging him to slowly and indulgently open the buttons of your shirt.

You came up for air from the ever-growing passion of his lips, only for your breath to hitch as you saw his face above yours. He wore the happiest expression, tenderly loving, as you’d only ever seen it when he played the piano, with that touch of sadness in his beautiful eyes.

“You are so beautiful,” he whispered, and your heart burst open.

He leaned down, pressed one last, soft kiss to your lips, then let his mouth travel down your chin. Your instinct was to stretch toward him, chasing his warm breath, feeling it at your neck, where he lingered, gently taking your delicate skin between his lips. You exhaled, searching for support in his arms framing you, hidden beneath his shirt, reaching into its expensive fabric.

Your shirt was opened by nimble fingers down to the base of your skirt, but he didn’t stop there, instead pulling the lower ends out of the waistband. The soft fabric slid down your sides. A cold breeze from the still-open window tickled your exposed skin, your upper body now only covered by your cache-corset, the pretty, short top you liked to wear under your shirts even without a corset.

He watched your chest rise and fall with your heavy breath, saw the perfection that was you. Your even skin was like a blank canvas, one on which he would gladly immortalize a piece of his soul. But you were so much more than that. Inside you was already an entire world, your essence a symphony so harmonious that he wanted to hear it forever, and be near it forever.

His soft fingers traced along your waist. If you didn’t know better, you’d think he was playing you like his piano. The way he moved them, tickling your skin, sparked a shiver and goosebumps spread across your body. And when his mouth followed to tenderly explore those same spots, your lower abdomen tensed with anticipation. All the more so when he gently traced the hem of your undershirt.

“Is this alright?” he asked, a slight tremble in his voice.

“Yes, yes,” you breathed, arching your back into his hand.

Beneath your undershirt, he felt the smooth curve of your breast with pleasure, and a small sound escaped you as his fingertips brushed over its peak, the sound enough to send a warm tingling through his body, settling in his loins, more demanding than he wished for, prompting him to brush the last bit of fabric from your torso and over your head, then starting to peel off his vest and unbutton his own shirt.

You, now exposed, didn’t feel the slightest bit ashamed, his presence made you feel like you were slipping between the pages of your favorite story. But now, for the first time in a long time, you felt safe in the real world. So you helped him out of his clothes, and they joined yours on the floor.

Before you looked, you reached for him to feel him first. His body was lean, perfectly firm in all the right places, soft black hair spread across his evenly built chest. You ran your fingers through the fuzz, leaned into him, and pressed your lips to the crook of his neck. His own pulse was fast but steady as he pressed his head against yours, gently took your wrist, brought it to his mouth, and kissed your palm.

He wrapped his arms around you to flip you over in one swift motion. A giggle escaped you at the sudden move, just before you ended up straddling him. His back sank into the soft mattress under your weight, his hands immediately returning to your body, the sight of your splendor like a gift.

“You are so, so beautiful,” he whispered, his voice now a whole octave lower with desire for you. 

“You already said that,” you breathed out with amusement, bent down and laid yourself on top of him, your heated bodies rubbing against each other, fueling your own desire to feel everything of him. So you began fumbling with the fastening of his trousers while your lips pressed against each other, your balance in jeopardy.

He hummed. “And I would say it again,” he whispered a kiss on your lips, “and again,” on the tip of your nose, “and again, praying it like the most devoted believer out there.” He reached between you too, untied the ribbon at the back of your flared skirt and then, almost too skillfully, unfastened the clasp. “You are the most beautiful woman I ever got the honor to look upon.”

Your bottoms joined the rest of your clothes on the floor. And so you did what he proposed. You bared yourselves to each other, body and soul, and his sight was glorious. You sat up on him, his hands persistent, never retreating, on you. You drank each other in, your eyes roaming over your bodies.

Behind his loving, wholly devoted gaze now hid more than just longing, you saw the hunger in his eyes begin to show itself, the slightly firmer grip of his hands, his parted lips searching for more air.

He straightened up, shifting your weight so he could capture your mouth in a kiss so passionate it robbed you of your senses, your focus entirely on him and the heat between you, his arousal only a few inches away, aligned for you to just lower yourself onto him, to fill yourself with him.

“Are you sure?” he asked, breathless, though he didn’t know what he would of done if you said no. “I wouldn’t want to –”

You placed your index finger on his mouth to silence him. “I want you, Verso,” you told him, feeling vulnerable as you admitted, “I want you so much that I’m afraid I won’t be able to live without you.”

With those words, you allowed him to find your entrance, and slowly, then with more pressure, you sank down onto him, savoring every inch you took in, your slick walls making it all too easy. You both let out a shaky breath as he bottomed out inside you, your breaths mingling so sensually that your muscles immediately clenched around him and instinctively, you grabbed onto his shoulder, your hips rolling forward, drawing a sigh from you.

“Oh mon dieu,” he gurgled against your neck, rocking you on his cock, coaxing the next sigh from your lips that nearly drove him insane, “wait, wait.” He stopped you with a hand on your hip.

You looked at him, confused, the pull in your core too strong, you needed the release, the friction, wanted to ride him and let him hit that spot inside you that would send you into bliss. “Are you alright? Did I hurt you?” you asked uncertainly.

His brief confusion vanished in a split second, replaced by that charming, slightly crooked grin and an amused sound. “Are you kidding me? You feel divine. No, I –” one of his hands snaked down your body, over your stomach, between you, while the other remained on your hip, “I want to give you more than that. So much more. Please, let me make you feel good. Let me revel in you.”

You couldn’t resist the request, and you wouldn’t have wanted to, especially not in the moment his confident, gentle fingers found their mark. You gasped, arched toward him, clung to him as he began to rub you with steady, deliberate circles that sent waves of sensation through you. With closed eyes, you focused solely on the feelings he stirred in you, he seemed to know exactly how much pressure and speed would bring you joy. Soon, you had to part your lips for breath, soft sounds escaping your throat.

Verso, intent on being a devoted lover, took his time. Your receptive response only deepened his desire. You were in tune with him, arching your back, your thighs trembling progressively harder, especially when he squeezed your hip gently but firmly to move you against him, just a subtle motion, but enough for him to hit that sensitive spot inside you and make you moan, prouding him immensely.

“Is this good?” he asked nonetheless, his voice a low, sensual whisper, ”Just tell me how I can please you, I’ll do anything.”

His teeth grazed the delicate skin of your neck playfully, and a groan escaped him as your walls tightened around his length, making his fingers twitch into your flesh. He felt you throbbing at his fingers, so he kept up the pace just as you seemed to be enjoying it.

“Don't stop”, you breathed, your hips stuttering against his touch, the heat pouring into your core the more he rubbed your clit. You moved instinctively on him, chasing your imminent high. You tensed, legs straining, unable to get enough of him, even knowing the moment wouldn’t last forever.

“You're amazing,” he praised adoringly. “Will you come for me, mon cœur?”

His gravelly voice washed over you like summer heat, making your skin tingle with comfort. You melted into his embrace, sank even deeper into his lap as he met you with his own rhythm, not enough restraint left in him in response to how lost in sensation you were.

Your body gave out as another powerful wave overtook you, licking down your spine. You felt that familiar pull deep inside that signaled your release. You exhaled, your head falling onto his shoulder, your fingers tangling in his hair as you finally let go. “I’m coming.”

It was the most peaceful and sensual climax you’d ever experienced. Verso's steady fingers slowed, becoming a gentle presence, replaced by a soft yet insistent pressure on your hip, encouraging you to move with the wave instead of being overwhelmed by it. It wasn't ecstatic, it was better. Lasting, satisfying, and deeply fulfilling, your spasms didn't go into nowhere, but wrapped around him, feeling him more intensely than you'd ever felt anyone before.

Verso guided you through your continuous twitches, drawing out your orgasm as much as you were able to give, rocking you on him, holding you close as soft sounds of pleasure escaped you – sounds that alone could keep him satisfied for nights to come. If only he could make you feel like this always, swept up in emotion, in what you felt for him and what he did to you. Only when your body slumped against his, entirely spent, did he finally pause to let you rest. A steady, satisfying throb still lingered under his fingers.

You gasped against his heated skin, barely able to speak. Luckily, Verso found the words for you: “There’s nothing like a petite mort, non?” A kiss touched your cheek as he gently rolled with you, never breaking your connection.

You blinked, looking up at him in the dim glow of your lamp. His eyes were ablaze, a wildfire of emotion, contentment, desire, and love. All the feelings that made up a great, tragic love story.

“I’ve never felt anything like this,” you gasped truthfully, your fingers exploring his sides, making him shiver ever so slightly.

He smiled. “I aim to please.” His face lowered to press his lips to yours, and a surprised, overstimulated sound escaped you as he rolled his hips into you, seeming to tease your essence out of you, feeling the air around you, heavy yet comforting, like a weighted blanket pulled over you.

His movements were instinctive; he couldn’t resist you, this soft, welcoming abyss that was you, more tempting than anything else in his life. Everything else, even his problems, faded away. With you, anything felt possible. And that was what fueled his longing to be connected to you, to sink into you again and again.

“Verso –” you gasped, and to him, it was the most beautiful sound he had ever heard. You saying his name like that.

“Are you alright?” he asked, his voice barely more than a breath.

“Yes,” you whispered in return.

His strokes within you were were as deliberate as his earlier touch. Intense, precise, each thrust aimed to finding the spot that made your breath hitch. There was so much sensuality in the way he moved that you would have happily drowned in it. Skin rubbed over skin, so hard did he press himself against you, only to hover over you after, gaining better leverage, and sink himself back into you so purposefully that you saw stars. 

The noices you made, those breathy, sinful notes, and the sound of skin against skin only drove him further, made him lose what little restraint he had left. He didn’t notice how his pace quickened, he only saw you: the expression on your face, the parting of your lips, your closed eyes… “Look at me,” he said, the gentle command surprising you so much that you obeyed without hesitation.

It felt as if he was looking right into your soul. And you couldn’t look away, you didn’t want to. The world around you blurred. You pressed yourself as close to him as possible, your legs firmly anchored to his sides. You reached for his cheek, only for him to take your hand, place it next to your head and intertwine your fingers, his gaze never leaving yours always looking down at you, always showing you how much he adored you. 

He had planned to take his time with you, to spend the whole night spoiling you, perhaps even coax another petite mort or two from you. But he hadn’t counted on the overwhelming pull your body had on him. He had given in to it, to his shame. And now, he was ploughing into you, completely out of control of his own body, chasing a high that should really be another one for you. He vowed he would make it up to you as the night went on. For now, he focused on your every reaction, trying draw out as much pleasure as he possibly could, ere he would surrender to the temptations of your clenching walls around his cock.

You could feel it, his passionate movements becoming less controlled, more erratic. His rhythm faltered as tension overtook him, his brows furrowed in desperate effort.

“It’s alright,” you whispered, your body moving with his.

His fingers tightened around yours. A strangled sound escaped his throat, a great declaration of love on his tongue that he could barely hold back from escaping, and a delicate shiver washed over his body. “Merde,” he groaned. He let go of your hand, pulling out of you in one fluid motion, leaving your center with a strange emptiness, as if he had simply painted over you, given you a new normal.

Shifting his weight above you, he leaned on one forearm, stroking himself, his eyes fluttering shut, his breath ragged against your skin as his release landed on your stomach. You appreciated his still quick thinking, while your mind was a complete blank, you didn’t even thought about the end of it all.

Verso’s heart was still hammering in his chest, long after the moment had passed. Just the sight of you was enough to keep his pulse running wild. He leaned down to capture your lips, careful not to touch you with the hand he hadn’t yet cleaned.

“Sorry for the mess,” he said with a sheepish grin, glancing down at your glistening skin.

You let out a soft laugh. “That’s fine. Thank you.”

He settled beside you on the mattress, holding his hand in the air as if it were poisonous, while you reached into your nightstand drawer and pulled out two of your linen handkerchiefs. Shortly after, he pulled your blanket over both of you, beckoned you closer to him, and you snuggled into his warm embrace.

“You’re hot,” you murmured, drawing little circles in the hair on his chest, the heat still radiating from him, his skin damp with the faintest sheen of sweat.

“And you’re soft,” he replied quietly, content, placing a kiss on your hair.

There was a rustling at the foot of the bed, then a small meow. Soleil jumped onto the mattress and strutted over the blanket with big, wobbly steps, toward Verso, where she pressed her tiny head against his chin. He grinned as he stroked her little body, and once again, Soleil purred in his presence as if she were in love. 

“Here she comes, making sure I know how to share,” you sighed in amusement, scratching her head. She blinked at you, as if to tell you she still liked you too, even with the attractive man in her bed.

“Don’t tell her, but for me, you still come first,” he murmured into your ear.

“Careful, she can hear you.” You hummed, smiling blissfully. Slowly, though steadily, your dilemma crept back into your awareness. There was no turning back from what you had both committed to now. You still had a chance to keep it secret, but you didn’t want to end it anymore, you couldn’t.

“Verso?”

“Yes?”

“What you said earlier, about knowing how I feel, that I had the desire to experience something I didn’t think I ever could. Why did you say that so quickly? Does it have something to do with you being a Painter?” You continued the thought: “What can you do?”

His fingers gently caressed your upper arm while he seemed to think for a moment. “You mean they didn’t tell you about our powers?”

“They did,” you answered, “but probably just as twisted as whatever they told you. What I know about you is that you create worlds, with real, free thinking beings, and that’s the reason why everything between us is so complicated.”

“Mhm,” he acknowledged, “and what I know about you is that you can influence reality with what you write. They tell us that your kind can impose your will on others, even write over our canvases, if you wanted to. That’s why you threaten our way of life.”

You scoffed. “I’ve never heard of a Writer who did that.”

Verso continued petting Soleil, but his hand paused for a moment. “Is it possible?”

You thought briefly before replying. “I don’t know. Among us, there are people with very different levels of strength. Usually, we just write, and our works aren’t even always meant to be manifested. The more advanced among us can take on and execute conditions, but only on ourselves.” You straightened up and leaned over him. He listened intently. “We simply write something, and then,” you touched the ink-black stubble of his beard with your fingertips, “we take the words into ourselves. They disappear from the page. Whatever we wrote, we inherit for a short time. We don’t create anything, we merely take it on.” You ran your fingers over his chin, then smiled. “I do it with music.”

Soleil let out an indignant meow, she was no longer the center of attention. Verso blinked, surprised. “So you’re writing sheet music and then – absorb it?”

“And then I play it, one time,” you concluded.

“That’s a shame, you write beautiful music.” He played with a lock of your hair. “So you’re an advanced Writer?”

You shrugged. “I have my talents.”

“That you do.” 

You both grinned.

“And then, well, there are the truly powerful among us,” you continued without reservation. He should know what your kind could do, he obviously had a warped idea of your powers. “Maybe they can write over your canvases, but that’s only possible, if at all, with blood.”

“Blood?” he asked, surprised.

You nodded. “Blood is the strongest ink in the world. Especially when it’s your own that you write with. Whoever among us writes a book in blood and manifests it probably won’t come back out of it. If they even make it that far before they bleed out. The less powerful we are, the more blood we have to use.”

“Have you ever tried it?”

“Noooo,” you insisted quickly and at length, “I am not nearly powerful enough, it is so dangerous. Only the most powerful among us write in blood. But they actually can, if you interpret it that way, change reality.” You traced invisible letters on Verso’s chest. “They can, for example, heal wounds. Whether they can really influence your works, I don’t know. I’m not really that educated about blood sacrifices.”

Verso made a thoughtful sound. “I guess on both sides, they tell us stories to turn us against each other.”

“So is it also not true what they tell about you? That you can create worlds like gods?” you asked, curious to learn more about his powers now that you had explained yours.

He pulled a face. “It’s not wrong. But we refrain from using words like that to describe it. We basically do the same as you, describe worlds in the form of art and bring them to life. We can enter our canvases and live inside them for a certain amount of time.”

“And can you really trap people in there, if you wanted?” You suspected that was the piece of information that was spread to scare your kind.

Verso’s eyebrow lifted questioningly, confirming your guess. “We definitely can’t do that.” His gaze softened. “If I could take someone into my painting, I'd love to show you this world.” 

“So you created one of those worlds?” The thought that he had done so made you uneasy. Your whole life you had been taught that Painters broke the laws of nature by creating what shouldn’t exist.

“I only ever painted one canvas,” he replied, raising a finger, “where I left a piece of my soul to give it life. I was a child back then, and it was a family project, really. Clea helped paint it, our parents sometimes came in with us. Only Alicia preferred to spend time in her room.”

“A piece of your soul? What does that mean?”

“Exactly what I think you think it means. We leave a piece of our soul in the paintings we want to enter.” Verso’s eyes drifted upward to the ceiling. “Powerful Painters like my parents can create many such paintings. Others… not so much.”

“I see.” You let yourself sink down onto his reassuring chest, and he wrapped his arms around you. Parts of what you knew about each other were true, parts were false, the kind of miscommunication that led to class wars like this, likely born from jealousy, envy, and materialism. In the end, it was art that connected your clans, really.

“I would like to see your painting some day… but I would rather listen to you play the piano all the time.”

His chuckle vibrated through his chest. “And that is why I…” he paused.

You pressed yourself closer to him, wrapped your arms around him. “It’s alright,” you whispered, “I love you, too.”

“Painters are dangerous,” that’s what a family member once told you.

“You must be wary of painters,” a friend of your parents once warned you, when you were asking a few too many questions about painters for his liking.

“Dad said painters kidnap bad children to punish them!” blurted out a child while you were quietly walking through the streets of Paris.

Ever since you were little, the people around you have told you all kinds of stories about painters, each more terrifying than the last, portraying them as horrible monsters using their powers to do evil. The kind of story a parent would tell to scare their child into behaving. The kind of story that chills you to the bone and quickly snuffs out any curiosity or desire to ask questions and seek answers.

When exactly the two sides, the writers and the painters, began to harbor such deep hatred for each other, you had no idea. That hatred seemed to have existed for a long time, and even if it hadn't always been there, the tension certainly had, since the dawn of time, it felt like. The reasons varied: some were jealous of the painters’ powers, others hated those powers, hated to see them play God, painting and creating worlds. Whatever the reason, anything seemed like a good excuse to despise one another. And even though tensions had eased a little in recent years, nothing truly seemed able to change or improve the situation. Writers and painters were bound and doomed to continue this hatred passed down from the generations before them.

If the warnings and terrifying bedtime stories adults told were usually enough to scare younger generations, for you, they had the opposite effect. A kind of morbid curiosity pulled you toward a danger you believed didn’t actually exist. And honestly, you didn’t know whether you should feel foolish for ignoring the rumors, or brave for daring to venture where you shouldn’t, where no writer dared set foot. The little voice in your head leaned more toward the second option. You were smarter than that, weren’t writers supposed to be the ones who knew not to judge a book by its cover? Maybe the cover wasn’t pretty, thanks to everything you’d heard since birth, but maybe, just maybe, the story inside wasn’t as horrible as everyone made it out to be. For some reason, that’s what you hoped.

Paris was divided into three districts. On one side were the painters’ district, on the other the writers’ district, and in the central district, a neutral zone. It was more of a commercial area than anything else, home to the best bakeries, the grandest historical buildings, and the place where most citizens gathered for the city’s most important and anticipated events. Writers and painters often crossed paths there, exchanging glances that said more than the biting comments they kept to themselves. As a writer, you loved that place because the shops sold the best notebooks, the finest ink, and the most beautiful quills. You could spend hours browsing through the stores, admiring the different types of paper without ever knowing which one to choose, struggling to resist the urge to buy them all.

You truly loved writing. You were born to write and to love writing, after all, you inherited the talent and the power from your parents, who themselves had inherited it from theirs, and so on. When something weighed heavily on your heart, you knew you could find comfort in your notebooks, letting the words transfer from your heart to the page to feel lighter. Other writers loved to write and tell stories, whether real or imagined. They enjoyed keeping others informed about the latest gossip, the latest news, whether beautiful or ugly. You loved writing, you were just... a different kind of writer, maybe? Maybe you were just struggling, and one day, you'd find the inspiration, the spark that gives writers the desire to write whatever crosses their minds. That’s what your father always says to comfort you. Still, it doesn't stop you from wondering what's wrong with you anyway. Maybe he was right, or maybe you simply weren’t meant to be a writer.

And yet, you had everything it took to be one: the highest quality materials, the talent, beautiful handwriting with which you penned elegant and refined texts, even if it was only to talk to yourself, your notebooks being more like diaries than anything else. It's true that you didn't have the imagination that other writers seemed to possess. But could you blame yourself? They had more experience than you, traveled more than you, had more connections than you, surely, those differences had to count for something. If you, too, made an effort to see the world, dared to talk to others, you’d probably have more imagination than you do now.

Honestly, you didn’t know if you were just shy, afraid, or both, but face-to-face conversations had always terrified you. Was it because you were tired of people talking to you only to rant about their hatred of painters rather than because they were genuinely interested in you? Probably. Avoiding as many people as possible had become a habit ever since your teenage years, you’d shut yourself in your room or hide in some corner of the house whenever your parents invited friends or family over.

But deep down, you were desperate to talk to someone, someone other than yourself. To talk about anything and everything: the news in the papers, passions, whether shared or not. You really wanted to have friends, but holding a conversation seemed more difficult than anything, especially after so many years without having had a single one. How do you start a conversation? How do you keep it going? Every time you saw your parents chatting with guests, hiding between two bars of the staircase railing like a ninja on a secret mission, it all looked so simple and so complicated at the same time.

If only you could talk as easily as you talk to yourself when you write in your notebook.

Out of a thirst for adventure and discovery, you couldn't say when exactly you started venturing into a zone that would earn you the worst punishment imaginable from your parents, the painters' district. You were beginning to know the writers’ district and the center of Paris by heart, knowing every street and alley like the back of your hand, to the point where even walking around was starting to get boring.

You thanked any god who had decided the fate of your family's popularity. You could also thank your lack of desire for social interaction, which often led people to forget that your parents even had a child. Some families were more well-known and powerful than others, this was true among both writers and painters. Among the writers, the name "Dessendre" was the only one they seemed to know, spitting it out as if it were the deadliest venom, that was the one name you had no trouble remembering. As for your parents, they were neither popular nor completely unknown, they sat right in the middle. Just enough for you to walk around without being recognized, unlike other writers.

You cherished this luck of being a nobody, of not being more important than anyone else in the eyes of the citizens. It allowed you to avoid strangers’ gazes, dodge conversations, and wander freely where other writers could not.

The first time you set foot in the painters’ district, you did your best to put on your best acting performance, to not be amazed by everything you saw. At worst, you could just pretend to be a traveler visiting Paris for the first time, and the lie would slip by like butter. After all, it was just the capital of France, nothing more.

The district was… kind of how you had imagined it. The architecture was the same as in your own district, with one major difference: while everything at home was designed to showcase writing, here, it was painting that reigned. There were indeed a few shops selling quills and paper… but of the poorest quality. Clearly, the quality of writing materials didn’t matter much to them, a letter was a letter. On the other hand, you had never seen so many paintbrushes in your life, in all shapes and sizes. Most of the accessories made you question their purpose and usefulness. Tubes and pots of paint everywhere, in every imaginable tone and shade. Painters on every street corner were capturing the landscapes before them, be it the buildings, the sky, the bustling streets, or simply the countless pigeons. It seemed even the local wildlife had a preference for this district, as you had never seen so many pigeons gathered in one place.

Another striking difference that particularly stood out to you… was the contrast in friendliness between your district and this one. The painters' district seemed more cheerful on the surface… but even its citizens were genuinely more joyful than those in the writers' district. Your shyness or fear of speaking to strangers quickly faded away, people you had never seen before greeted you with a warm 'hello' and a big smile, to which you naturally responded. The painters’ district made the writers’ district feel like a place filled with haughty, gloomy citizens, so vast was the gap between the two atmospheres.

The view was fascinating, and for a moment, you couldn't help but wonder how the painters had ever earned such a bad reputation with such a vibrant and lively district.

Obviously, it was easy to get lost during your first days of wandering, but luckily you could count on the kindness of the locals to help you find your way, or even to share good places to visit. But you learned quickly, and before long, you were able to find your way on your own with ease. You were surprised that your parents never asked a single question about your sudden urge to go on walks more often; you were grateful for their naivety in thinking it was simply about finding your place among the writers. In a way, it was, but not exactly.

During those days, perhaps even weeks, of exploring unknown and supposedly dangerous waters for someone like you, you were able to learn much more about the painters and their powers. You realized that the hatred the writers held for the painters was mutual, although admittedly less violent on one side than the other. You were even surprised to find yourself making friends, even if they were older people, the kind of elderly couple who seemed to be friends with absolutely everyone and loved by all.

At the same time, you learned more about the Dessendre family, though this time their name was spoken with respect and admiration. You learned the names of Renoir, his wife Aline, and their three children, Clea, Verso, and Alicia. From what people told you, they seemed to be the perfect family, far from all the horrors you'd previously heard about them.

And even though you dreamed of meeting them one day, you knew it was impossible. First, because you were a nobody and they were, well, very important. Second, they were painters, and you, a writer. A fact that gently reminded you that this was not your home, and that you needed to be careful not to venture further than you should.

Although, for a reason you didn't know, that thought saddened you more than you cared to admit, probably because you felt more at home, more welcomed and accepted here, in the land of supposed enemies, than on your own territory, you weren’t going to allow yourself to wallow in self-pity. You would continue doing what you had done best since you arrived here: playing pretend and wandering freely, from park to park, from terrace to terrace, taking part in small events, each as delightful as the next. These ranged from simple gatherings in the heart of the Painters’ District where people danced to music, to theatre performances and small artistic exhibitions of all kinds.

You could feel it, that spark inside you, that flame all artists speak of. It was so close and yet so far away. A glimmer, faint as it may have been, was still there, begging to be fed so the fire could finally ignite after all that time you'd spent wondering what was wrong with you. In the end, the problem had never been you directly. It was becoming clear that you had simply been born, or raised, on the wrong side of Paris. The tensions between the two sides had evidently stifled you, keeping you from blossoming the way you should have.

You could feel it, that urge to write, to share your thoughts, both with yourself and the world. The need to pour your emotions onto paper in the form of poems, not just teenage diary-like rants whispered to yourself. You were so close to the goal, yet something was holding you back, stopping you from writing. That feeling of anxiety forming in the pit of your stomach at the very idea of having to share your work with anyone but yourself.

Luckily for you, a unique opportunity presented itself. After hopping from event to event, you learned that one of the city’s most renowned organizers had decided to hold an anonymous art exhibition in the heart of the neutral district, open to everyone: writers, painters, or regular civilians. No shame, no fear of judgmental stares, since no one would know who created what, except the artists recognizing their own work, of course. The event would last several days, each one with a dedicated theme: painting, music, writing, acting, and more. Everything was in place to let artists, both experienced and new, express themselves freely.

An opportunity not to be missed. You couldn’t help but wonder if this was finally your moment, to show what you were capable of. But the knot in your stomach wouldn’t go away. Excited and anxious at the idea of taking part in something that could very well change your life.

Since your parents refused to attend an event where painters might also show up, you were forced to go alone, which, in the end, made you quite happy. Who knew how much they could have ruined not only your day but everyone else’s?

Honestly, it was the first time you had seen the central district so lively. Not only were there writers and painters you could recognize from your little adventures, but everyone seemed to be in a good mood. The usual looks of tension or hostility had vanished, as if all that hatred had disappeared overnight, like magic, or as if it had never existed. It was beautiful, unsettling, and a little frightening all at once, how quickly humans could change. Maybe it was the festive spirit. Maybe it was the joyful music wrapping around everyone, forcing them to make peace. Maybe musicians had a bit of magic too, one no one really talked about.

Given the city’s decorations, and the painters and illustrators capturing the busy streets using art supplies made freely available just for them, you figured today must be the day dedicated to painters. And oh, how right you were, when you saw a man at the foot of the stairs of the district’s largest building, inviting everyone inside to admire the anonymous paintings on display.

Curiosity got the better of you, after all, that’s what you’d come for. You slipped through the small crowd, apologizing as you bumped into a few people on your way into the building. The interior was just as elegant and luxurious as the outside, the ceiling so high it made you dizzy, the temperature pleasantly cooler than the heat outside. The walls were lined with paintings, of various sizes and styles, some cheerful, others dark, bursting with color… and one, in black and white, with subtle hints of red.

For what felt like more than ten minutes, you stood frozen before a painting you simply couldn’t look away from. It depicted a scene that looked like Paris, everything in black, white, and shades of grey, except for red petals drifting in the wind. While most of the other paintings made it fairly easy to guess what the artist intended, what they were trying to express, this one was… more enigmatic. As if the person had painted it with no real idea in mind, or perhaps trying to express something only they could understand. Still, the longer you studied the piece, the more you couldn’t shake the feeling of being both trapped and free at the same time.

Too absorbed in your admiration, your analysis, your desire to understand everything about this mysterious, captivating painting, you didn’t notice, until much later, that a man was standing next to you, looking at the same piece. You had no idea how long he’d been there, if he had spoken to you and you'd ignored him. The thought of appearing rude mortified you.

Being next to him was intimidating. Even though you couldn’t see him, you were somehow too afraid to turn your head and dare to lay eyes on the unknown man. Your ears chose to block out all the sounds around you,the muffled conversations in the distance, the clinking of glasses, focusing solely on your breathing, and his, which seemed to synchronize with yours. Without knowing who was trying to match the other. Maybe you both were, unconsciously.

After a moment that felt like hours, you found yourself turning your head slightly, just enough to look at him. Or rather, to admire him. At that very moment, you were certain anyone could swear they saw stars, glitter, or even hearts in your eyes at the sight of him. The most beautiful painting you'd been lucky enough to see all day. All you wanted was to admire him up close, closer, even closer. You couldn’t shake the image of his sweet face from your mind, his delicate features, his well-kept beard, his cold expression and his eyes, an icy blue that could send shivers down anyone’s spine. And my god, you could admire him silently for the rest of your days.

Just as you were about to part your lips to apologize, perhaps for potentially having ignored him, but mostly for having stared at him for so long without saying a word, he beat you to it.

"This painting is awful. I don’t know what you see in it," he said with such sincerity, almost with disgust, that you felt bad even though you weren’t the owner of the painting, "There are so many paintings worth a glance, why waste your time on this one?"

You couldn’t say what shocked you more. The fact that he didn’t seem to mind that you had been shamelessly staring at him, or that he simply hadn’t noticed? Or maybe the fact that you suddenly felt the urge to defend a piece of art that wasn’t even yours, and whose meaning you didn’t even know, if it had one? "And what do you know about art?"

You acted like a parent trying to overprotect their child, except the child in question was just a painting hanging on a wall, and that child wasn’t even yours.

So why did it matter so much to you? Even you couldn’t quite explain what made that painting so special in your eyes. For the first time in your life, you couldn’t find the words, whether because you were utterly mesmerized, or because you simply lacked the artistic vocabulary to express yourself. Either way, none of that mattered. You were ready to defend that piece with your whole body and soul.

"This painting..." you turned again to face the black, white, and gray tones displayed on the canvas before you, missing the few heads that turned to watch both you and the man beside you, yet dared not interrupt your conversation, "It’s different. It stands out from the rest. Mysterious. Everyone tries to give their work a specific meaning, a clear artistic interpretation, but not this one. It’s as if it’s deliberately mysterious, as if it wants us to step into it, to discover it on our own, and to feel whatever emotions we choose, or dare to feel. It invites our curiosity. It wants us to satisfy it.”

You seemed to be losing yourself in your explanation, in your feelings. It was hard to put words to such a canvas, but you tried your best. As much as you wanted to talk about technique, color palettes, or materials used, you didn’t want to make a fool of yourself, you didn’t even know the proper names for the different brushes or tools. You’d look quite ridiculous digging around in your brain for a specific word right after accusing this man of lacking any artistic soul.

After a long, agonizing silence, you turned your head to make sure the man was still there, that he hadn’t walked off and left you talking to thin air. But no, he was still there, silent as ever, and this time, his eyes weren’t on the painting, they were on you. You could see something in his gaze. Maybe a spark, as if he was beginning to see the painting the way you saw it… Or maybe it was pride. But had you looked at his whole face and not just his eyes, you would’ve realized both assumptions were true.

The silence was becoming unbearable, mixed with his blue eyes staring straight at you, you didn’t know where to put yourself. All you wanted was to turn and run as far away as possible. Thankfully, as if blessed by some divine force, the bell of the town square’s clock tower rang out, signaling that it was just past noon. The thought of finally eating a delicious meal made your stomach growl loudly, loud enough that the sound brought a smirk to the lips of the man with whom you were apparently engaged in a silent staring contest. It was, unfortunately, time to admit defeat, and do what you’d been wanting to do for several minutes: flee this painfully awkward moment.

Being the well-mannered and polite person you were, you carefully excused yourself and wished him a good day before disappearing as fast as lightning, not giving him a second to respond. Determined to remain nothing more than a fleeting memory in the back of his mind.

The rest of the event was livelier, more energetic, though still grounded in the idea that this day was meant to honor painters and their natural-born talent.

There were paintings for sale, auctions, artists offering to draw portraits of anyone who wanted one.

As much as you were tempted to go home with a little portrait of yourself drawn by one of the children, whose artistic style was still stuck in the stick-figure phase, you knew your parents would hate the idea of you owning anything made by a painter. Whether that painter was an adult aware of the tensions between the districts or an innocent child, it didn’t matter. You couldn’t risk being grounded for life. With a heavy heart, you returned home empty-handed, your only souvenirs being the ones carefully and secretly preserved in your mind.

Days passed more quickly than you would have liked. You attended each day of the event, up until the one day you were most anxious about: the one dedicated to writers. You couldn’t lie, your stress was obvious.

Anyone could see it in your expression, in how you stood, nervously fidgeting your fingers. After all, it was not only the first time you had ever written a poem, but also the first time anyone besides yourself would read, or maybe hear, the words your ink had left on paper.

The dark circles under your eyes betrayed the lack of sleep you’d endured in recent days. You were torn between attending the event like a starving bird desperate to catch every crumb, or staying home to focus on your poem. Unfortunately, you’d felt confident enough to choose the latter. What a mistake. You might have done a better job had you given yourself more rest, nights full enough to recharge your energy. You hadn’t even remembered to throw out the hundreds of crumpled-up pages that still decorated your bedroom floor… or maybe you just didn’t have the energy. You even wondered how you were still standing when your muscles were screaming for rest, begging for the sleep you’d so cruelly denied them. You were shocked by your own ability to tame your exhaustion.

You had made sure to arrive early in the morning, as the writers had been instructed to do, to submit your poem. Some of them would be displayed on the walls just like the paintings had been, and others, if lucky, would be read aloud by the best stage actors in the country. A part of you dreamed of hearing your poem brought to life, performed with the intonation and emotion your words deserved. Maybe such an experience would finally help you believe in your talent, the talent you still weren’t sure you had.

As you were, as usual, lost in your thoughts and staring into the void, a voice not far from you snapped you out of your trance, a shiver running down your spine. Even though you'd only heard that voice once in your life, just a few days ago, it was deeply etched in your memory, as if it had decided to live in your mind against your own will. You couldn’t tell whether you wanted to talk to him again or flee again like you did the last time.

Turning toward the source of the sound, you felt a flicker of pride for your good memory, it was indeed the voice of the man you had seen a few days earlier during the painters’ day. Except, he wasn’t alone, a girl by his side.

Judging by her small stature, you assumed she was a young teenager, absolutely adorable, with her flaming red hair, impossible to miss even if you'd wanted to ignore her. She seemed cheerful, full of energy, full of life, running everywhere, looking around with wide, amazed eyes as if it were her first time visiting the central district. Smiling at passersby, greeting them with the sweetest of smiles. In a way, she reminded you a bit of yourself when you first stepped into the painters' district. You envied her, you’d give anything to relive that moment when you first discovered the central or painters’ district.

The man followed closely behind her, running to keep her in sight, the whole scene both heartwarming and amusing.

Seated on one of the chairs placed in front of a beautiful platform set up especially for the performers, you kept watching this odd little duo, not having much else to do. But after spying on this private moment that belonged to them alone, the thing you feared most happened, the man looked your way and started staring at you again, just like last time. The redhead by his side, like a little sheep, imitated the man who stood a head taller than her, turning her head in the same direction.

You instantly turned your head, as if the two strangers had burned holes into your skin, suddenly finding the platform in front of you far more interesting than ever. Unfortunately, you could hear footsteps rushing toward you, or at least you hoped they were just heading toward the nearby chairs to take a seat. The footsteps drew dangerously closer until they stopped right beside you. You were too afraid to look up, scared to face their eyes and to have to apologize for having spied on them for so long.

Eventually, you decided to lift your head and met the gaze of the little redhead. Your lips parted to speak, “Hi, I…”

“Hi! My name’s Alicia! It’s my first time visiting this place! Usually I’m not allowed to leave the painters’ district… but today, Maman and Papa made an exception just for me!” she cut in, speaking so fast you struggled to keep up. Now that you had a better view of her, it was impossible to miss the excitement written all over her face.

Stunned, you stared at her as she introduced herself to a perfect stranger, completely carefree. The man accompanying her seemed just as taken aback as you.

“Alicia, you can’t just—” he began, but immediately stopped as he noticed that the girl, apparently named Alicia, was completely ignoring him and sat right down next to you. As if overwhelmed by the situation, he also took a seat on the other chair next to you. You now found yourself wedged between an energetic young teen and a man who, you assumed, probably didn’t have the best memories of your last encounter.

For a few seconds, the name Alicia echoed in your head, but you couldn’t quite remember where you had heard it before.

Alicia kept chatting away, more to herself than to either of you, and you listened to her with growing disbelief at how you had, once again, managed to end up in such a situation. Lately, you seemed to have developed a strange knack for getting into trouble, “Come on, Verso, smile a little! I’m sure you love this little outing as much as I do!”

And it was at the mention of that name that it clicked, your memory surged back, fragments of conversations with the old couple in the painters’ district. Yes, Alicia was a common name, you couldn’t blame yourself for not immediately realizing it was the Alicia Dessendre, the daughter of Renoir and Aline and, by extension, the youngest sister of Clea and Verso. Memories of your first encounter with Verso came flooding back, and you felt ashamed. Ashamed that you had dared tell a painter he knew nothing about art. No, ashamed that you’d said that to a Dessendre. You wanted to shrink into yourself, disappear, stop existing altogether.

Minutes passed and the chairs around you began to fill up, more and more voices rising around you, so many different conversations that it became hard to focus on Alicia and Verso, especially with the shame, embarrassment, and regret weighing on you. The closer the moment of the poetry reading came, the more your anxiety rose. A volatile cocktail of emotions brewed inside you.

And just as you were wrestling with your thoughts, you felt Verso lean toward you, whispering softly, his voice gentle and low, meant for you and you alone, “It seems our paths cross once again.”

You found it extremely strange that, after what you had said to him, he would even deign to speak to you. In the writers’ district, showing such disrespect toward someone of that stature could seriously damage your reputation, possibly even ruin you and force you to leave the district out of fear of retaliation. Verso was the complete opposite; he actually seemed happy, in a way, to see you again. Maybe you were imagining things, maybe that smirk on his face was just a facade and he didn’t want to reveal what he was truly thinking or feeling.

You were overthinking. Much more than usual, even.

Before you had time to respond, you were cut off by the voice of the person standing at the podium, addressing the crowd before him. Honestly, it felt like everyone had conspired today to interrupt you every time you tried to have even the slightest conversation with someone. It was frustrating to say the last.

Everyone had their eyes fixed on the man speaking behind the podium, his voice strong, strong enough for everyone within his line of sight to hear him clearly. A few people who hadn’t managed to find a seat were standing, enveloped in a reverent silence as every citizen hung on his every word. And even if this was the moment you’d been looking forward to all week, you couldn’t help but listen with only half an ear. Part of your mind was forcing you to split your attention with Verso, who was sitting right next to you, still as a statue, his face so close to yours that you could hear his breathing near your ear, his warm breath against your skin, as if he were waiting for the man to finish speaking before he could, in turn, start talking again. It was unsettling, making concentration almost impossible.

The event organizer began introducing the actors invited to read the poems, one by one. The citizens applauded each time an actor came on stage, some receiving louder applause than others, probably because they were better known or more beloved. You heard whispers behind you, comments like, “She’s the one who acted in…”, “He embodied the role of… with perfection!” and you mentally cursed yourself for not knowing any of them. You could have made a bit of an effort, at least, to learn who they were and what they’d done, especially since they had generously agreed to attend and bring this part of the event to life.

Once the introductions were over, the applause died down, and the room fell noticeably quieter, Verso finally spoke again, having clearly waited patiently for several long minutes, “So, on top of being an expert in painting analysis, you're also a writer?”

A grimace crossed your face, which brought a smile to the young painter’s lips, you hated that someone, especially him, reminded you of that painful memory.

You managed, however, to pull yourself together in record time, politely returning his smile, “What can I say? It seems I’m full of surprises… and talents!”

Your remark earned a soft laugh from him, very subtle, as if once again, was meant only for you.

Unfortunately, you were both forced to cut the conversation short when the first actress stepped up to the podium to read the first poem. Her sweet, high-pitched voice stood in stark contrast to the sadness and darkness of the poem. You quickly realized that the organizer and their team had carefully studied the poems, assigning them to the actors who would do their best to pay them the highest tribute, to elevate them and make them even more poetic, in a way. It all showed how deeply the organizer loved their work and how much they enjoyed helping others showcase their talent. Oh, what wouldn’t you give for them to personally coach you until all your doubts completely vanished, and never return, finally leaving you in peace.

Roughly thirty minutes of poetry readings passed, each poem as beautiful as the next, yet your poem never appeared. But after what you’d heard, you weren’t surprised, at no point did you truly believe you could measure up to the beauty of the previous poems. You were maybe proud of yourself, but let’s be honest, you didn’t stand a chance. You had dreamed big, maybe too big, thinking you could play in the big leagues when it was your first time ever writing a poem.

At least, you could be proud of yourself for trying, breaking through your limits and doing something you never would have dared do before, and all in the span of a few days, or rather a few hours, considering how busy your days had been. Worst case, your poem would be pinned to a wall and, with a bit of luck, someone might stop and read it from beginning to end. With luck, maybe they’d like it, maybe they’d feel the same things you did, or interpret it in their own way. Either way, you still felt proud, even if not proud enough to shake the lingering sadness.

And then, just when you least expected it, one of the actors began reading a poem whose first line bore a strange resemblance to the opening of yours, exactly the same words, in the same order. Maybe it was a coincidence. Maybe you’d misheard. Sitting up straight in your chair, you started listening intently. The second line came, then the third, and by the fourth, you could no longer deny it or chalk it up to coincidence, it was, without a doubt, the poem you had written. The poem you’d submitted that very morning, without expecting much, but still hoping, hoping it would be read.

You did your best to keep a neutral expression, a relaxed posture, trying not to betray anything that would give away the fact that the poem was yours and break the anonymity of the event. After all, that was the whole reason you had participated, to stay anonymous, to avoid the comments, whether praise or criticism. But you couldn’t hide the joy and stress radiating off you like an open book, as the actor brought your poem to life, with an intonation just as you had imagined, pauses and tension at just the right moments, dramatic gestures you had envisioned yourself making while writing it. As if he had perfectly understood what you were trying to convey, the story you wanted to tell, your story, your doubts, your hesitation, your regrets, everything. It felt like he knew you, like you had confided in him, even though the two of you were complete strangers.

You couldn’t hide anything, least of all from the person seated mere inches from you, his shoulder brushing yours without you even noticing, too absorbed in the performance unfolding before your eyes.

As the poem drew to a close, applause broke out, applause you didn’t take as judgment of your poem’s quality, since they’d had the same reaction after every reading. Whether the applause was for the actors’ phenomenal performances or for the poets’ talent was an unsolvable mystery to you. You hoped it was for both, for the performers and the creators who, without them, none of these artistic moments would have ever existed.

There was always a short pause between each poem. Verso leaned in again and whispered, “That poem was particularly beautiful, wasn’t it?”

You blushed, both from how close he was to you again and, most of all, because it was your very first compliment, even though he obviously wasn’t supposed to know it was yours, “It was okay. Not bad. Nothing extraordinary.”

“And what do you know about poetry, exactly?” he teased. It was well deserved. Deserved, and yet you still felt like wrapping your hands around his pretty neck and strangling him to shut him up. You quickly dismissed that murderous thought, “Actually… that poem oddly captures what someone expressed to me a few days ago when I offended them in front of a painting of mine.”

“So it was yours?!” you exclaimed, louder than intended. Alicia turned toward you both with a confused, or curious look. You quickly assured her it was nothing important before turning back to Verso, “It’s probably just a coincidence. I don’t write. Well… I write very little. And… Badly.”

The lie was written all over your face, your eyes darting left and right, briefly meeting Verso’s before slipping away, your stammering, your search for words. You knew that he knew you were lying. But you didn’t want to say out loud that the poem was, in fact, yours. He knew. Or at least suspected. That was enough.

His eyes searched yours, following every little flicker of your gaze, and having his full attention made your face flush even deeper, heat spreading across your skin, “From what I heard… you weren’t lying when you said you were full of surprises and talent.”

He had returned. That smile. That smirk, the one you couldn’t decide whether you liked because it made his face even more attractive than it already was, or hated because it made you feel things you hadn’t felt before. If you had paper with you, you would’ve gladly wasted one sheet, no matter how high-quality it was, to tape it over his mouth, just to hide his lips and not see them until the end of the event.

The actors read the final poems, only a few left, before the reading finally ended, and the attendees could get up and wander around to read the poems displayed, if they felt like it.

"I really loved it! Didn’t you?!" you jumped at the sound of Alicia’s voice. After spending all that time in silence, focused entirely on the performers, you had completely forgotten just how much energy she had, her voice practically echoing inside your ears.

"It was alright..." you and Verso responded at the exact same time, with the exact same tone. You looked at each other, slightly startled. Alicia bursting out laughing, probably at the situation, and also at the ridiculous expression on both your faces.

After a few seconds, her laughter died down. She stood up so suddenly that she nearly knocked over her chair, "What if we went to check out the other activities?!"

Verso stood up, and then it was your turn. You thought this would be the moment you'd part ways, wish each other a good day, maybe say your final goodbyes. But overflowing with oh so much energy, Alicia grabbed both your and Verso's hands and started speed-walking, dragging you toward the activities she was excited about. You almost tripped, surprised that Alicia had taken you with them as well. After all, you’d only just met, barely exchanged a few words, and while things seemed to be going well, you couldn’t exactly call yourselves friends with so little time spent together. Still, it was too late, or perhaps impossible, to break free from her grip. Forced to follow.

You visited the shops that, for the event, had released brand-new products available only for the day. You couldn’t resist temptation and ended up buying new inks in every color that caught your eye, breaking out of your usual habit of using only black ink, and even bought a beautiful glass dip pen. You were shocked to see Alicia’s purchases, thinking she might actually clear out the shops completely. You couldn’t help wondering how she managed to afford it all. Sure, her family was rich, but a child her age shouldn’t be walking around with that much money. You figured it must have been given to her by one of her parents, or maybe by Verso, so she could shop and enjoy herself.

The day went by incredibly fast, and thanks to Alicia’s contagious energy, you got to take part in most of the activities organized at the event. The one that stayed in your memory the most, and not without reason, was the “surprise letters” activity, where you had to write a letter to someone, and they weren’t allowed to open it until the event was over. Naturally, your little group decided to write letters to each other. You were the one who took the longest to write yours to Verso and Alicia, since you didn’t know them very well, or at all, and had no idea what to say... Verso finished writing his letters first, and you suspected he might have left the pages completely blank, judging by how quickly he folded and sealed them, handing them to you while patiently waiting for you to finish.

To Alicia, you wrote compliments, highlighting her beautiful hair, its fiery color, and the freckles that made her look so cute. You told her how much you admired her energy, her ever-present wide smile. And finally, you thanked her for the fun day spent by her side, noting that it would’ve surely been more boring without her.

Writing to Verso was trickier. You didn’t know how to start, words circling in your head without forming a single coherent sentence. Like with Alicia, you thanked him for this incredible day you were happy to have spent with him and his sister. You couldn’t end the letter without thanking him for the painting, after all, he was the one who inspired your poem.

You were the last to finish your letters. After handing them to their recipients, you couldn’t help but yawn, your exhaustion showing clearly on your face. You had managed to push back fatigue for most of the day, but now it was clear that it was time for you to sleep.

With a heavy heart, you thanked Verso and Alicia one last time for the wonderful day, wished them a good evening, and then parted ways, each heading in opposite directions. The little duo toward the painters’ district, and you, toward the writers’ district. A reminder that, in the eyes of society, you weren’t meant to talk, let alone be friends. Snippets of old conversations came back to you, those familiar speeches about the Dessendre family, warnings filled with words that painted them as monsters. But now that you’d met two of them, those stories felt more like lies, urban legends.

You didn’t know them, and deep down, you knew it was always wise to stay cautious, that no one shows their true intentions at first glance... But you couldn’t stop thinking about Alicia’s smile when you spent a good thirty minutes looking at ink pots together, struggling to choose which ones to buy. About the way she pulled you into her adventure, even though she didn’t know you, just because, according to her, you had “a kind face.” You couldn’t stop thinking about Verso, whose eyes lit up just seeing his sister happy, smiling. The Verso who, without even trying to, helped you find inspiration, if only a little, and gave you your first compliment, with a smile full of sincerity.

If they really were the monsters the writers always said they were… Then why, why did they show you more kindness than your fellow writers ever did?

You walked home, clutching the two letters tightly against your chest, afraid they might blow away, or worse, be stolen. Despite your fatigue and the desire to get home quickly to read the letters and rest, you walked more slowly than usual. And you knew it wasn’t because you were tired. You knew you could walk faster if you wanted to. You just didn’t want to return to the writers’ district, to go from a lively, joyful place to the gloomy district you had always lived in. You took detours to soak in the cheerful atmosphere of the central district a little longer before facing the coldness of the writers’ district.

The stark contrast between the two districts gave you chills, one buzzing with life, the other steeped in a heavy silence, as if any noise could wake the dead and have them scold you for making too much of a racket. If you had walked as slowly as possible before, now you quickened your pace, eager to spend as little time as possible in these unsettling streets.

The door to your house closed softly behind you, your parents greeting you as if they’d been waiting to hear about your day. Knowing full well you had submitted a poem for the event, you gave them the big news: the organizer had liked it, and it had been read aloud in front of everyone. And for the first time in a long time, you saw pride in your parents’ eyes, your father coming over to gently wrap you in a hug, "I told you you could do it. I’m proud of you, mon petit poussin."

You rolled your eyes at the nickname. You weren’t a baby anymore, yet your parents seemed to prefer silly pet names to your actual name. And while you would’ve liked to spend a bit more time with them, especially after such good news, you had to excuse yourself and head to your room. Fatigue had won a race you didn’t even know you’d started.

On the stairs that led to the converted attic that served as your bedroom, you watched your step, climbing carefully to avoid falling. Exhaustion could quickly lead to disaster. You dropped onto your bed like a heavy stone, grabbing Alicia’s letter first to open it. You were surprised and delighted to see that, just for your letter, she had used ink in your favorite color, what a sweetheart. Just when you thought she couldn’t get any more adorable, she proved you wrong.

Then came Verso’s envelope which, to your surprise, held not one, but two letters. You couldn’t hide your shock when you saw he had used one of the sheets to draw a stunning portrait of you, he must have done it in just a few minutes. You knew he was a painter and very skilled at drawing, but this? Capturing you so perfectly, so quickly?!

As you read the second letter, your heart started racing. You read it over and over again, just to make sure you weren’t dreaming, “It was a fun day. Would you like to go out again sometime? With or without Alicia, your call. Though I wouldn’t say no to some one-on-one date.”

“The stuff you’re making, for that client?” You still knew nothing about it. You reached behind his neck to straighten a folded piece, running your nails gently over his skin. A spot you knew was particularly sensitive. His eyes fluttered for just a second. 

“Oh, yes that's right.” He cleared his throat and sat straighter. “I believe I’m almost done.”

“Sounded like the opposite last night,” you said. 

“Did I keep you awake?” Guilt creeped into his gaze but you fought it away with a chaste kiss. His hands settled on your hips. 

“Not really,” you said. His fingers squeezed lightly. You cupped his cheek, “I fell asleep eventually.” Truly, it didn’t bother you. He was a restless sleeper at best and an insomniac at worst. You’d learn to handle nights filled with mindless background noise. 

“I’m sorry, I should have been more considerate,” he said, ever the gentleman. 

You hummed, “it’s alright, what’re you working on anyways to keep you so busy?” There was no ill intent in the comment. He wasn’t neglecting his teachings or you but there was a sluggishness to his daily movements that told you it was draining him.

You shimmied out of his hold as you awaited his reply. His day robe and woven belt were already laid out beside him. You heard him slip into it as you pawed mindlessly through the wardrobe for your own clothes. A thin chemise dress was currently the only thing that separated you from the cool morning air at the moment. 

A shadow suddenly fell over you and Qifrey’s arms wrapped slowly around your waist. He pulled you back into and you let out a breath of amusement as he buried his head in the crook of your neck. He planted kisses along the plane of your neck as you pulled your robe from the closet, examining it carefully. 

The weather was quite nice today, but you were sure you’d need your legs free for the activities that followed. It would go well with a loose pair of pants, maybe you should—

“Qifrey!” He’d sunk his teeth into the junction of your neck. It didn’t hurt but it startled you. You clutched your clothes to your chest as you spun to face him. He smiled innocently. 

“We have places to be,” you said, stepping around him to lay your clothes on the bed. 

After a full week of traditional lessons there was always a day off. For everyone. No excuses. It was good for the girls. The boys, who worked themselves to the bone, were a bit more reluctant but would tag along in the end. Balancing work and play, hobbies and responsibilities were crucial. This week, you were all going for a much needed walk and a picnic on the hill. 

When you leant over to smooth out the creases in your clothes Qifrey’s hands slid underneath the edge of your short dress. You yelped and turned, balancing your hands on his shoulders as he hiked up your leg to rest against his hip. 

“What did I just say!” You laughed as he leaned in to attack your neck again. Nipping and kissing every inch he could reach. You let out a quiet moan when he hit just below your ear. The gesture sent a tingle down your spine and the sound was music to him. He wanted nothing more than to hear it played again and again and again. He captured your lips with his and you melted immediately. 

Clothes forgotten, you wrapped your arms around his neck and titled up and into him. He reacted to the motion in kind, deepening the kiss with a content hum. Your fingers threaded through the strands of hair at the base of his neck and he sagged into you. His hand, secured to your hip, the only thing you think was keeping up standing, squeezed. 

A knock at the door made you both freeze. 

“Are you both even up?” Olruggio’s deep voice floated under the door, his shadow covering the light.  “These girls are ready to bolt.”

“Hey!” Tetia’s was not happy with that accusation. 

“If you’re ready just get out here—Oi! Someone get that damn brushbuddy outta the cabinets. He’s goin’ tah tear something apart!” 

There was a stampede of feet and Olruggio called again, “And don’t run!” His steps were heavy as he rushed after them.

Qifrey smiled against your lips, giving you one gentle peck after pulling away. 

“Let’s go save him, shall we?” he inquired. You could hear the girls battling the brushbuddy and you prayed none of the dishware got broken this time. 

You shimmied into your clothes, a little peeved that Qifrey has always had the ability to rile you up and act as if he’s done nothing. He held the door open for you, the cacophony of kids now much louder and you hurried through to help them. But, before you stepped from his side you paused, rocked to your toes and kissed him one more time. It was tantalizingly slow, lingering as you pulled away and caught his eye, half hooded and watching for his reaction sweetly.

“Come on, let’s go.” You saw him gulp and he flexed his hand after he pulled the door shut. You smiled and turned heel, marching to the kitchen with new found vigor. 

“Alright! Where did this little guy go to hide?” 

“Here! Here!” Coco cried. 

“Ah, there he is, come here you little—” There was a crash and a peal of laughter as the brushbuddy escaped everyone's grasp once more.

You held a basket in the crook of your arm as you walked the trail. The brush buddy that’d caused such chaos only an hour ago was currently atop the tea towel that secured the food in place, sleeping without a care in the world.  

The path you walked was worn to dirt, and the canopy of overgrown trees that lined the way allowed just the right amount of light to peek through. The leaves rustled in the gentle wind and the birds whistled just overhead. You’d see a rabbit or two dart across before disappearing into the underbrush. 

Qifrey was a few yards ahead, far enough that you could see him but only just make out what he was saying to the girls. They orbited him, laughing and smiling as they skipped by his side. You watched amused as Tetia dove into one of the bushes before popping up with a vibrant yellow flower in her hand. She encouraged a Qifrey closer and kneeled at her side, allowing her to tuck it against his ear. 

“They’ve got a lot of energy today,” Olruggio walked beside you, a picnic quilt strapped to his back. You knew they wanted nothing to do with academics right now so being out here was, you were sure, rejuvenating.

“Hm, I’m not surprised,” you smiled, “it’s been a rough few days, first time I think they’re having genuine fun.” The lesson earlier this week left them mentally exhausted. The ones that followed were no better. Learning magic meant continuously expanding on what you already knew. If you didn't have the foundation, you'd never understand what was to come. 

“They got it eventually,” you added. You were proud of them.

“I knew they would.” Olruggio said. 

You nudged his shoulder with yours. “Why don’t you try a lesson?” 

He scoffed, “I could neva'. Far too much work.” 

“I think they’d like it though,” you hummed. The girls’ laughter melded with Qifrey’s. They were running circles around him and he was trying to catch them. He reached for Agott first, who slipped just out of his fingers. He dove for Richeh next who squealed when he nabbed her. Picking her up and sprinting away. 

“We have to save Richeh!” Tetia cried heroically. You smiled as they all rushed after their teacher. 

“I don’t have the same touch he does.” Olruggio said. “I’m much too impatient.” 

“Oh, the great contraption maker? Who spends hours and hours on a single project trying to perfect it doesn’t have the patience to teach a bunch of preteen girls?” You looked up at him, he pursed his lips and huffed, avoiding your gaze. 

“I just…can’t. I don’t think they’ll listen to me as well. I’m not nearly as good a teacher.” 

“You teach them all the time, you know,” you said. The kids were a decent distance ahead, all you could hear were the faded trails of their laughter. Qifrey had paused however, holding Richeh playfully captive as the girls fought him off. Qifrey held them at bay with soft wind spells and a tree branch for a sword.

“They watch you, when you work.” He was not a man of words, never had been and never will be. He doesn’t give grand speeches like Qifrey or design lesson plans but he does have a passion for his work that the girls see everyday. 

“When I make those messes you don’t like,” he smirked.

You rolled your eyes, “you don’t notice? How they hover. Some of them do it more than the others, but I've caught them all studying you, and trying to mimic it.” Coco and Agott did it most often. Coco would be perched on the arm of the couch while Olruggio was hunched over the coffee table. Her eyes would be bright and curious as she watched him tinker with dials and paint sigils. Agott would hover off the back, body folded at the waist, standing on her toes, far enough to the side that she wouldn’t be in Olruggio’s way. She’d watch him, her fingers twitching, following the movements of his hands as they patterned spells. 

You never said anything when they did it, knowing as soon as you did they’d scatter. 

“They adore you, Olruggio,” you said kindly. 

He stuttered, “I don’t think—”

“Master Olly! Help us!” Tetia was hovering just a few inches off the ground, Qifrey’s wind spell keeping her at an arms distance from a laughing Richeh. They'd yet to save their captured companion. Agott’s jaw was clenched and her arms crossed over her chest in a frustration, the wind whipped her curly hair. You had to hold in a laugh at Coco’s second failed attempt to dive for her. “Master Olly, please!”

You looked at Olruggio expectantly, “Well, Master Olly? You going to help?” 

Olruggio rolled his eyes and secured the strap of the blanket to his chest, rolling up his sleeves dramatically, “I’m comin’ girls!” You smiled as he jogged forward, using his strength to over power Qifrey’s magic. 

“They really do adore you.” you muttered quietly to yourself. Olruggio marched right through Qifrey’s defenses and plucked Richeh out of his arms. He hoisted her into the air like she weighed nothing. She held her arms aloft, out straight and to the side, stiff as a board as he moved her. All the girls cheered and Qifrey dramatically surrendered.

You giggled. 

“Ah, how sweet. What a lovely family.” 

You jerked and spun, the laughter of your family fading as the winds rushed out of the trees. The trail behind you was engulfed in darkness and the unsettling voice echoed on the wind. It pitched you forward and you dug your heels into the soil to keep from falling. Your ears rung, symbols crashing, ringing, pulsing down your neck. The phrase had been simple, but it did not come from anyone currently around you.

As quickly as the atmosphere had changed, it righted itself. Sucking away into nothing, spinning into normalcy as some invisible force drained the darkness. 

You turned back slowly. No one else seemed to notice. Your heart thundered in your chest. 

Coco waved and called your name, “Come on! We’re almost there.” 

You glanced back for a second, the path remained clear and bright. Sunlight dancing through the leaves. 

“I’m coming!” you said.

Your steps were a bit faster as you rushed to catch up with them, hoping that the darkness wasn’t biting at your heels.

“You alright?” Olruggio asked as he plopped down next to you. You were cutting an orange, the juices slipping down your fingers with each pass. It smelled divine. You placed the small batch into the diced fruit bowl by your knees, before picking up another.

“Hm?” You cut slowly, careful to not knock your finger on the blade. The rhythm was grounding. Schlik, schlik, schlik but that whisper persisted. 

“You’ve been a bit off since we set everything up.” He said. He reached for a fruit but you paused and glared at him. He retreated. He’d have to wait like everyone. 

“I’m well,” you said. You couldn’t deny that the voice had left you unsettled. Senaka’s unexpected visit was days ago, but it had seeped out of your memory. You’d put the palm quire he’d given you away, unsure what to do with it. There had been no sign of him, no whisper for days. Not until now. You glanced back at the forest line several times while laying out the blanket and arranging the pillows. When you helped Qifrey pitch the canopy you’d messed up the sigil’s twice. Simple spells you should have been able to do with your eyes closed, but couldn't. Olruggio had to step in and fix it.

“And when that straggler came by too.” He hummed. He was watching the girls run around in the field. “You didn’t tell us who it was.”

“It was nothing,” you said. Olruggio regarded you carefully and you avoided his eyes. 

“Are you sure?” Olruggio said, he shifted facing you, not letting you get run away from this, “because Qifrey and I—”

“Stars, are they high energy today or am I just getting old?” Qifrey said as he fell into the seat beside you. Your racing heart settled in his presence. When he smiled up at you, a little sweaty and breathless, you smiled back.

“You’re not getting old, darling.” You handed him an orange slice and he thanked you with a gentle kiss on the cheek. You handed Olruggio the next one. He took it cautiously, still trying to catch your eyes. When you made point to focus on the fruits in your hand he surrendered his attempts. He plucked the orange from its rind and tossed the fruit into his mouth.

“Impeccable timing, as always.” Olruggio muttered. You feel your stomach sour when he says it. You know he was only trying to help but you didn’t know what to say. Senaka was gone, or should be gone, and he wasn’t a problem anymore. 

Well he shouldn’t be but that voice sounded so much like him. Raspy in a strange way. The pitch was the same as when he was at your front door, filling you with that sense of unsettling fear but not knowing why you were scared.

And there was still the matter of the spell. If Olruggio decided to report it, Coco would surely be taken from you. 

Schlik. Schlik. Schlik.

You didn’t know what to do.

“Mama!” Tetia called to you. She was standing at your feet, posture proud and tall with her hands on her hips as she towered over you. Her mud dipped shoes were going to surely stain the cotton blanket but you had a spell for that.

“Come play with us.” 

“Tetia, I’m preparing lunch, how about after.” 

“Richeh won’t play anymore unless the three of you join. She says she doesn’t think you should be left out.” 

“We aren’t left out sweetheart, we like watching you.” She pouted and crossed her arms.

“And I don’t think Mr. Olruggio’s old weathered bones could handle it.” You saw a sliver of a grin poke from the corner of her lips.

“Oi, M’ not that old!” 

"Pleaseeeeeee.” You heard the whine begin to bubble. Oh no, here come the waterworks. She sniffled dramatically putting on a show she knew was going to work. And it did. You caved. You groaned as you stood, offering the girl a cut strawberry before letting her take your hand. "Yay!"

You yanked Qifrey to his feet and in turn he grabbed Olruggio by the collar who had sneakily plucked a handful of grapes from the bowl. His cheeks were stuffed and he almost choked when Qifrey made him stand. 

The three of you followed Tetia, hand-in-hand, to the crest of the hill where the other three girls stood. 

“Richeh thinks she can outrun the adults.” Agott said, “I told her that was pointless.”

“It’s a test.” Richeh said. Oh, she wanted to get back at Qifrey for capturing her earlier. You hid a smile. 

“But you hate tests…” Coco said, titling her head. 

“…not this one.” 

“Right,” Agott started, “so what are the rules then.”

“You,” she pointed to you and the boys, “have to catch all of us.” Well, how fair was that, you wanted to say. Those girls were nimble and far smaller than any of you. “If you can’t do it, Master Qifrey can’t make us do another lesson like that again.”

Agott scoffed, “don’t be ridiculous Richeh, we have to learn it can’t all be easy.”

“And what happens if we win?” Qifrey inquired. Olruggio muttered a quiet, “don’t encourage them.”

“We’ll do all the dishes,” Richeh said.

“What!” Agott said. Tetia whined.

“—for a week.”

“A week!” Agott’s voice cracked.

“Deal.” Olruggio said. The two of them stared at each other like fighters in a ring. It was rather silly given that Qifrey had to lean forward to meet her at eye level. Richeh stood on her toes, hands on her hips as she made her self as large as possible. Puffed up like a liongoat. 

Qifrey opened his mouth to commence their little battle but Richeh began without announcement.

She darted around you and you could’t help but smile as she, somehow, also skirted past Olruggio.

She clicked her heels together to give herself a little boost. She’s quick, you’ll give her that.

“Oi, you’re cheatin’ you brat!” Coco laughed as Olruggio spun on her, trying to grab her. She squealed and hit the ground rolling foolishly out of the way. The abrupt movement had Olruggio stumbling to keep himself from faceplanting in the soil.

It was a mess of arms and legs and yelling and laughter as you and the boys tried to herd in the girls. Just as Agott slipped between your legs, somehow successfully ducking under your skirt without getting tangled, you tripped and fell forward. Crashing right into Olruggio. 

“Woah—Ah!” You gripped his shoulders as the two of you teetered on the edge of the hill. You were losing balance and you felt Qifrey grab at the back of your top, trying to tug you towards him to stop the plummet but you both lurched the opposite way instead.

Gravity handled the rest. It took all three of you down. 

It wasn’t far and wasn’t long but you felt Olruggio bring his hands up to protect the back of your head as you rolled down the hill. You heard Qifrey’s grunt of force as he tried to stop himself from crashing into you. Your breath caught as at the sudden rush and the rich scent of grass and smoke. It was overwhelming.

When you hit the bottom of the hill you popped up immediately, running on a small shot of adrenaline.

You were half sprawled across Olruggio, cocked to the side and using his chest for stability, your hips and legs settled awkwardly on the ground. A strange side posture that wasn't all that comfortable. He gulped down thick swaths of air. His eyes were closed and he was laid out uncomfortable but he was no worse for wear. 

You checked him for injuries, no scrapes or bruises but there were blades of grass in his hair and dirt on his cheeks. He blinked, his eyes dazed, and you’re sure his head was spinning from the tumble. Yours certainly was. 

You felt a hand fall on your hip and you look over your shoulder to see that Qifrey had crawled to you. He’s just as much a mess. His dress had grass stains in various places, his glasses sat crookedly on his nose but he was also uninjured. 

His eyes darted from point to point on your body. Neck, shoulder, chest, and hands, making sure that nothing was out of place or bleeding. So, when he discerned that all was well he started to laugh. A rich sound that bubbled from his chest steadily. 

“I fear we may be as bad as the children,” he said. How ridiculous that all was. You laughed too as you thought about it. You were all far too big to be playing like this but how amusing it was. Qifrey situated himself into a sitting position, settled beside you and Orluggio's strange embrace. 

You refocused on Olruggio, cupping his cheeks as you questioned him, “Olly? You okay?” 

“Those damn kids are going to be the death of me.” He groaned, sitting up. You were still half in his lap, and his hand fell to your waist automatically. You pulled grass from his hair and tried to gently wipe the dirt from his cheeks. It only smudged. 

“They were just playing, it’s our fault really. None of us were paying attention.” You chuckled. 

Qifrey shuffled closer. His hand fell on Olruggio's shoulder, “Are you alright?" He inquired. Olruggio nodded, unfazed by the touching. “Yeah, yeah, I’ll be sore in the morning though.” When he fully opened his eyes, that dizzying daze no longer gripping him, they widened.

Both you and Qifrey were only inches from him, and he’d not realized until this moment. 

“Olly?”

“A-are you alright?” he asked you. His cheeks were pink, you hoped he hadn't burned.

“Yeah, I’m okay,” he’d kept the brunt of the impact off of you with his own body. 

Qifrey lifted his hand to the back of Olruggio’s head. Olruggio stiffened. You placed your hand on his chest as his face grew crimson. 

“Olly, are you sure you’re alright?” you asked.

Qifrey’s hand caressed the back of his head, fingers cradling him. Your hand had unknowingly slipped across the open plain if his shirt, your fingers brushing his skin delicately. His chest was clammy from running around and the pace of his heart was so fast you were genuinely starting to worry.

“Yes. Yes! I’m fine!” he said and he jerked away. You yelped as he stood. He shook his clothes and ran a hand through his hair. You looked up at him, confused. Have you done something?

“Mama! Master Olruggio!—”

“We’re down here girls!” Olruggio choked out. He buttoned his top closed and straightened the billowing sleeves. He looked around his feet as if seeking something he dropped, which he didn’t, all of his gear was still on the blanket. He patted his hips and then his chest and then mumbled something incoherently before practically sprinting away. 

Qifrey helped you stand, dusting your clothes. “Nothing hurts?" He asked gently. His hands twisted your hips from left to right as he double checked you for injury. 

“I’m okay, I swear. Did I….Did I say something wrong?” Qifrey ignored Olruggio’s march up the hill but you couldn’t break away from it. The girls crowded him, patting him as he would them and did circles around his frame to make sure he wasn’t bleeding. They were apologizing profusely. 

Qifrey squeezed your hand reassuringly.

“Lunch will be done soon.” You said and Richeh’s lip jutted out in a defeated pout. “Go on now.” You chuckled as you watched her waddle back to the table, climbing into her seat next to a wide-eyed Tetia who looked to be on the verge of tears. Qifrey pointed to a spell in the center of the table, his neat work on a large piece of parchment. 

“What is this the symbol for?” His voice was strained.

“Water,” Agott said confidently.

“Yes, and what is this one?” 

“Uhhh,” Coco looks between her notes and the example, “pressure.”

“Correct,” he pointed to a new symbol, a weird shape that was unlike the others, “this one?”

The table fell silent for a few moments before Tetia spoke up, “Fire?” She was just throwing out guesses at this point.

“…try again," he said.

You turned around to keep from laughing at the exasperated sigh your husband released. The girls just couldn’t grasp it, even Agott was struggling.  For all the things they have done and for all the things they will do, memorizing that was a battle like no other. The frustration was slowly mounting and you were positive this session was going to be washed away by big droplets of tears. It was a hard spell to learn, they’d have plenty of moments like this in the future but the waterworks would be significantly less. Hopefully. 

“What is this?” Qifrey asked again. His voice is even and calm, to the girls there is nothing off about it but you recognized his impatience immediately. 

Tetia sniffled, “I don’t know.” 

Qifrey sighed and placed his pen down, “I think it’s time for a break.” There was a whine and then a whimper and you immediately moved to stop it. 

“Girls, why don’t you get the plates set out and will one of you wake Olruggio for me?” They needed something else to do rather than sit and simmer in their self-loathing. They muttered pitifully before moving to help. Coco whispered encouragingly to Tetia as they put step-stools under the cabinets. Coco handed Tetia plates gently.

Qifrey rocked himself up from his seat and took just a few long strides to get to you. He grabbed the wooden spoon from your hand and bumped you to the side with his hip. You chuckled and wiped your hands on your apron. “You need a break too?” You said teasingly.

When he didn’t reply you molded yourself to his back and snuck your hands underneath his arms, moving them to curl across his chest. 

“Too much?” You muttered, positioning your chin on his shoulder. You had to toe up slightly to reach his height but it wasn’t awful.

He pushed the vegetables around mindlessly, shoulders sagging. “It is the hardest lesson yet.” 

You kissed beneath his ear and patted his chest, “they’ll get it eventually.” His frustration was palpable. You knew he wasn’t upset with the girls. He was upset with himself. Not being able to help them was an indication, in his mind, that he was a failure of a teacher. It was an insecurity that didn’t crop up often but when it did it was vicious and loud. 

You let him relax into you, the gesture was vulnerable and sated. You rested your cheek against his shoulder and watched Tetia and Coco place down silverware and napkins. You smiled empathetically as Tetia sniffled and rubbed her sleeve under her nose, her eyes rimmed red from holding back tears. Oh, sweet girl. You thought, you’ll be okay.

The quiet tinkering of the plates was soon interrupted by Agott’s reentry. 

“Master Olruggio refuses to get up,” she said.

You sighed, “that man…” Olruggio’s sleep schedule has been a disaster since you’d met him. He stays up too late and then wakes up too early. He’s exhausted half the time and typically runs on nothing but spite and stubbornness. Oh, and a bottle of wine.

Before you stepped away from Qifrey, he hummed. “Go easy on him.”

“No promises,” you said. 

You ruffled Agott’s hair as you passed her and just before you stepped down to the living space you paused. You turned on your heel and tried to collect a small glass of water that sat abandoned on the counter but Qifrey stopped you.

“Do not,” he said, his gaze a little less defeated and a little more amused.

You pouted, “fine…” 

You’d only ever dumped water on the sleeping man one time and it was the most successful wake up call you ever performed. Hilarious too. Well, to you anyways. Olruggio didn’t talk to you for the rest of the day. 

You heard Qifrey list off instructions to the girls as you descended the steps, your plan abandoned. 

You rolled your eyes when you found him. He was sprawled across the couch, one hand over his chest, the other behind his head with a knee cocked in the air. The contraptions he’d been working on were haphazardly strewed across the floor. He looked quite comfortable.

You stepped over his gadgets and poorly scrawled seals to reach him. “Olruggio.” You said, “get up.” 

He grumbled and shifted, “G’way, Agott,” he mumbled.

“I’m not Agott.” You said, hands on your hip. “Lunch is almost done, do you want food or not?” 

He shifted, scratching mindlessly at his chest as he sat up. He yawned, loud and large, and looked up at you with a sleep riddled gaze. “Ah, it’s yuh. I’m up, I’m up,” his hand slipped beneath his shirt as he stood, cupping the side of his chest as he gathered himself. He stepped forward, stumbled on his many toys, and nearly fell into you. 

You caught him with palms to his chest. Warm heat seeped through his shirt and he huffed, subconsciously pulling his hand from his body and wrapping it around one of yours for stabilization. 

“Shit, sorry. Still wakin’ up.” 

You stiffened, he was so close that the heat radiated off of him in waves. That strange fresh smell of someone who’d just woken up paired with the persistent scent of crackling fire that always followed him filled your nose. His hand was large enough to engulf yours and you relished in the texture of it, rough but not disturbingly so. Heavy but comforting. Exactly how they felt on your hip a few days ago.

“I-It’s fine,” your eyes caught his and you pointedly looked away, “just go to the table.” 

He chuckled and pulled back, swerving around you to follow the scent of the freshly cooked meal,  “and clean up this mess!” You said.

“Yeah yeah,” he said casually, running his hand through his hair. “Afta the meal.”

You nudged away the few rouge items at your feet and rung your hands in the fabric of your top, rubbing away the tingle that his touch left behind. Qifrey’s often left the same feeling. 

Before you could go and join them, there was a knock at the front door. You paused, who could that be? Alaira was out on an assignment for the Great Hall, Sinocia was swamped at the Spire and Beldaruit would have certainly made himself known without such a polite knock. You glanced at the clock. 6pm. It was a bit late for visitors over all and invites to the atelier were offered very rarely.

You pulled the door open curiously, “Hello? How can I—oh.”

Senaka stood on the porch, covered by a tweed brown overcloak. “Hello, Mrs.—?” 

“Is there something you need?” You asked politely. The cool evening air made you shiver.

His eyes trailed to the roof and then floated to the top of the door, soaking in the masonry of the small atelier. “Beautiful home, truly.”

“Thank you,” you said quickly, “but is there—“

“My love, who’s at the door?” Qifrey questioned from the kitchen. You looked over your shoulder and called back, “No one really! Just give me a second.” The statement landed hard and Senaka winced.

“Sorry, what did you say?” you asked.

“Ah yes, um, is this yours or one of your children’s?” He pulled a brown palm quire from his pocket. Oh, had the girls dropped it on the way home? You plucked it from his hand. The leather was tanned nicely and weighed nearly nothing. You flipped it over, looking back before flipping through the blank pages. Strange. There was a single seal etched into the back cover of the book, you don’t recognize it. You act like you don't see it and fight the hesitation in your response.

“Oh! Thank you, it is.” You said, slipping the notebook into the front of your apron. It's quick and finite. 

The man’s eyes widened, “Really? Amazing. I’m glad I was able to return it to its rightful owner.”

You both stood there, staring. His eyes bored into yours and your brow furrowed in confusion. “Is there something else?” 

He just watched. His gaze was empty, as if all of the color in his eyes had been sucked away, but his pupils were dilated. Wide, deep, endless darkness. That's all they were. Your ears started to ring and you found yourself frozen, like a deer on a busy road. The sound of Olruggio's deep laugh breaks the trance.

Senaka shook his head, as if clearing it of fog. “No, nothing at all.” He grinned but the smile reached further than it should have. You gripped the edge of the door, ready to close it now. You didn’t want to stand here anymore. 

“Right, then have a good evening.” 

“Yes, I will,” he said. You stepped back and let the door shift. Senaka did not move, not until he heard the squeak of the hinges and Coco’s voice in the background. When he leaned to the side, moving to get a look into your home you broke the line of vision with a quick side step and a click of the lock. You stared at the golden handle, your fingers flexing as you waited. 

When you heard him turn, shoes scuffing the cobblestone, his steps fading down the path, you relaxed. You glanced at your apron pocket before gathering yourself and turning. 

How did he find your house? Your atelier was in a relatively isolated location. Not many wandered up this way save for a few lost travelers and a confident trader. The laughter from the kitchen forces you to refocus. 

You don’t have time to ruminate. You'd do it later.

“Now, who’s ready to eat?” You marched up the steps and waved Qifrey away from the counter. 

“Who was at the door?” he asked as he slipped into a seat across from Olruggio. The girls sat at their own table, already waiting with plates piled high. They were always served first.

“Nothing,” you brushed it off, scooping spoonfuls of vegetables onto the plates Qifrey had been preparing. You finished the boys’ first and laid the plates gently in front of them. You could feel Qifrey watching you and you knew he has already picked up on something, but it's Olruggio who almost made you confess. 

He was looking at you with genuine concern. His brows were relaxed but there was a shine in his eyes that makes his focus all the more analyzing. When you retracted your hand, he laid his on your forearm. 

“Who was it?” he asked, though it translated more as a gentle command. You pull away smiling softly, “No one, just a hiker. They got lost on the road.”  

When you walked back to get your plate you used the girls as a distraction, asking them if their food was good and that dessert was going to follow after. With your back turned to them, you don’t see Olruggio look over at Qifrey. They spoke silently, eyes reading the atmosphere like a book. They knew something was wrong, but neither of them were going to pry. Not here, anyways. 

Qifrey nodded once at Olruggio who only grunted his response before reaching for his fork. 

“Scoot over, dear.” You stood at Qifrey’s side, food in hand and nudged him with your hip. He complimented your food as you settled next to him. Olruggio agreed but was too busy stuffing his face to say anything coherent. 

“Thank you,” you said. You smiled but you know it doesn’t reach your eyes and you can’t help but glance at the door every few minutes as the evening creeped on. 

Qifrey sunk into a pile of cushions that were stacked against the front of the couch, dressed in his pajamas, he soaked in the warmth of the nightly fire and the calm that had finally fallen over the atelier. You smiled and glanced at him as you poured tea into the three cups on the coffee table. Olruggio sat across from the two of you, tinkering away. He had yet to change out of his daily clothes. Honestly, you couldn't remember when he last moved from that spot. He'd been sitting there since after lunch.

“Are they asleep?” you asked. The girls had requested that Qifrey read them a story. A simple plot about a princess and witch falling in love. It was cheesy and cliche but they loved it and Qifrey had always been a good storyteller.

“Yes,” he groaned as he rolled out his shoulder, “the day exhausted them.” 

Following lunch and a much needed break, Qifrey had gathered the girls for another attempt at learning the spell. He was determined to get them to understand and, eventually, they did. It took two crying spells from Tetia, a well-timed curse from Richeh and a couple of ripped palm quire’s from Agott, but they got it. 

The lesson, however, had used up all their energy and as soon as they were done they wanted to eat dinner and go straight to bed. But, when Coco came down a minutes, dressed in her nightgown and peaking around the corner shyly, she asked Qifrey if he could read them a story. He couldn’t say no. They deserved something after such an arduous day.

You pushed a cup towards Olruggio who grunted in thanks, still focused on his product. You were the only other dressed in pajamas, a cotton night gown that just barely brushed the floor when you walked, ghostly in nature but so very comfortable. 

“Do you think it will stick?” You asked Qifrey. He hummed and glanced at the tea, swirling it a few times before speaking, “yes, hopefully, I just—I was just hoping that we wouldn’t have to learn in such a way.” 

“You’re starting harder topics Qifrey, they’re going to struggle.” 

“But they should not be reduced to tears.” 

“It’s not you,” you reassured him. You took a sip of your tea, “they were just frustrated. It’s all very normal.” 

“But I don’t like being the cause of it, they will associate me with—”

“They’ll associate yuh with bein’ a good teacher.” Olruggio suddenly said. He blindly reached for his cup, taking a casual drink before going back to his work. When he placed it down his hand lingered over the rim. “Yuh’re doing a fine job.” 

As if he realized what he said he paused and glanced at the two of you. Qifrey’s face softened at the compliment, “thank you, my friend.” 

He scoffed, “it’s nothin’, you’re good parents. I mean—well,” he was stumbling over his words. His ears reddened with each passing second.  “It’s obvious. Yuh’re a whole lot better than half of the teachers out there.” 

You giggled, “that’s sweet of you to say, Olly.” 

“I’m jus’ sayin’,” he refused to meet your eyes.

“Where would we ever be without you?” You said.

“Lost,” he snorted.

“Olly,” you said, voice soft but commanding. 

“Hm?” he only glanced up briefly, eyes catching how Qifrey’s free hand fell to your thigh, squeezing it affectionately. Olruggio pursed his lips.

“I’m serious.” 

“About what?” 

“We wouldn’t be able to do any of this without you. You keep the atelier afloat.”

Olruggio snorted, “yeah I’m sure—”

“Olruggio,” you scolded. “Everything you do around here makes our lives so much easier, you care for the girls just as much even if you don’t want to admit it. I don’t know where’d I’d be if you weren’t here." Your eyes gleamed with sincerity.

He doesn’t really say anything in response but the blush that coated his cheeks was enough to tell you he received the compliment. He’d never admit how much it flustered him, though.

Olruggio took a drink of his tea and cringed. He brought the cup to his nose and sniffed it before taking another sip. 

“What?” Qifrey asked. “What’s wrong with it?” he took great pride in his tea blends, spending hours meticulously weighing each herb, flower, and spice to make the perfect balance. 

“What’d yuh put in this?” Olruggio asked. 

“It’s the sleep blend?” You said, thinking back to the jar you had plucked from the shelves. Top shelf, unlocked cabinet, dark green bottle with a cork top. You brought your cup to your nose and smelt it. Qifrey did the same. Lavender and Chamomile, a mild drop of lemon and honey, simmered valerian root. 

“Smells like the other blend.” Olruggio said as he took another long drink. Qifrey jumped. He looked offended by the accusation even though you didn't know what that accusation was.

“No it doesn’t!” He hissed. He carefully rolled the liquid on his tongue as he tried to determine the flavor. 

“What other blend?” you asked. You didn’t know everything Qifrey kept in the cabinet but you knew which ones for sleep and energy. For only the adults and the ones safe for children. Qifrey had a carefully detailed system that worked rather well. It was easy for the girls to go in without help and get what they wanted even when an adult was not around.

Olruggio raised a brow, his contraption forgotten on the floor next to him. You still don't know what he's working on. It looked mechanical. “Oh, you’ve never told her?”

Qifrey flushed and your curiosity took root. “Told me what?” Qifrey refused to make eye contact with you and that only fueled you more. “What blend?”

Qifrey hid very little from you, but you knew there were things that he would never tell you. Not because he didn’t trust you but because he trusted you too much.

You can’t imagine a tea blend being one of those things though.

“Do not tell her,” Qifrey muttered, embarrassed. 

“I am,” Olruggio said, “back when he first started—”

“Olruggio!” Qifrey moved, ready to launch across the table to cover his mouth but Olruggio pushed him away with a palm to the face.

Olruggio laughed, “Back when he first started making this stuff he accidentally combined a bunch of herbs that did the opposite of relaxing the body. And he made me try it.” 

You tiled your head, “What? was…was it caffeinated?” When Qifrey averted his gaze and Olruggio side eyed the man with a smirk, your eyes widened in realization, “you did not!” 

“It was an accident! I didn’t know!” Qifrey’s cheeks bloomed pink. 

“Aphrodisiac flowers come 'n all sorts of varieties apparently.” Olruggio said. He slowly brought cup to his lips, regarding you mischievously. “He didn’t know what he was doin'.”

“They had relaxation properties and you couldn’t sleep!” 

“Yeah and then I definitely couldn’t sleep after I drank that mess.” 

You watched the two of them bicker back and forth, eyes darting from one man to the next. Olruggio’s got a shit-eating grin on his face and Qifrey is so bright he matched the flames in the hearth. 

You snorted, trying to stop the laughter from bubbling up but it was futile. They both quieted when it echoed their argument. 

“So,” you said, wiping away tears “what did you do?” 

It was Olruggio’s turn to flush. He scratched his chin. “Uh, well…” 

“He made me drink some too, when we realized what was happening.” 

“And…?”

“I drank it and we…um,” Qifrey looked away. You knew that the two of them had some obscure form of a relationship when they were young. Somewhere between a couple and not, they walked a strange line of affection with one another. It never bothered you and sometimes the fact that it didn’t bother you bothered you. All things considered, you were living with your husband’s ex-boyfriend. Kinda. You should've had reservations about it but you never did.

“We slept together.” Olruggio was looking into the flames when he said it. The firelight danced in his eyes but there’s odd longing behind the reflection. Your chest aches but not in a way that tells you its jealousy. 

Qifrey groaned and leaned back against the couch covering his red face, ashamed. “Please do not think less of me, it was before we met.”

“Long befor' the two of yuh met,” Olruggio watched you from the corner of his eye. The light hearted atmosphere had shifted and there is a weight that settled over the three of you. You don’t really say anything. The image of the two of them, pressed against each other, desperate and seeking release, lit a fire in your core that should'nt be there. 

You opted to drink your tea, hiding the heat you know has bloomed across your cheeks. 

Qifrey sighed, “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have—”

You smiled, “there’s nothing to be sorry about. You were young, I can’t say I wouldn’t have done the same.” The comment made Olruggio freeze and he shuffled to get his gear. You hoped you didn’t run him off, the conversation was a bit more crass than you were used to having with them but you were all adults. There were no kids around and it was late. You were allowed to relax a little. Have a little fun.

There was a sudden scuffle from the kitchen, a soft scratching sound that you were all too familiar with. 

“Stuck again?” Qifrey inquired as he looked over at the darkened landing. 

You nodded, “he must have snuck in while I was putting dishes away.” There was a soft whimper and you stood. The resident brush buddy always had a habit of finding himself in strange places around the atelier, most of the time he could wiggle his way out but in the kitchen he could not. “I’ll get him.” You stepped over Qifrey, hiking up the hem of your dress for better movement. He held up a hand in case you tripped.

When you turned, Olruggio watched as the firelight illuminated your bare figure beneath the white cotton gown. Deliciously silhouetted by shadow and moving like water, your body swayed as you walked towards the kitchen. 

When he pried his eyes away from you, ashamed that he let them linger for so long, they were captured by Qifrey’s intense gaze. He watched him over the edge of his tea cup, over his glasses, blue eyes focused. The fire shadowed his jaw seductively. Olruggio blinked. Qifrey’s gaze wasn’t threatening, there was no fight in them, no challenge. Olruggio wanted to say something but couldn’t. What would he say? Your wife is naked under that gown and I can’t help but ogle her. Can I stare a little longer? 

But, to Olruggio’s shock, the way Qifrey regarded him made it clear that he didn’t mind that Olruggio’s study was longer than it should have been or how his focus was on that of his wife. 

He was sure that he was tired and the low light translated it all incorrectly but it looked like Qifrey was welcoming the action. Inviting it even. 

She is beautiful, isn’t she? His eyes whispered. Go on, look a bit longer, drink her down like I do.

He'd seen that look only once before, when he was whimpering beneath him while they were chasing each other’s pleasure, high on badly measured tea and desperate for release. He didn’t think he’d ever see it again. Let alone directed at him and about you. 

She was always so quiet. A soft voice, paired with soft steps and an even softer temperament, left her not forgotten but easily camouflaged. She could slip in and out of a room without being noticed, even with that bright hair of hers. 

“What are you working on?” She asked, tilting her head. 

You reached for her and she stepped forward. You brought her between your legs, leaving your knees to hover near her hips and you jerked your chin over her shoulder. You pointed at the lever and Richeh, fully immersed in your explanation, pressed her palms into your knees as she leaned back. 

“Your music player from Master Qifrey?” Her small hands plucked at your skirt.

You hummed in acknowledgement, “It’s broken, look,” you reached around her and turned it, the player sputtered. Richeh tried it herself, “we can fix it.”

“And do you have an idea of how?” You asked.

She hummed, her lips pursed as she leaned in to examine it, “…no.” 

You chuckled, ruffling her hair, “well if you come up with anything, let me know, okay?” Richeh seemed rather engrossed in trying to repair the thing. With her chin on her hand, she studied the smudged sigils that lined the side of it. Volume, speed, and time related spells that kept the thing going without much human interaction. That was as much as you were able to decipher. You weren’t sure if she would understand more, but who knows? She was bright.

“Let’s not ponder too much,” you said, fondly placing your hand on her head, “We’ve got somewhere to be.” 

As if on queue you heard incoherent hollering from the girls' rooms. You both looked up and watched as Tetia trapeze down the steps with a bag in her hand and a grin on her face. 

“Give that back!” Agott yelled. She came rushing after her, face flushed. 

“But I wanted to see!” Tetia cried out as Agott descended upon her. “It’s so pretty, you never make stuff like this! Coco was making one similar yesterday, right? A little ink bag.” The statement only made Agott flush. Coco came stumbling after them, her hands shaking placidly as she tried to calm the two.

“Tetia, that’s Agott’s,” she looked nervous, eyes darting between the girls. You raised your brow curiously. While they did fight, it was extremely rare. Families always had their quarrels and if you knew anything about sisterhood you knew that sometimes they were something vicious. Even if it was just over a little ink.

Tetia, thinking it was better to cause more of a ruckus than end it, darted to the opposite side of the table to avoid Agott, the meager ink pouch held in her hand. From what you could see it was decently constructed if not a bit uneven and patchy. 

“What is going—” You tried to gather their attention but their bickering drowned you out. 

“Give it back, Tetia!” 

“But it’s cute! I want to show Master Qifrey.” Agott’s face was lit aflame.

“Children.”

“Tetia!” Coco squeaked. Now the pink haired girl was pinned between Coco and Agott and she simply found it amusing. Your voice fell on deaf ears and you sighed as you felt an oncoming headache. “My lord, childr—” 

“Girls, enough.” All of the children froze, including Richeh who clutched your skirts silently, as Olruggio’s voice commanded them from afar.

“What is goin’ on?” He asked. He moved casually from his perch, descending the stairs and approaching you with a basket in hand. You thanked him appreciatively, it was a woven piece you’d often used for groceries and had broken just a few days ago when you were lugging herbs in from the garden. You’d tripped over a rouge brush buddy and stepped on the handle, cracking it right in half. 

You thumbed the newly woven wicker as you watched him. 

“N-nothing, Master Olruggio.” Coco started, trying to keep the peace. “Tetia just—!” 

“Tetia took my things and won’t give them back!” Agott accused pointing at the girl. 

You always admired how Olruggio handled the girls. Both you and Qifrey had a bad habit of letting them get away with things. You were stern but when they looked up at you with those big puppy dog eyes you tended to buckle, and it worked on Qifrey more often than it did you. Olruggio though, the girls had to work to get him to side with them. Olruggio didn’t put up with the bickering and the pouting, he made them stand tall and speak confidently when they wanted something. While he disciplined them far less often, respecting how you and Qifrey were raising them, when he spoke up it meant the children were uncharacteristically out of line.

He ignored Agott’s yelling and Tetia’s whining as he tied his cloak around his shoulders. He nodded towards the two who weren’t creating chaos, “Richeh, Coco, go get yuh coats an’ caps.” The two scurried off obediently. 

“Rain shoes girls, the ground is still soft!” You called after them.

Olruggio reached for your cloak, where it lay draped over the banister. He approached you while addressing the girls that remained. 

“Tetia, should yuh have taken Agott’s things withou’ permission?” He asked. He shook out your cloak and unbuckled the front clasp before stepping in front of you and swinging it around your shoulders. Your immediate reaction was to tell him he didn’t need to do all of that, but Tetia interrupted you. 

“N-no, but—” 

“There are no ‘buts’,” Olruggio said, he brushed away the dust at your shoulders and adjusted the fabric that draped over your front. “Tha’ is not yours.” Tetia handed the small pouch back to Agott who quickly shoved it into her pocket. 

“Agott,” Olruggio said, as he placed your cap in your hand. It’d been sitting on the coffee table. “Do we yell like that when there’s a problem?” 

“...no, sir.” 

“What should we have done?” 

“Get an adult…” she kicked her toe against the hard wood, gaze low.

“Good, now apologize t’one another an’ go get yuh things. We’re leaving shortly.” 

You smiled softly as you watched the two girls offer each other defeated apologies before they left to go gather their cloaks and caps. You looked at Olruggio, “thank you.” 

He shrugged, “they’ve been testy lately. Bein’ cooped up in here has done ‘em no good.”

This spring season has been wrought with storms, and you all, more often than not, have had to stay indoors. Today was one of the only clear days the atelier had seen in weeks and thank god, because you were down to your last loaf of bread and a block of cheese that was starting to grow a second life. You needed to head to Kalhn…for both home goods and your sanity.

When the girls were ready and the carriage was secured you all piled in. The wide seats accommodated the children comfortably. You and Olurrgio sat directly across from one another, while the girls split themselves into two beside you and him. When Olruggio tapped the roof, the pegasus jolted and the carriage soared through the sky. The girls spoke amongst one another, much calmer than they were moments ago while you struggled to un-twist the embellishments of your cloak. You sighed in frustration, the tassels had some how managed to hooked themselves carelessly to the buckles.

Olruggio’s large hands settled over yours and gently pulled at the threads.

“Where is Master Qifrey?” Agott asked. 

“Meetin’ with a client, he’ll catch with us in Kalhn,” Olruggio said, not looking away from his work. When the tassels fell away he mumbled in satisfaction. The sound made you pause and your eyes caught his as they lingered on your skin that poked out of your collar. When you adjusted your shoulder, the image of your flesh falling away, he cleared his throat and moved to look out of the window. You observed him for only a second before smiling at the girls. 

“Now, would we like to play our game this trip?” 

Tetia cheered, “Yes!” 

You laughed and pulled a set of lists from your pocket, handing each child a page. “Remember, you should all work as a team.” You gave Tetia and Agott a pointed look, “and?” 

“Whoever finishes the list first gets to pick something from the Starry Sword!” Coco said cheerfully. 

It was a simple game, the girls would race against each other in groups of two to gather all of the items on their list with a limited amount of money. There were never penalties for ‘losing’ but there were rewards for finishing first. You only ever did this when they were willing to. It was a fun activity that taught them time and money management along with speaking and navigational skills. They’d have to talk to vendors to get the best deals, keep track of their cash, pick the right produce and work together to do it all in a decent amount of time. In the future, when they started working with their own clients, they would be far more prepared to negotiate with the more…stubborn ones of the bunch. 

“Tetia and Agott,” you started “you will work together today.” Both girls nodded, expecting it. 

“That leaves you and me, Richeh!” Coco said. 

“Yes.” Richeh replied. 

A little game never hurt anyone.

The market was packed, nearly shoulder to shoulder. Which meant you weren’t the only ones who thought it was a good idea to take advantage of the nice weather. Olruggio helped you down from the carriage and just as the girls were about to disappear into the fray, he whistled, “Oi, yuh have two hours and we meet at the park. Understood?” They saluted him, all grins and giggles before ducking into the sea of people. 

You chuckled and thanked the man, “a bit of peace and quiet?”

“With this crowd, hardly.” He grumbled. He stood close to you. Heat radiated off of him like a furnace but it was surprisingly comforting in this atmosphere. 

“How much money did you give those kids?” He asked as you weaved in and out of the masses. The front stalls were the most crowded but it started to calm as you got closer to the city center. 

“Hm…enough.” You said playfully. You always gave them a little extra cash to buy themselves something. You knew what each of them would come back with. Tetia would be carrying a small bag of chocolate. Richeh with a new trinket. Coco with a little accessory for her brushbuddy and Agott would come back with nothing. She hoarded her cash until she saved enough to get something big. 

“Yuh spoil ‘em,” he said. 

“As if you don’t?” you countered, he looked away. You see what he does for them. It’s often small. Extra servings at dinner, letting them get away with things that Qifrey wouldn’t, offering them contraptions that solve problems that are unique to each girl. He tried to act aloof but he loved seeing them smile and he loved seeing them safe.

You opened your mouth to tease him further but a young man crashed into you nearly sending you to the ground if it wasn’t for Olruggios fast reflexes, “Oi! Watch where you're goin'!” The boy didn’t stop but you figured he wouldn’t. You patted Olruggio’s arm as he balanced you back on your feet. 

“Y’alright?” You hummed in response. You were a little startled but not harmed. You heard annoyed cries from the crowd as the kid continued his race. Crowded, indeed.

“Let’s just get off the street,” you said, searching for a stall you recognized. Ah, the repair shop! You grabbed Olruggio’s wrist and tugged him along. He followed without any protest. When you pushed back the curtain you were greeted by a portly man with oil stains on his forehead and an unruly beard.

“Hi, darlin’, what can I help you with?”

“I’m looking for a crank, for an old record player.” 

“Ah,” he wiped his greasy hands on his apron, “let me see if I have some, it's been awhile since I’ve sold any. You know how big it needs to be?”

You grimaced, “uh, no, unfortunately.” 

He chuckled, “that’s alright just give me a sec.” He disappeared behind the counter, tucking into a room that was piled high with gear and gadgets. 

Olruggio observed a cuckoo clock in the corner, it chimed at the 30 minute mark. “What do you need it for?”

“The record player in the living room broke, I’m still trying to figure out the spells used on it but the manual crank needs a replacement. It only plays for a few seconds before it dies.” Olruggio hummed, “ah, an’ do you know what yer doin’?” 

You chuckled, “no but I was gonna guess until something worked.” Olruggio chuckled and the sound made your chest ache. 

The older man slipped back into the room, digging through a rusted bucket of spare parts, “I don’t think I have what your looking for, must have sold the pieces and forgot. I’m sorry darlin’”

You wave your hand casually, “it’s alright.” 

“Try Louis at the end of the street, he’s got parts for instruments. He may have it. Don’t tell him I sent you through.” You smiled and nodded offering him a gentle thank you for his time before stepping back to it into the market place. Bummer, you’d simply have to wait to fix it then. Something was bound to crop up eventually. 

“Off to get the food then,” you said, Olruggio used his body to carve you a path. You didn’t really notice but the crowd did, they parted for him like water.

“Are you alright with stew this week? It’s been awhile.” You’d wanted to make some during the rain storms but you didn’t have the ingredients. You needed bones for the broth and the last time you cooked a full chicken was weeks ago. 

Olruggio grunted, “you know I’ll eat whateva’ yuh cook.” 

You smiled and held up a head of cabbage, “if I get some bacon will you make those things again.” Olruggio rolled his eyes, “yeah, just put'em in the basket. I’ll buy.” You silently cheered. You were a well enough cook and actually did most of it out of everyone in the household but there were some dishes that only Olruggio and Qifrey could make. Not because they were difficult but they always tasted so much better made by their hands. 

You tapped your chin as you continued down the line, greeting familiar vendors with a warm smile and waving at the little ones that sat stationed in the back. The produce looked divine, surprisingly. The wet weather did little to deter their growth. You plucked tomatoes and carrots from one stall, apples from another. Your favorite flour for dough and some spices for seasonings. You bartered with a gentle tongue and made enough deals to save you some cash.

“Y’okay if I step off for a second. Want to check that place out.” He nodded towards a newly opened contraption shop, run by a younger woman and her father. They made easy to cast contraptions readily available for the public. Olruggio had talked about wanting to visit a few weeks ago. 

“Yeah, go ahead. I’ll be here.” 

When you reached the end of your list you spent a moment looking over the wine at Mrs. Hannah’s stall. She was an interesting woman with only one eye and a pesky cat but she did make the best liquor in Kalhn and you knew the boys were running low. 

Qifrey doesn't drink as much as Olruggio does but you knew he liked to partake every so often. You turned the bottle over in your hand, a little to expensive. 

You wondered when Qifrey was. He left the atelier much earlier, before the girls even woke. You'd seen him just long enough to get a kiss good morning and a kiss goodbye before he slipped out the door. Him taking a client is extremely rare given his obligations to the girls but he said it was an opportunity he simply couldn’t pass up. When you tried to pry the information out of him, he smiled sweetly and told you not to worry.

Which, honestly, made you worry. A little.

While you were examining a bottle of rich apricot wine you felt a tap on your shoulder. Your head turned. At first you thought it was the boy from before, coming to apologize for the ruckus he caused, but it clearly wasn’t. 

“Name's Senaka.” He said confidently. He was a few years older than you based on the smile lines that decorated his face, but still relatively young with warm brown eyes and slightly crooked teeth.

You offered your name politely but didn’t say anything else. 

“So, Hannah’s homemade wine?” He mused, “the stuff’s strong.” You caught Mrs. Hannah taking a long drag of her cigarette as she watched your exchange. 

“Um, I don’t really drink. It wouldn’t be for me.” You said.

“My girls love a good drink,” he laughed, his smile was charming but that’s all you would give him credit for, “the two of them can put me under the table with how much they can gulp down.” You paused, ah. You knew where this was going. “They’ve even hoping for another drinking buddy, since I can’t keep up.”

He was trying to recruit another wife.

It wasn’t unusual for witches to take more than one partner. It’s an old tradition that can be traced back to the end of the war, where witches would tie themselves to multiple families to ensure the security of their legacies and the safety of their practice. While many of those unions still existed and were legally recognized, they were significantly less common. 

No one really wanted their marriages to be treated like a trade. Your hand for mine. His hand for hers. The magic stays in the family, the power comes with the name. The lifestyle does attract a manipulative lot who often took advantage of the system to gain things for themselves. Whether it be more money, more power, more sex, there was a benefit to the exchange that was almost addictive.

While you'd never thought about adding a third to your marriage and Qifrey has never brought up the possibility, you wouldn't be against it if it were the right person. 

“Are you married?” He asked. 

“Yes.” You said, picking up another bottle. Peach, delicate, sweet, light. Discounted. You reached for the cash in your breast pocket and handed it to Mrs.Hannah. A small black, yellow eyed cat popped up when she went to take it, his tail caressing your wrist, blessing the exchange.

“Hm, children?” 

She handed you your change, it’s twice what it should be but from the glint in her eye you knew she did it on purpose. For your troubles. 

“A few.” 

He whistled, “wow, must be a happy marriage.”

“Very.”

“You’re gorgeous,” he chuckled “so I’m not surprised that you—ah.”

You squeaked when a hand slid along your lower back and settled on your hip. 

“Everythin’ alright, honey?” You looked up and nearly choked. Olruggio observed you casually, as if approaching you like this was the most normal thing in the world. His fingers were stretched across your hip; they didn’t press or poke, but they felt like lead weights. Have they always been that big? 

“O-oh,” play along you thought to yourself, play along. The ring on your finger glints as you point at your basket. “Look at what I found, your favorite!” Olruggio casually reached for it with his other hand, making sure to pull you in a bit closer as he examined the label thoughtlessly. 

Senaka tried to speak again, Olruggio cut him off. “The good stuff, thank you.” He brushed his chin against the side of your head in such a way that the angle looks like he kissed you. His narrowed eyes catch Senaka’s over the crown of your head.

“Can I help you?” He asked but before Senaka could reply he’s interrupted again by your actual husband. 

“Darling, there you are! I’m sorry it took so long, I meant to join you all much earlier. But, look at this pen set I found. It’s adorable, perfect for the girls. Do you think—” He paused when he noticed how Olruggio clung to you, how you were tucked carefully into his side as the dark haired man looked at him over his shoulder. 

“There y’are,” Olruggio said, “come here. Our wife has a bit of stuff t’carry.” 

…our wife? Qifrey blinked. He looked between you and Olruggio. You knew he wouldn’t suspect anything untoward about the situation but you couldn’t help but be nervous under his careful eye. When he noticed Senaka, his face relaxed in realization. 

He stepped forward, slipping the package into your basket and grabbed for the handle. He pulled it away delicately and kissed your cheek. 

“It’s okay,” you tried to take it back but he held it out of your grasp.

“Let ‘im take it, honey.” There that nickname was again. You shivered. 

They slipped into this shared roll a little too easily.

Qifrey’s shoulder brushed yours and for the first time in your life you’re intimidated by them. Not in a way that caused you to fear or made you feel like you needed to cower. It was just…intense and the sensation that filled the pit of your stomach was something you wouldn’t even be able to share in a confessional. 

Olruggio’s grip on your waist tightened when the man in front of you examined you like you were a freshly purchased center piece. You felt Qifrey’s hand twitch against the back of yours. 

There was a sudden gasp and the tension snapped as you craned your head over your shoulder to find the source. 

A middle aged woman clutched her collar as your four children slid around a group of people, nearly toppling into a stray vegetable cart. You winced. No one was hurt and they missed the cart by a hair but the near crash made your heart skip. When they spied you, they rushed forward, crashing into the backs of one another as they skid to a halt. Agott, then Tetia, then Richeh followed by Coco, yelling and waving their purchases like victory pennants. 

Olruggio quickly dropped his hand and casually stepped away.

Qifrey smiled crouching to their level. He's well acquainted with their race, he's the one who created it. “and who won?”

“We did!” Both pairs yelled. You laughed, reaching over and prying them apart. You brushed the dust from their cloaks and smoothed down their wild hair,  “Oh, a tie?” 

Senaka was forgotten as you spoke, standing to the side of the family like a ghost. 

“Oh hello, sir. Did you need something?” Coco asked, ever observant. She greeted him kindly and he seemed to receive it well. He opened his mouth to speak but paused when he caught sight of her bright hair and cap. He looked back at Qifrey and then to her. “Nothing, my friend.”

Senaka’s gaze lingered on Coco. She tilted her head, inquiring silently as to why he was there. She doesn't recognize him and it doesn't seem like the adults did either. 

“No, he was just leavin’ weren’t yuh?” Olruggio said.

Senaka blinked, prying his gaze away from the girl and looking at you. “Yes, right, well…have a wonderful day.” He bowed with his cap in hand before turning, his cloak billowing behind him as he disappeared into the crowd. 

“Curious, I’ve never seen that pattern before.” Qifrey hummed. Most witches recognized each other’s cap designs. It was a calling card, an identifier. You knew what atelier they were a part of, who their teacher was, where they lived. But Senaka’s was unknown to the both of you. 

“Neither have I,” you said, watching the man leave.

“Master Olruggio, look what we got!” 

“You girls cause nothin’ but trouble.”

“It’s this contraption that Agott found,” Richeh said, “got it from the new store.”

“Let me see that.” 

You attempt to sit up but are pulled back down by a pair of equally sweaty and hot arms. Your slightly hungover brain slowly registers that the weight pulling you down is none other than both of your lovely partners, whom you would love nothing more than to get away from because of the unbearable heat you all collectively generate.

“My dears… please…” you plead, your arms straining against their hold as they lovingly try to pull you back into their embrace. “It’s so hot and sweaty… and it’s still too early.”

While actively trying to escape their strong hold, you look back at Qifrey. “Aren’t you supposed to be preparing something for the girls?”

“They aren’t usually—” Qifrey grunts, trying with all his might to reel you back in. “—awake during this hour.”

Olruggio groans, attempting to pull you down further. “Jus’ come back to bed.”

“And… respectfully, it’s not like this isn’t our first time being hot and sweaty together,” Qifrey says smoothly, followed by Olruggio’s deep laugh that shakes the hanging bed, each tremble echoing throughout your very being.

As quickly as it came, that flustered state is cut short when another bead of sweat pulls you out of the lovely bubble you had been in.

“Okay— seriously, let’s get uUP—!”

You are quickly interrupted as Qifrey locks his arms around your waist and forcibly drags you back down.

Olruggio snuggles closer, his nose buried into the crook of your neck as he inhales contentedly at your scent, no matter how sweaty you may be. “Just stay. It’s rare that we get a quiet moment like this.”

Your own body betrays you as it starts to relax into their hold, your muscles seemingly melting into theirs like puzzle pieces.

…sssnap!

Your eyebrows furrow at the sound. You look around, eyes narrowing as you try to find the source of the noise. You spot it. One of the many ropes responsible for keeping the hanging bed well… hanging.

Your previously tipsy state vanishes as realization sobers you up.

“Um… guys?”

They both hum at the same time and at the same pitch before laughing at their synchronization. Moments like these always catch you a little off guard. The ease between them is effortless, years of history woven into tiny habits you aren’t always quick enough to follow.

From their heavy laughter, the bed shakes again and your eyes widen as the rope begins to…

…sssnap!

“Both of you stop moving, the bed is going to break,” you say hurriedly, desperately trying to get them to notice.

You’d think Olruggio, out of the three of you, would be the one noticing that his own bed was literally hanging on by a thread, but instead his tipsy state gives him the courage to make a joke.

“It’s not our first time breaking a bed.”

They both laugh and wheeze at the joke before a concerningly loud SNAP bounces off the walls.

Their laughter quickly dies down as their eyes snap toward the noise. You look up and a breath of relief escapes you as you realize you all have not fallen. One rope has snapped and landed on your torso while the remaining ropes still cling to the metal hooks nailed into the brick wall.

“Okay, now you guys notice? C’mon, what if we were actually in danger?”

Qifrey, ever the charmer, presses a chaste kiss onto your cheek. “We’re sorry, love.”

From your neck, Olruggio gives you a small kiss as well.

“Should we be worried about the other suspenders?” you ask as you point toward the remaining three intact ropes.

Suddenly, all three nails keeping the ropes secured snap from the wall, sending the three of you crashing onto the stairs below.

Olruggio lands flat against the stairs, you falling on top of him and cushioning yourself, while Qifrey desperately grabs onto the wooden frame of the bed in an attempt to steady himself, his legs sprawled across your body.

Qifrey, dazed from the fall, mutters, “Well… you’re out of bed now.”

You and Olruggio can only groan in response.

Olruggio lays on the couch, fingers pressed to his temple as he attempts to soothe the avalanche of a headache plaguing him.

In the kitchen, you and Qifrey prepare breakfast for the entire atelier.

You walk toward your hungover lover to try and soothe him, but he swats your hand away.

“I’m fine… dun’ worry ‘bout me,” he mumbles unconvincingly, his words slurring with every consonant.

You playfully roll your eyes. “We both know that’s not true. Now let us help you. You never accept me or Qifrey’s help!”

His brows knit together, one raised higher than the other. “As if you and Qifrey are any different!”

You laugh. It’s true. All three of you have a difficult time accepting help, but that refusal comes from not wanting to make life difficult for others. So the fact that he refuses for that reason only makes you want to help him more.

“You too! You are actively refusing our help in this very moment!”

Qifrey joins the two of you, hangover cure in hand. “Here, my star. Drink.”

Olruggio takes one good look at the cure and immediately turns away. “No. Is that the raw egg and milk cure????”

“The very same.”

“You’re trying to kill me.”

You and Qifrey laugh, Qifrey hiding his giggles behind his hand.

Your laughter softens as you watch them bicker so naturally. They move around each other with such ease that sometimes you feel a step behind without meaning to.

“I’m joking. It’s water. It’s important to stay hydrated when you’re hungover.”

Olruggio carefully inspects the contents of the glass, making sure it truly is water. After concluding that it is, he drinks it.

You notice the shift in his eyes after the first gulp, his Adam’s apple bouncing rapidly before he exhales in satisfaction.

“Wow,” you say, slightly surprised. “You must be really thirsty.”

“Of course I am! That drinking game was—”

“Did someone say game?!” a high-pitched voice exclaims.

All three of you look up to see Qifrey’s apprentices, all donning their in-house uniforms.

Richeh sticks her chin over the stair railing. “I want to play too.”

Qifrey’s eyes light up at the sight of his beloved students. “Good morning, girls!”

“Good morning, Professor Qifrey,” they all say in unison, though with varying levels of enthusiasm.

Qifrey notices the lack thereof from Coco and Agott and makes a mental note.

Sometimes it amazes you how quickly Qifrey and Olruggio notice changes in the people around them. You still feel like you are learning how to keep up with that quiet attentiveness.

“What happened to Master Olruggio?”

“He’s just feeling a little sick,” Qifrey explains as he stands up. “Now, who wants breakfast?”

Coco approaches Olruggio with genuine concern, asking what she can do to help him recover. Judging by the worried expression on her face, she seems to believe he has come down with an actual illness.

Meanwhile, Agott, Richeh, and Tetia exchange knowing looks amongst themselves, the true cause of Olruggio’s condition painfully obvious to the three apprentices who are already more than accustomed to their masters’ antics.

Olruggio is somewhat conscious on the kitchen table, still nursing his better-than-before hangover, his forehead resting against the hard wood.

Qifrey watches your figure as you silently hover over Olruggio’s somewhat conscious body. He sees you hesitate and carefully measure your actions as if even a small mistake could mean catastrophe, though he doubts you could do anything of that nature.

You slowly lift Olruggio’s head and place a folded towel where his forehead meets the table.

You glance back at Qifrey, whose hands are occupied with preparing lunch, though his attention seems elsewhere. “A pretty penny for your thoughts?” you ask.

“You don't need a pretty penny, you simply need to ask,” he replies. “I’m just thinking about how lucky I am.”

His hands skillfully continue preparing the lunch for today’s outing while his gaze drifts toward Olruggio.

You smile softly. “He’s such a lovely person. We are both lucky to have him as our partner.”

“Not just him.” He pauses as he caresses your cheek, forcing you to look at him. “You as well.”

You flush instantly. “O-of course! I knew that… you meant me too.”

You smile awkwardly at him. “I knew that,” you blurt again, more to convince yourself than him.

But alas, his all-seeing eye notices everything.

He gives you a look that clearly says he doesn’t believe you before continuing to pack the lunches into baskets.

“What, pray tell, is the reason for your…” He pauses, searching for the right word. “Apprehension.”

You shake your head while placing the prepared lunches into the basket. “I… perhaps I feel a bit insecure. You and Olruggio have known each other since you were children, I—”

You look down, your hands lightly gripping the table. “I just feel out of place sometimes, like I’m getting in the way of something.”

He moves closer to you, his head leaning against your shoulder while his hand slips around your arm before resting within your palm.

“You are not getting in the way. Me and Olruggio knowing each other for years does not make our relationship with you any lesser or insignificant.”

“In fact…” he murmurs against your ear, effectively sending a chill down your spine, “I find it quite nice. While we know so much about each other already, me and Olruggio really love getting to know more about you.”

His eyes drift around, searching for an object to compare the situation to.

“To us, you are like a magic textbook. Something thrilling to explore and study.”

“Your mind, the people you know, the magic you cast… every bit of it, we love to learn.”

He steps away, still close enough for you to feel his warmth but far enough for you to fully see his face.

“But…” A teasing smile tugs at his lips. “There are other things we enjoy exploring as well.”

His gaze slowly trails over you, affectionate and unbearably knowing.

Your eyebrows raise in surprise. You quickly shove the finished basket into his arms before running toward your personal chambers in a fit of flustered embarrassment.

You hear him chuckle behind you.

You and Olruggio sit shoulder to shoulder on the picnic blanket, eating the lunch you and Qifrey lovingly prepared.

As you lean into Olruggio, you admire the peaceful scene before you: Qifrey and his students practicing magic.

It’s really nice watching this, seeing both Qifrey and Olruggio so deeply in their element.

“I heard your conversation. With Qifrey.”

He starts suddenly, and you feel yourself figuratively shrink.

“And…?”

“Well— I agree with Qifrey, though I can’t explain it as eloquently as him,” he admits, scratching the back of his neck.

A long stretch of silence falls between you before he finally asks:

“Why didn’t you tell us?”

“I… I don’t really know. I just didn’t want to be a burden. I didn’t want you and Qifrey to have to change to accommodate me.”

He exhales softly, the hand that had been scratching his neck now wrapping around your shoulders.

“You are never a burden, alright? And—”

“Then maybe you should do it yourself!”

You and Olruggio immediately look toward the source of the argument and see Coco and Agott bickering while Qifrey attempts to de-escalate the situation.

Your feet instinctively carry you toward the trio.

“What’s wrong?” you ask as you kneel down to meet Coco and Agott eye to eye.

“Every time I try casting it, Agott keeps correcting me before I can even finish!” Coco exclaims, tears already welling in her eyes.

Agott immediately fires back, sparks practically flying from her mouth. “I was trying to help you fix it before it became dangerous!”

“See?! You always do that!”

You place a comforting hand on each of their shoulders.

“Both of you, breathe. We are letting our negative emotions get the better of us.”

You demonstrate by taking a slow deep breath, and eventually they follow.

You turn toward Coco first.

“Now, Coco, why don’t you tell Agott how her words felt to you?”

“Um…” She fidgets nervously with her wand. “I know you were trying to help… but every correction made me panic more.”

Her eyes squeeze shut.

“It makes me feel like I’m doing everything wrong.”

“But if I don’t point it out, the spell could fail completely,” Agott insists, looking toward Coco.

“But you always sound so annoyed when you talk to me!”

“I’m not annoyed at you! I’m frustrated because you keep doubting yourself!”

Your eyes flicker between them.

It’s clear Agott truly just wants to be helpful; she simply struggles to communicate it properly.

And Coco… hears the criticism louder because of her own insecurities.

Agott’s words only deepen those fears.

You look directly into Coco’s eyes, desperate for your words to truly reach her.

“Coco, being corrected does not mean people are disappointed in you. Agott was only trying to help you improve.”

Then you turn toward Agott, gently brushing her curls away from her face.

“And Agott, being helpful also means considering how your words affect others emotionally. I know you more than anyone understand how hard Coco works to catch up. So try being a bit gentler, okay?”

Slowly, Coco and Agott pull each other into a soft embrace, silently exchanging apologies.

Tetia immediately joins the hug while Richeh quietly tugs at both their sleeves, pulling them even closer together.

Coco lets out a tiny sniffle as Agott blushes furiously beneath the affection.

You stand back up, smiling softly at the sight of their reconciliation.

Qifrey walks up beside you, whispering a quiet “Thank you” before pressing a kiss against your cheek.

Before returning to his students, his eyes drift past you.

When you glance behind yourself, you notice Olruggio staring back at him.

For a moment, you feel a step behind them.

Did you miss something? Why were they sharing that look? What did you miss?

Olruggio walks toward you, his expression both serious and soft.

But his affectionate gaze goes entirely unnoticed as your thoughts spiral violently in your head.

What if you stepped in where you weren’t needed? What if you never truly fixed the rift between them? What if—

“Hey.”

Your head snaps toward him.

His hand rests gently against your shoulder, concern clear within his eyes.

“Are you okay?”

You quickly look away, blinking your tears back. “Yes.”

He pulls you closer immediately.

“You can’t hide from me.”

You say nothing.

“Did it look like he didn’t want you there?”

You still don’t answer.

What could you even say to that?

“[Name], listen to me.”

“You add so much to us, to our relationship with Qifrey and…” He glances toward the scene before him. It resembles the one he saw earlier with you. But it’s different now.

Because it has been touched by you.

He nods his head to point at the apprentices. “To the kids.” 

You are then enveloped into a tight embrace. “You aren’t a burden, you never will be.”

“Now, like I said, I’m not as well spoken as Qifrey but–” He pulls away, staring deep into your eyes, much like you did with Coco. “Us adjusting to your needs, your wants, your life style? is the easiest thing we have ever done.”

You look into his tired eyes, eyes heavy from endless deadlines and late night work sessions. What you find isn’t exhaustion but the eyes of a man who loves you.

Just as the atelier is full of life in the early hours of the day, the atelier goes to sleep at the early hours of the night. (Due to Olruggio’s strict rules on the importance of a good sleep schedule.)

The girls had been sent off to bed together with their respective roommate, though not without complaints from Tetia, one last question from Coco, and Richeh nearly falling asleep at the dinner table from her food baby before Qifrey carried her upstairs himself.

Now only the three of you remained awake. 

This has become an unofficial tradition for you three, to let go of the stress from deadlines, teaching and insecurity.

The golden magical light illuminated the room as you and Olly diligently work on washing the dirty dishes.

You dried dishes while Qifrey stacked them inside the cupboard specifically for kitchen appliances, and Olruggio stood at the sink washing the last few cups.

The rhythm between the three of you was quiet and practiced.

Comfortable.

“Agott pretended not to care about dessert again,” Qifrey mused absentmindedly.

Olruggio snorted softly. “And then took the biggest slice after everyone else grabbed theirs.”

“She thought nobody noticed,” you added with a laugh.

“She gets that from you,” Olruggio muttered toward Qifrey.

Qifrey gasped dramatically. “Excuse you? I am very emotionally transparent.”

Both you and Olruggio looked at him in silence. A look that read 'Come on now, look who’s talking.'

“…Cruel,” Qifrey sighed.

Your laughter filled the kitchen before slowly fading back into comfortable quiet.

You handed Olruggio another plate to dry, only for him to catch your wrist instead.

“Hm?” you blinked.

He brought your knuckles to his lips absentmindedly before letting go like it was second nature.

And maybe it was now.

For a moment, you simply watched them.

Qifrey humming softly to himself, Olruggio’s sleeves rolled past his elbows.

The soft clinking of dishes.

The occasional splash of water.

The familiar feeling of being gently bumped into whenever one of them passed by.

You smile, you could live the rest of your life like this.

Within the familiar walls of Qifrey’s room sits the three of you.

Olruggio spoons you from behind, your back pressed firmly against his chest, while Qifrey lies in front of you.

All three pairs of legs tangle together beneath the comfortable softness of Qifrey’s blanket.

“Today was perfect,” you sigh contentedly. “Nothing went wrong today.”

You pause thoughtfully.

“Well— other than our incident this morning and Olruggio being hungover.”

You hear a grunt from Olruggio and a chuckle from Qifrey.

Olruggio takes your hand within his and presses a soft kiss against it.

At the same time, Qifrey adjusts the blanket higher around the three of you, only for Olruggio to immediately tug it back down.

“You’re gonna overheat them again.”

“I control water, not body temperature.”

“Clearly not well enough.”

Their familiar back-and-forth makes warmth bloom within your chest before either of them notices your smile.

Sandwiched between your lovers beneath the blanket, you finally feel warm in a way that has nothing to do with the sticky heat from earlier that morning.

You exhale softly, the exhaustion of the day dissolving beneath Olruggio’s steady warmth and Qifrey’s calm, flowing presence, as though the two of them together could melt every worry away.

You close your eyes and simply exist within the moment.

No overthinking.

No comparing.

No wondering whether you belonged here.

You feel them shift around you occasionally, absentminded touches tracing along your arms and hands.

Olruggio reaches over your shoulder to steal one of Qifrey’s kisses meant for you, earning an offended gasp from him.

“That was for dearest here, how greedy of you, Olly!” Qifrey teases.

“Mhm. Don’t care. Shared resources,” Olruggio mutters sleepily against your shoulder.

Qifrey narrows his eyes before leaning forward and pressing another kiss against your forehead anyway, purely out of spite.

Caught between their quiet bickering, you can’t help the laugh that escapes you.

Their touches are soft and thoughtless now, the kind of intimacy born from habit, from love, from knowing exactly where to find one another even in silence.

At some point, without realizing it, you had stopped feeling like a guest in their lives.

You had become part of the routine.

Part of the home.

Held safely between them, you finally let yourself rest.

A/N: I cant believe this fic took me like 11 days... sorry! I was preoccupied preparing for college adjhwkjdha here is the other request btw, i decided to combine them bcuz why not

before he could even get a sense of control over his thoughts, he had already intertwined your fingers with each other. his heart pounds against his chest loudly.

the headaches were particularly painful the following days.

no, he had never told you about it.

and so will the love he has for you die along with his hope, silver roots wrapped around his broken heart that's never ever uttered a single word of love for you. it feels like heartbreak, but how can his heart break if there was no beginning in the first place? when there was no confession, no exchange of ‘i love you's.

the word love builds up like vile in his throat.

but he will be damned if he doesn't show you in some kind of way.

“aren't they adorable!?” tettia quietly coos at the two adults, watching qifrey scoop up another serving of dinner for you without your say so.

“i want something like that when i grow up!”

“they're not together like that, though.” richeh trails off, a thought spiraling on her mind. “master qifrey himself said so.”

“and yet his actions don't match his words.” agott watched on as well, noting the particular way qifrey looks at you.

like you are his world, the very magic in his eye.

“wait, are they not… together?” coco tilts her head. “i assumed they were together. they seem to be so close.”

“unfortunately, master qifrey himself said so.” tettia slumps against the table with a pout. “if that's not what love looks like, then what does it look like?”

“aren't you a little too young to think of love?”

startled, the four girls turn to face you. tettia waves her hand in front of her frantically, “n-no! that's not what i meant!”

“oh ho?” qifrey comes from behind you, cheshire smile plastered on his face. “who is the lucky boy, may i ask?”

“there's no boy!” tettia whines, turning to richeh. “help me out here!”

“coco has a boy.” the girl gasped.

“no i do not!”

“who's tartah then?”

dinner was noisy that night with the girls continuing their playful banter. qifrey watched on with a fond smile, his hand unknowingly reaching out for yours. when his fingers touched yours in the slightest did he snap back to his senses, playing it off by scratching the back of his head.

he doesn't know if you felt it too, but if you did, he's relieved you did not say a word about it.

after dinner, the girls went about their rooms, bidding the two adults goodnight.

“oh, you don't have to do that.”

qifrey steps beside you at the sink, watching you cast a water spell to clean up the dishes.

“it's no problem, dear. you had a long afternoon of teaching already and you cooked dinner. at least let me help clean around.”

dear.

it felt so natural to have you call him by that nickname. like he is that word to you, dear. too domestic, no question asked. there was something about the air around you when he's within your proximity. you radiate so much peace that even he can feel it. it's an infectious thing.

and that's the problem itself.

it feels too good, too peaceful with you, that he fears the roots will take its place once again. he says nothing about everything he feels, because he knows you like the back of his hand.

he knows you love him too.

and it was the reciprocal feelings that he cannot speak about. it's risky, it's painful. oh so painful, that even if he wants to have you for himself, then the silverwood will have him in exchange.

if love is peace, why does it hurt him so?

“qifrey?”

his name sounds so sweet coming from your mouth.

“yes?”

it was then that he noticed the sudden proximity between the two of you. he could feel your warmth from this distance. he can sense the way you shudder when his breath fans along your face. he can feel the way your fingers twitch at his touch, though he wonders when had he taken your hand in his to hold? he can see your eyes so clearly, the swirling pool of color within those crystals mesmerizing, almost hypnotic in a way only magic can tell.

love is, in some way, a magical thing.

“you're beautiful.”

he hears the way your breath falters, your eyes dilating in response to his words. he traces the skin on your cheek with a delicate touch, searching your eyes for some form of misgiving towards his affection.

all of the sudden, fear gathers at the back of his throat, like a fish bone stuck to his throat stubbornly refusing to come off.

this shouldn't have happened.

he wasn't supposed to be this close to you. wasn't supposed to touch you so freely and desire to have more of you. to have you whole to himself. it shouldn't be this easy to have you succumb to his warmth, a faux comfort that hides the true horror within his heart and missing eye.

“i'm sorry, my star, i did not–” he frowns, truly questioning his feeble attempt to resist his desire.

you're too close, oh, so close.

perhaps he should erase your memory of this night?

the thought of taking something away from you, your memories, suffocates him so. but before he could lament his predicament, your hand held his palm against your cheek, a smile so sweet and gentle contrasting the swirling storm in him.

“you don't have to say anything.”

your words were final, like a stubborn stone wedge into the soil or a sword struck deep into the ground. only someone with immense strength can challenge you and qifrey was but a man powerless against all that you are.

“you don't have to tell me how you feel about me.”

your nose nuzzles into his palm, and god did his heart almost leap out of his chest and into your hands. you look at him from his palm, your lips pressed against his skin with a smile.

oh, he's about to faint.

“you don't have to say it out loud. i know what you feel about this. about us.”

“you deserve better than this.” he shook his head in denial. “you deserve someone who can proudly call you the object of their affection. not… this silence.”

he tears his gaze away from your probing ones. he can tell that just by looking at you, he's buying himself his own pot of soil.

“you mustn't chain yourself with a man who cannot even proclaim their affection towards you. what i am is a coward.”

“what you are is my qifrey.”

his heart skipped a beat, or perhaps was it the roots of silverwood piercing his heart?

“you can't just say things like that.” it almost sounded like a whine, and you giggle at how precious he looks right now. with his cheeks flushed and restless eye, looking anywhere but you.

why can't you show some mercy on this man's heart?

“you may have your reasons to keep me at arms length.” he grimaces at the intention of your words, “but i'm already at peace that you still share a part of your life with me. that i still get to stand beside you.”

you gently tug him down, pressing your forehead against his in a nuzzle.

“this… what we share between us may take forever to be spoken out loud,” you place a finger right at his lips, watching his breath grow heavier from the touch. “but i am willing to stand by you for a lifetime and more.”

you lean to kiss the finger atop of his lips, fully pulling back to see his bewildered and already reddening face.

“my dear, you look like you're about to explode.”

“you can't just do that and expect me to remain calm!”

your giggle echoes through the quiet kitchen. qifrey might be a little delirious, he could have sworn he heard the chimes of fairies favoring every sound you make with those extremely tempting lips of yours.

what do they taste like?

“fret not.” your hand caresses his cheeks, “no unspoken words can push me away from you.”

“i don't want to hurt you.” he tries to look the other way, but with your hand tilting his gaze back to you has him melting on the spot. his futile attempt to avoid your intense look has him weak on the knees.

what kind of magic did you cast on him?

“no pain exists when i am within your presence.”

“my dear…”

“shh.”

you pull him a little closer, resting your head just above his collarbone. he's trembling, whether from the promising position the two of you are in or from his fears, you don't mind. not when he's this close to you. the closest he's ever been to you. you'd do anything to preserve this moment.

“you don't have to tell me everything.”

you place a hand on his chest, listening to his heartbeat.

“all that matters is we're here.”

his warm and gentle hands press against the back of your waist, finally letting himself hold you in his arms.

your body fits every crevice, resting against his chest.

“i'd wait for a lifetime for you.” you whisper into his robes. “i'll remember you even in my next life.”

“you think that's possible?”

“everything's possible with magic.”

he hopes so. perhaps then, he wouldn't have to wait for another lifetime to feel this once more. to be at peace in your arms, free from all his fear.

perhaps then, he could hold your hand whenever he wants, feel the warmth of your palm against his.

perhaps then, he can tell you the words he's been dying to say. he won't have to fear the consequences of telling you he loves you, oh, so much. that he wants you to be his and him, yours.

the professor was droning on about something to do with economic hierarchies, but all satoru could think about was your mouth and whether or not that was your real lip color or something expensive from sephora.

suguru’s mind wasn’t much better, he’d already saved the photo to his camera roll.

you were the shit, and not in a try hard way.

you were just it.

2000's pink fever dream is the kind of vibes you gave off. wearing whatever shoes were hot that week and some low rise jeans that hugged you snug, you flowed through the quad in tops that looked straight from a britney spears music video.

you were always laughing and draped in people who looked just as cool but still somehow dimmer than you.

there were whispers every time you passed, who you were dating now, what party you were at last night, which guy was crying after you’d ghosted him.

you were a story literally everyone wanted to tell.

but satoru and suguru didn’t just want to tell it, oh no. they wanted to live inside of it, in more ways than one...

no one looked at them. not as much as you, anyways. to put it lightly, no one looked at them in a way that was... appreciative.

sure, they were hot, that much was obvious.

satoru was tall with ridiculously good bone structure and an unfairly handsome face, he was the kind of guy you'd make eye contact with but instead of getting giddy, it makes your stomach drop like, "is he staring at me or am i just being weird and looking at him creepily...".

suguru definitely had an allure. he was pierced all over his face but not in a trashy way, dressed head to toe in black and always looking like he’d just rolled out of bed, yet still somehow better looking than everyone else.

so yeah, they're were hot. but they were weird.

they jointly have over 4000 hours on terraria. they watch stupid anime's all day and talk about different concepts and theories for hours after, and they play pokemon go and digimon all day unironically.

real nerd shit.

it was a known fact that the two could find a certain interest and obsess over it for the next bajillion years. so, when it came to you? it was safe to say they noticed quite literally everything.

like how you always posted around 11:30am like clockwork, probably right after class.

like how you changed your highlights every other week to match your current aesthetic, “🍸” was suguru’s favorite, that one had a photo of you in a tiny yellow bikini licking salt off your wrist.

like how your phone case had changed, a clear one with a blurry photo tucked into the back. satoru had spent ten minutes trying to enhance it in his camera app. it was some girl, maybe a friend? maybe someone you'd kissed.... yuck. either way, it ruined his entire afternoon.

“remember that video she posted last month?” satoru said dreamily, might as well of been thinking about a dead lover. “the one with her in the pool?”

suguru shakes his head. “don’t,” he sighs.

“she was doing that thing with her eyes, remember? like, eye fucking the camera? and she had that little chain around her waist, oh my god—"

“i said stop,” suguru snapped, though he was smiling. “i had to excuse myself from psych after that one. couldn’t stand up for ten fucking minutes.”

satoru swiped through your profile, it was as if every new photo was a different flavor of devastation.

you and your friends in the back of some expensive car. you holding a cocktail and laughing with your head thrown back. you bent over in a mini skirt, taking a mirror selfie with a little ass showing.

was this gross? definitely. did they care? a littleeee, but it wasn't like you'd give two weirdos the time of day anyway, so it didn't matter! that was their logic, anyway.

“i bet she moans pretty,” he said absently. suguru smiled and nodded. “oh, absolutely.”

satoru let out a huff. “jeez, i’d buy her a car just for saying my name.” and saying that wasn’t even absurd, the two of the boys were filthy rich.

“she always smells good, too.” satoru adds. “like… like a sexy scent. i don’t even know what it is. something grown.”

suguru huffed a laugh. “you sound so psychotic.”

“you smelled it too, though. that one time in the elevator. when she came in with maki and was on the phone with sukuna? she pressed the button and i literally blacked out, never been that close to her before.”

“right, and she had those jeans on, the real low ones.” satoru clutched his chest. “fuck. she’s so hot.”

they lapsed into silence again, both of them stewing in their own separate daydreams.

it wasn’t just that you were hot, everyone was hot in college. but you were something else, your own category.

suguru reached for satoru’s phone and swiped through your tagged photos now, which were even more the reminder that you were way out of their social circle.

there were many candid flashes of your life. you in the club with yuki and maki, glitter around your eyes and a bottle in one hand. you curled up on a dorm bed with shoko, half asleep and smiling wide with those pretty lips, your arms tight around ieri's torso. you and choso at a rooftop party, your chin on his shoulder and your fingers looped loosely around his belt.

satoru groaned. “i hate that she’s close with choso.”

“he’s like, her best friend.”

“urgh."

when class ended, the boys stood and made their way out of the room. suguru slung his bag over his shoulder as satoru joked about one thing or other, the two best friends falling into easy conversation.

as they step out into the hallway, however, all conversation stops when they spot you.

you were at the end of the hall posted up against the lockers, even the fluorescent lighting couldn’t make you look bad. if anything, it just made your skin glow warmer, your lip color glossier.

but, like always, you weren’t alone.

he was there, sukuna.

and god, he looked like a big, red, flashing warning sign, like something straight out of a sex and violence movie. he was tall and cut like a knife, his red eyes dark and oh so mean.

“gross,” satoru scoffed, ducking his head.

suguru didn’t add any quips, he just stared with clenched teeth.

sukuna had his hand on your waist, his chrome hearts rings catching in the light as his fingers dug into your flesh.

god, it was so possessive it made them sick, like he was daring anyone to look.

“he doesn’t deserve her,” satoru whispered, too quiet for anyone but suguru to hear.

“mhm, n' he cheats on her, too,” suguru muttered. “everyone knows it. choso was telling me he was touching up some girl at a bar the other week right infront of her.”

they stared at the scene like poor kicked puppies. sukuna was probably murmuring something dirty against your ear, and all you did was smile and hit his chest, acting like you both liked and hated it all at the same time.

satoru’s heart was pounding not with jealousy, or, not just jealousy, but with rage, helpless obsession. it was the possessive ache of wanting to save you from someone who didn’t deserve your attention, like at all, much less your affection.

he wanted to grab you by the shoulders and ask what you were doing, ask what you saw in him when you could have had the world.

when you could have had them.

“he’s not even all that,” satoru says weakly.

“mm, he’s objectively hot,” suguru corrected bitterly.

“okay, but he’s a dick!"

then suddenly, as the boys are bickering over how shit of a boyfriend sukuna was, your gaze sweeps over the crowd for a second. and then it pauses, on them. or maybe just past them? maybe you didn’t see them at all? but your lashes flicked up, and satoru swore your eyes met his.

it was less than a second. a glitch in time. and then you looked away.

“we should go,” suguru said hoarsely.

satoru nodded, dazed. “yeah, yeah. let's go.”

they turned and walked in the other direction with their hearts pounding and their ears ringing, like they’d just survived a brush with a godess and came out utterly unworthy.

you on the other hand? the gaze you'd felt penetrating the side if you head earlier was driving you up the wall.

just for a moment, the faint prickle on the back of your neck, that sixth sense that someone was watching. not in a creepy way, more like a spotlight brushing over your skin. you looked up lazy and bored with your manicured hand still in sukuna’s, and there they were.

satoru and suguru. the weird ones.

the smart ones, the ones who sat in the back row and whispered loudly. they wore dark colors and always looked like they were thinking about something far too complicated to say out loud and share with the rest of the normies.

you knew who they were, obviously. not by name, by vibe. the tall one with the white hair and the other one with the bun and the earrings. they were always together, always some what quiet. always, always, staring.

they were looking at you now, or maybe through you.

you held their eyes for a second too long, or maybe not long enough? your eyes flicked over them like flipping a page, your stomach twisted a little when they blinked like they were too afraid to breathe.

and then you turned away.

“what?” sukuna asked getting all weird and possessive already, his voice low against your temple. “who th' fuck was that?”

“no one,” you said quickly, “just some nerds.”

he grunted and pressed a kiss to your cheek. it was hard and a little too showy for you, but you smiled like you liked it nevertheless.

his hand stayed on your ass the whole walk back to your pretty little dorm. on lookers offered their stares up like children seeing animal mascots on the street. and you liked it when people stared, or, you were supposed to.

that was kind of the whole point, wasn't it? being seen with him. it felt good being the girl everyone wanted yet so out of reach. it meant you were interesting, y'know? you were hot and keepable.

and sukuna was a lot of things, not really good things, but things all the same. sexy, really fucking mean, arrogant, your friends all had different names for it. toxic, thrilling, psychotic, exciting. but he was never boring, so that was a plus?

when you get back to your place, the dorm door smashes shut behind you, and suddenly he was all up on you with his heavy hands grabbing at every inch of your body, his mouth already sliding over your neck like he needed to mark you up.

you tilted your chin up and played along, somewhat. giggling when he pushes you against the wall tighter.

“i missed you,” he said, already pulling at your top. “fuck, you look so hot in this.”

“you saw me this morning,” you said lightly even as your stomach curled tight.

“not enough,” he rasped.

he kissed you hard and messy. sukuna was ever the desperate man when it came to sex, he tugged at your waistband and shoved you toward the bed, and you went.

~

it felt good, in theory...

how he just knew how to fuck you in a way that felt different to anyone else, it wasn't exactly nice, per se, but it was different, that's for sure.

your head always managed to stay up in the clouds during sex with him. way way up in the clouds.

you thought about how his hand always squeezed the fat too hard on your delicate throat. how he never asked beforehand if you were down or how he got really mean when you moaned too loud. how he always acted like he was the one doing something for you.

gross, really.

you finish up after a good half hour and your bodies collapse against the mattress.

sukuna inhales dragging smoke from the now lit cigarette between his fingers, eyes slipping across your body like he’s still hungry, or maybe just checking to make sure you’re still all there.

“you came, right?” he asks dully.

you nod. you didn’t, but he’s not looking at your face so he wouldn't know anyway.

he smirks and pats your thigh as if to say, 'good girl'. his tatted chest stretched as he inhaled deeply, they were sexy, sure, but now they just look like big flashy warnings you'd ignored.

“you’ve been weird lately,” he says curt. you roll onto your side away from him, dragging the sheets higher to hide your naked body.

“i’m tired,” you reply.

“you’re always fucking tired.” he snarls. like it’s your fault for being drained as if he’s not the reason you keep losing sleep.

he gets up. doesn’t bother with a shirt or anything, only paces toward the mirror checking his reflection. you watch him from the corner of your eye as he he adjusts his necklace and wipes his thumb across his mouth.

“i don’t like when you get quiet,” he says.

“i’m not quiet.”

“you were quiet at the party last week. and yesterday when i called, you sounded so off.” he doesn’t ask how you are, shit, he never does. it’s always, what’s wrong with you, never, what happened? he can tell when something’s different, but he doesn’t want to understand. he wants it fixed, he wants you back to normal. back to the chick that kisses his jaw while laughing at his jokes, clinging to his arm at kickbacks like a trophy wife.

“i’m fine,” you say.

you’re not, you've got that dull ache in your chest after he touches you and that knot of disappointment in your stomach when he says your name like some stupid command.

you used to feel chosen and so, so wanted, but now you just feel like a bet he doesn't like all that much.

“you’re not gonna start some shit, are you?” sukuna asks roughly,

“what are you talking about?” 

he turns around with slitted eyes. “you always do this shit. pull away when things are good. look, i know i fucked up last weekend, okay? that bitch came onto me. i didn’t do shit.”

and there it is.

you hadn’t brought it up, hadn’t said a word about the girl at the bar last weekend. she had her hands all over him and he sure as hell wasn't moving, like, at all. so that whole 'she came onto me' thing was obviously bullshit.

you sit up slowly with your shaky arms around your knees. “i didn’t say anything about that,” you whisper gently.

“yeah, well, you’re thinking it. i can see. i know how your brain works.”

and that’s the fucking problem, isn’t it? he doesn’t know how your brain works, hell, he only knows how to manage it, redirect it or drown it out.

he climbs back onto the bed, sitting over you and locking you in with his big, strong arms. “don’t start being weird, babe,” he says with that disgusting persuasion. his hand cups your face and his thumb strokes your cheek. “you’re mine. yeah?”

yuck.

"mhm."

he kisses your forehead sweetly like he’s doing something tender. but your skin feels... rotten, frankly.

as he peppers kisses to your face, reality starts to slowly creep into the cracks of your battered heart. you don’t want this anymore, but you don’t know what else there is.

you're looking up at him but your head is racking through the options. what else is there?

you could date a jock, maybe a business major who's destined for success? perhaps a quiet boy who actually pays attention to you.

with that thought, your mind is thrown into a daze, a nerd daze to be precise.

you think about the look those grade A hotties gave you earlier, the freakishly tall ones in the hallway. you don’t know their names, but you sure as hell remember the way they made you feel with one little glance.

hm.

before you know it, sukuna's throwing on a beater and fixing his hair in your mirror before patting your ass and mumbling a ‘later.’ like you were just another one of his hoes rather than his girlfriend.

there’s a hollow ache in your ribs, the kind you ignore, ignore, ignore, until it piles up behind your lungs, ready rot.

you sit up groggily and the mirror on your vanity catches your —admittedly— terrible reflection. you've got smudged mascara and your lipstick half gone. you look like a girl who’s just been fucked, sure, but not in a good way, kinda like an accidental one night stand kinda way...

why do you keep letting him do this to you?

you sigh and look down at your phone, deciding there was no one better to call right now than your right hand man, choso.

he picks up after two rings. “yo.”

“hey,” you say curling your legs beneath you. “you busy?”

you hear him exiting whatever room he was in then he responds, “nah. what’s up?”

“just…” you hesitate and take a deep breath, the words feet much too heavy. “i feel like shit.”

“ryomen?”

you sigh.

“he’s such a dick,” choso scoffs like he’s already angry for you. “what happened this time?”

“same shit,” you mumble. “he left without even looking at me. he barely touched me. like i was just… just there to get him off.” you despise how much you sound like a frail little girl, but you couldn't help being vulnerable in this moment.

you hear choso inhale like he wants to say something cruel about sukuna, but doesn’t wanna kick you while you’re down.

instead, he suggests, “you should come to this thing m' having tonight. it's at my place, just a few people. yuki’s coming, maybe shoko. i’ll let you smoke some of my shit.”

you press your lips together. “wow, let me? how generous of you." you smile, but it fades almost as quick as it came. "hm. but sukuna’ll be there.”

“no,” he says simply. “he doesn’t know about it."

oh? that surprises you, suddenly you feel much happier.

“what?” he adds dryly. “i’m allowed to throw a party without that asshole, and you need to get out. please?”

you hum like you haven't already made up your mind.

“you can wear that matching set, the leopard print one,” choso adds. “the ones so sexy.”

you give him an excited giggle and agree.

“fine,” you say. “i’ll come.”

he hums like he knew you would. “i’ll text you the details. bring whoever you want.”

you thank him then hang up and lay back again.

sure, sukuna had basically ruined your entire afternoon, but chosos parties were always nice, and he wouldn't be there. win win!

~

meanwhile, satoru’s dorm smells like weed and really expensive cologne.

the taller guys legs are criss crossed on the bed with his shirt clinging to his broad chest, his glasses halfway down his nose. suguru’s in the desk chair off to the side with his sketchbook balanced on his thigh, pen smoothing over the page. they’re both a little baked.

“sukuna can't handle all of that, bro,” satoru says after a moment. “he’s such a fucking clown.”

“i hear ya.”

they'd been taking shots at the man for being a pissy boyfriend for the past half hour.

“she should be worshipped,” suguru echoes, voice low. “with tongue.”

satoru laughs like he's short of breath. “you’re gonna make me hard again.”

“you’re always hard.”

“only for her.”

satoru grabs the blunt and takes another hit, suguru adds a shadow to your lips, the shape of them exact from memory. he doesn’t need reference photos anymore he could draw you from bone and ash if he were ever stranded in the pits of hell.

“gross. what if she's with that flop.” satoru sighs.

he groans, grabbing a pillow and stuffing it over his face. “i need to go to the gym, i can't imagine her with that dick any longer.”

suguru just keeps drawing. his phone buzzes against the desk, he glances down, then lifts it. “it’s choso.”

he picks up. “yeah?”

choso’s voice is clear. “yo, i'm having a party at my place tonight, you two should come.”

suguru glances at satoru, who’s peeking from beneath the pillow with a very interested look, they weren't really the guys to be invited to functions.

“who’s coming?” 

“toji, nanami, yuki. maybe shoko. and, uh,” choso pauses. “y/n.” suguru’s grip on the phone actually quadrupled.

the two boys quite literally jitter at the mention of your name, their minds racking with the millions of possible situations that could occur tonight. this wasn't real, surely?

“y/n's coming?" satoru mouths sitting upright like an excited puppy.

suguru smiles at satoru and nods, making the white haired boy grin from ear to ear and jump up from the bed like the big goof he is.

“we’ll bring something,” suguru says, calm as ever, although, let's be real, he's fucking ecstatic. “see you soon, cho.” he hangs up and closes the sketchbook.

satoru is scrambling for a hoodie. “are we bringing alcohol or pot?”

"pot, obviously.”

“should i put on cologne or is that too much?”

“nah, it's never too much.”

satoru smiles. “okay, okay! i'll put on the nice one.”

“do you think she’ll talk to us?” satoru asks, suddenly nervous.

“no,” suguru says.

“but we’ll be near her.” satoru swallows.

“okay, yeah. near’s good.”

~

choso’s posted up on the porch like some washed up security guard.

his shoulders relax when he sees them walking up the sidewalk, two tall silhouettes backlit by the streetlights. satoru gets there first with his geeky faded digimon shirt being overshadowed by his sheer muscular mass. 

“you postin’ up like a bouncer now?” he teases, breath fogging in the crispy weather.

“gotta keep the freaks out,” choso mutters, glancing between the two of them. “and then i remember i invited you.”

suguru smiles, he was dressed like a chanel model cross frat attire, for a total geek he knew how to throw a fit. black button up halfway open reveling his tribal tattooed chest and some ridiculously expensive jeans that flattered his body so well. “and aren’t you glad you did?”

“jury’s out,” choso rolls his eyes.

satoru digs into his pocket and pulls out a small tin of weed. “look, our entry fee.” he says, flipping it open and offering it like a tray of macarons. “it's really good shit, so be greatful.”

“right,” choso says, but he takes one.

“suguru bought ‘em. he’s got a good dealer,” satoru borderline whines, he doesn't like people doubting him or his best friend.

"i'm just messin with you, toru." choso pushes satorus shoulder and laughs. "are you guys gonna be alright in there? lots of people y' don't know."

“we’re always alright,” satoru grins.

“sure,” choso says. “you two have a weird effect on people.”

satoru grin's teasingly “you mean a sexy effect.”

“i mean a weird one,” choso reiterates.

suguru chuckles, “we’re on our best behavior.”

“that your best?” choso gestures to suguru’s half open shirt. “jesus.”

once they smooth inside they're blown in the face by the potent smell of alcohol and grass.

people give them glances then quickly look away like they're either intimidated or just not coherent enough to fully appreciate their beauty.

they find a couch in the corner that's low to the ground and good for people watching. suguru takes the end and man spreads out while satoru slouches beside him with his long limbs draped in studied disarray, his finger idly tapping his phone screen but not really looking at it.

frank ocean is softly floating in the background, it's overall a good kinda vibe.

they're just settling in when they notice toji. he’s up near the kitchen leaning against the counter dressed in black on black on black. he doesn’t smile at anyone and he doesn’t blink, just watches them watching him.

satoru lifts two fingers in a greeting. “toji,” he calls.

toji raises his cup in acknowledgment and stalks towards the two.

“you look well,” suguru smiles.

toji’s voice cuts across the room. “hm, what’d you bring?”

“weed,” satoru answers, grinning. “and each other.”

“i figured,” toji mutters. he takes a sip from his cup, then adds, “y'know, y/n's here.”

“oh, when'd she get here?” suguru asks trying to sound nonchalant.

“just walked in,” toji says. “looked abit sad, i can't lie."

“aw,” satoru hums looking over the crowd.

“and sukuna?” suguru asks.

toji’s yawns. “haven’t seen the guy, don't think toji invited him.”

“good,” satoru flashes his pearly teeth.

toji shakes his head as he watches them for another second. “you two are fucking sick,” he says.

“we know,” satoru replies.

“but you’re fun to watch,” toji adds, then vanishes into the kitchen.

satoru exhales, dragging a hand down his face. “i might combust.”

“oh cmon,” suguru says. “we haven't even seen her yet.” but obviously, as life would have it, they clock you.

and when you walk into the room like some higher being with that outfit, satoru breathes your name out then slaps a hand to his big stupid mouth. suguru doesn’t say anything but his hands are already itching for a pen, wanting to capture this moment in his own little way. 

you looked perfect. 

that’s all they can think in their half baked brains, watching you from across the room like you’re the moon and they'd never seen night before. the party smooshes around you all, orbiting the shine of your pretty smile and the flash of your earrings, the sweet ridiculous sway of your hips as you laugh at something yuki says and lean into her like you belong to no one.

they're not breathing right, they keep inhaling too deep or too slow, then holding it like they're trying to trap the moment inside their lungs.

“my god,” satoru mutters, "look at her.”

"i know..." suguru's got one of his hands rubbing his temples like this is all too much for him.

they’re stoned, yeah, but it’s the kind of high that sharpens things instead of dulling them down to a blunt smack. it makes your mouth dry and your stomach hollow and your hands twitch when you see something you want but just can’t touch.

you’re surrounded, of course. draped in others arms and flowing conversations while smiling so, so brightly, sipping from someone else’s cup.

yuki’s arms around your waist, maki’s laughing near your shoulder, shoko leaning in close to talk to you over the noise.

“i’d ruin her,” satoru says softly.

“shh, not here,” suguru murmurs.

then, choso appears, intruding their spectacle. he slips behind you like a shadow and you lean back into him freely, your head tilting toward his shoulder and your hand coming up to hold around his wrist. your fingers brush the hem of his sleeve and satoru physically can't help but twitch.

“what the fuck,” satoru huffs.

“best friends,” suguru reminds him. “remember?”

choso says something and you laugh, he wraps an arm around your waist and you don’t move away. satoru makes another strangled noise like the drama queen he is.

“calm down,” suguru says, though even his usually calm and soothing voice is aggressive now.

yet, their malice almost instantly disappears when they watch your eyes scan the room then, oh shit, they land right on them.

satoru feels it like a physical blow to the head, your gaze lands on him, then suguru, then both of them. your expression doesn’t change much, just a soft, almost curious look.

and then choso follows your gaze too, and...

fuck.

he smirks and they panic.

you smile as choso whispers something only you can hear in your ear, "you see those two over there? they've got this huge crush on you, y'know. might be worth indulging to forget about that asshole for tonigt."

you considered his words, it was the nerds from earlier, and hell if they didn't look even more attractive in the dark lighting... maybe choso was onto something.

he starts walking toward them, still holding your waist guiding you through the people like he’s bringing you home.

satoru’s heart starts flipping out, perhaps even convulsing and dying. suguru quickly closes the sketchbook he was about to start drawing in and sets it beside him.

“play it cool,” he murmurs.

satoru nods. “yeah, yeah! cool, i'm so cool,”

“lower your shoulders,” suguru adds.

“right.”

“stop bouncing your leg.”

“fuck me, bro.”

you stop in front of them like a beautiful monet. next to you choso cheeses. “you two remember how to say hi to a girl, or do i have to teach you?”

“hi! i- uh,” satorus voice cracks and he slaps a hand over his mouth.

“hi." suguru cuts in trying to save his best friend. you smile at him, sweet and a-lot-a-bit amused at gojos little slip up.

“hi,” you say, and your voice is warm and clear, offering satoru a smirk that makes his ears turn redder.

“this is satoru,” choso smiles, gesturing with one ringed finger. “he’s sort of a science freak, he's an astrophysics major, thinks weed makes him smarter.”

“it does,” satoru replies instantly, sitting up and adjusting his glasses while adorably avoiding eye contact with you. “scientifically.”

“right... and this is suguru,” choso continues, looking at him with a smile. “ he's an arts major. probably has a hundred drawings of you in that little sketch book.”

suguru almost choked at the call out and fumbles to skwark out a response. “hey! don’t tell her that.”

hm, this was definitely getting intriguing. you glance at him, angling your head to access him better. “oh, is that true?” you tease.

he meets your eyes shyly. “maybe."

you giggle and satoru feels it sink deep into his love struck heart.

they could'nt believe it, you were seriously talking to them, like, right now. offering them your perfect pretty voice as you stood there radiantly gazing at them through pretty lashes. they could feel their blood rushing to all different places at the sheer proximity...

"you’re choso’s friends?” you ask, looking between them sweetly pretending to not notice the way they're practically eye fucking you. they were definitely fans, you could just tell. not to mention one of them apparently has some secret stalker sketches of you, they weren't exactly being subtle.

“yeah, classmates,” suguru throws out, rubbing his neck and adjusting his jeans while satoru still sat peering up at your figure.

these guys were a little weird, you'd thought that since seeing them in the hallway, but they were hot. like, smoking hot. “i’m a media comms major,” you giggle, “minoring in fashion marketing.”

“we know.” satoru blurts out way louder than anticipated, then catches himself. “i mean, cool. that’s cool.”

you raise a brow. “you guys stalking my linkedin or something?”

“lowkey, yeah,” suguru says unapologetically.

“jesus,” choso mutters.

but you laugh again like you don’t mind. you twirl a piece of hair around your finger. “that's... cute, i guess."

cute. she called us cute.

“mm. more like dumb freaks,” choso says fondly. and you just smile like you’re not even a little surprised. maybe you knew?...

“good,” you say. “i like freaks.” and satoru’s entire brain turns to mush while suguru clears his throat and pulls at his jeans once again.

choso drops down onto the couch with his legs spread and his back slouched, and you slip easily into the space beside him, your thigh brushing his.

“so,” you say, stretching your legs out. the hem of your skirt riding higher, “what do two scary smart guys like you do for fun?”

“this,” satoru says, pointing to his blunt.

“and this,” suguru murmurs, tapping his sketchbook, you glance over at the long haired guy.

“are you really drawing me or was that like, a joke?”

he doesn’t answer at first, just looks at you with that hesitant gaze, then flips open the sketchbook, turns it toward you, and holds it still.

your face sat staring back at you, charcoal and his smudged obsession all over the page.

hm, he was serious...

you nod, then laugh. “that’s kinda insane,” you smile, appreciative yet a little concerned, as one would be.

“yeah, he’s kinda insane,” satoru says.

“takes one to know one,” you reply, not looking away from suguru.

his voice is embarrassed now as he avoids your sparkling eyes. “do you... do you mind?”

you glance at him, then satoru, then choso, who just shrugs like he’s used to this kind of attention around you.

“guess not,” you say. “i think it’s hot, just wished i'd known of such devout fans a little sooner, y'know.”

satoru makes a tiny sound in the back of his throat, suguru just hums and flips to a fresh page. he was always quieter when he was embarrassed, nervous, or flustered, and satoru could tell suguru was going insane over your careless flirting.

every word that fell from your mouth was driving the boys insane, they glanced at eachother and exchanged a silent conversation. one that said, 'i'm so fucking hard right now what the hell am i supposed to do!?' they both clear their throats and shift in their seats.

your eyes drag over to satoru next, making him tense up a little. “and you? physics, right? what do you do in your spare time?”

“i… read things. smoke, i think about time a lot.” look at photos of you, he almost stutters, adjusting his glasses again out of nervous habit.

you blink. “hm, time?”

“yeah, like, the concept of it. what it means that we experience things in sequence. how we know we’re not dreaming.”

god he was such a dork, but you loved it so far. he was cuter than suguru, one was stoic and sexy and the other was slightly more bubbly and cute, this dynamic was really starting to grow on you.

feeling confident you let the sweetness drop and the sultry tone take over, deciding to tease him in that flirty way.

“you're so weird.”

“yeah,” he says breathless at the change of mood, “i know.”

you stare at him, his big black rimmed glasses and his faded digi shirt, how big he was for such a timid seeming guy.

then you shift to suguru, he's quiet and strange, i mean, who the hell draws hundreds of sketches of someone they've never had the courage to talk to before?

yeah, they were both lowkey kinda guys, quiet and awkward. but fuck if they weren't bad as hell. catching their eye in the hallway and now meeting them at a party? the universe was surely giving you signs.

you watch as their eyes seem to wash over each and every part of your body, taking in every little detail.

you’re a little high, but not stupid. you’re used to attention but not like this. theirs feels… different. more intense, almost like they’re not flirting, more so studying.

choso slings an arm behind you, tapping your shoulder with two fingers. “you good?”

“mmhm,” you hum, leaning into his touch. “they’re interesting.”

“told you.”

“and hot.” you murmur.

satoru hears it and his breath hitches.

“you guys live on campus?” you ask, them being oblivious to the ulterior motives cooking up in your head.

“yeah, the dorms,” satoru says.

“it’s kinda gross.” suguru adds, the boys once again exchanging a look to almost check up on eachother. we're good so far, normal conversation isn't that bad!

“so you guys hang out a lot?” you ask, tilting your head.

“basically live in each other’s pockets,” choso says, tapping ash into the cup again. “they’re like married. it’s freakish.”

“shut up, it’s just practical,” suguru replies.

“yeah, no, that's hot,” you repeat again. two sexy guys living in the same dorm knowing they're both fans of you and we're currently shitting bricks over this insignificant conversation? this situation was almost too perfect to be playing out the way it was. you felt like the universe was playing some reverse harem trick on you.

you’re lounging back now as your finger traces patterns on the head of the couch right by sugurus neck.

they're almost having an out of body experience, everything is too much. your perfume is quite literally assaulting their noses in the best way, your body is moving and shifting and it's only worsening the growing bludges in both of their pants.

they feel an overwhelming urge to just pick you up and take you back to their dorm, sit you on the bed and study every little thing. ask every question they've been dying to know about you, take turns worshiping, praising, pleasuring the beauty that only existed on their phones until this very moment.

now you're talking to choso about whatever party's happening next week, engulfed in his words giving them time to debrief off to their own side of the couch.

suguru leans into satoru's ear and whisper screams like the room isn't teeming with noise. "what the hell do we do now?"

satorus still cooling down from the light teasing and rubs his eyes under his glasses. "she's literally right there, we can't lose this opportunity, bro. what should we say?"

"we could ask about her modelling?" suguru suggests.

"that's creepy." satoru shakes his head, shooting his head over his shoulder to make sure you're still busy talking to choso.

"her hobbies?"

"too basic!"

"then what the fuck do we say?!"

"you're acting like i talk to women!"

before they can finish their pathetic little plan to keep you interested, choso turns to them and speaks up.

“i’m gonna go grab a drink,” he laughs. he pushes up from the couch, a cocky smirk falls across his mouth. “don’t embarrass yourselves too hard, boys.”

suguru rolls his eyes and satoru feels his bones tense.

and just like that, you’re alone.

in this perfect little corner of the room, it’s just you and them. two boys who’ve been obsessing over you for months like it was a sport, acting unbothered every time you walked past even though they were starving in ways they’d never ever admit.

satoru leans back like he’s relaxed with his legs sliding wider, pretending he’s just getting comfy to hide the way his pants are getting tighter and tighter... his fingers tap his thigh slowly as he plasters on that wicked smile, yet inside, he feels like if he blinks wrong he’ll cry.

suguru try's to look calmer but his thoughts are loud, every one of them about where to take this next, how to keep it cool, how to not give away that he’s two seconds away from losing all of his composure.

you can pick up the sexual tension and decide to capitalise on it. “jeez, you guys always this intense?”

you fold your arms under your chest and lean in giving them a good look at your pretty cleavage. both of them glance down quickly, then immediately back up.

instead of panicking, satoru answers smoothly, “maybe you’re just distracting.”

suguru hums. “yeah, kinda hard not to stare at a girl like you.”

underneath the nonchalant-ness, they’re freaking the fuck out. since when were they able to hold up conversation without nerding out and scaring people off?

you laugh, waving it off. “i’m teasing. you’re just a bit nervous, that’s fine. you guys don’t talk to many girls or something?”

satoru gives a little shrug. “not ones like you.”

suguru leans in closer, “definitely not like you.”

you can tell that they're going to war in their own respective minds, you sorta had that effect on people. but they for some reason, made it much more obvious than other guys.

cute, you liked virgins.

behind this blatant flirting your mind drifts to sukuna, then to the girls you know he's hiding somewhere in his phone, and suddenly he's gone again. funny how that happens. if he can treat you like shit, then you can do the same.

your eyes drop to the sketchbook on suguru’s lap at the half finished sketch of yourself, he really was talented, you liked that in your men.

“so… you always draw girls you wanna fuck, orrr?”

satoru genuinely almost groans at the vulgar words coming out of such a cute mouth, but suguru doesn’t react as strongly.

“no.”

you turn your head slightly, lips turning up into a smile. “just me then?”

his eyes flutter shut for half a second like you'd caught him red handed. “yeah... just you.”

you trail your gaze down his torso deliberately, then turn to satoru.

“what about you, gojo?”

he clears his throat gently, “satoru, you can call me satoru.. and what about me?”

you lower your voice, fingers playing with your skirt. “d'you want me too? is this something the both of you like... discuss in your little nerd cave?”

he actually laughs under his breath trying for suave. “want’s a mild word...”

"hm. so, you ever think about what it’d be like?” your voice goes low. “taking me apart together?”

might as well throw the ball out there and see how they react.

and react they did, the guilty look on their faces confirmed what you pretty much already knew, they were into that freaked out throuple shit.

you continue like you’re talking about the weather, just trying to get a rise out of them, mentally and physically. “who’d start,” you say, “and who’d finish.”

your hand slides down suguru’s solid bicep and his throat bobs hard.

“you’d take turns, right?” you ask sweetly. “be real nice to me?”

satoru curses under his breath and suguru digs his nails into his knee to keep from shivering.

you smile at them, “or maybe not?”

now their heads are filled with images they’ve only let themselves fantasise about in the dark. suguru’s brain is showing him flashes, your hands bound with his belt, your mouth open and wet, your thighs trembling under both their grips.

satoru’s picturing you in his lap, suguru behind you, his fingers splayed over your throat while satoru kisses the words out of your mouth.

you lean back, finally giving them room to breathe, but they don’t. they seriously can’t.

and still, through the thick syrup of want, you feel it: the sting of guilt. you’re not drunk, maybe a bit high, bust still. when it came down to it, you were just being reckless while hurting.

memories of sukuna’s thick fingers on your waist just yesterday, the way he grunted when he finished and didn’t look you in the eye. just zipped up, threw some unsignificant words your way, and left.

you think of all the nights you cried over him and all the times you begged, all the times you forgave him just to keep things civil.

and you think of last weekend. and the weekend before that, and the weekend before that.

it seemed like you had a new story for each function you went to together, this was not healthy.

...yeah, fuck it.

they obviously want you, really badly, and you needed a good distraction. what better distraction than two tall, handsome strangers to take your mind off things?

you move so you're sitting in between them, and they part for you like the red sea. "can't let geto take all of the attention now can i?"

“jesus christ,” satoru whispers as you sit down almost ontop of him, he tries his best to keep his hands to himself as you readjust your skirt while sitting squished between them.

you catch yourself grinning before grabbing the white haired boys collar, what did you have to lose? one night, you could indulge for one night.

you lean in, suguru’s breath fans over your cheek as you press your lips to satoru’s, it was barley a brush, yet the exhale that escaped his lips was thick and needy. his hands jumped to your jaw but you pull away quick to give suguru some attention.

he meets you halfway with his eyes falling shut. his hand guides up your body and brushes your waist although he doesn’t pull you in, not yet, not unless you want it.

and you do.

so you kiss him deeper with one hand gripping his shirt and the other sliding up into satoru’s soft hair. they’re both touching you everywhere like they can’t believe this is real, they're half expecting to wake up in a cold sweat.

you pull back for air with lips bruised, and satoru’s chasing you before he even knows it, a needy, gasping thing.

your mouths meet messily with hunger. you nip his lower lip and he whimpers, then moans low in his throat as your hips shift between them, pressing firm to suguru’s thigh. satoru’s pupils are blown so wide they look bottomless.

and god, god, they want you.

"holy— are you real?" suguru manages to groan, and you feel ecstatic at the feeling.

all until the fear hits.

your eyes open, just barely and you do a quick sweep of the room. you see them everywhere, phones.

not aimed at you, but they're everywhere all the same. in hands, on laps, on tables. camera lenses you can’t see and screens you can’t control. this isn’t your dorm, this isn’t even your party, this is choso’s house. and you’ve made a career, a life, out of being seen a certain way, you can’t risk this.

not when there’s a chance he could see it. sukuna was a headache you wanted to deal with much later down the track.

you pull back pressing your palms to their chests. their mouths chase yours dazed and so out of breath, but you hush them with a kiss to the corner of suguru’s lips, a brush of your fingers down satoru’s jaw.

“we should take this somewhere more.. private.” you whisper sensually.

you slide off the couch and tug your dress into place, checking over your shoulder once as a coy smile spreads across your swollen lips. suguru’s standing eagerly and satoru fumbles with his belt that you'd pulled at earlier.

“lets go upstairs, yeah?”

you shoot down the hall and up choso's long stairway, you faintly hear them behind you whispering curses.

“jesus christ.” satoru mutters under his breath. “what's even happening...”

“this is a dream, it's gotta be.” suguru says.

“if it is, don’t wake me.”

you reach the upstairs hallway where the rooms are, and choso's standing by his bedroom door with the drink he said he was gonna grab earlier.

you look up at him and he seems to know the situation before you even had a chance to explain. his eyes flick over your body, the smear of gloss on your chin and the flushed heat of your cheeks, he doesn’t judge.

he stares behind you at the taller boys practically shaking with nerves, he tries to surpress a laugh at how pathetic his friends look. although, hes proud of them for not totally ruining their opportunity with you by saying something too creepy or out of pocket.

you step close, just enough for him to hear you over the noise of whatever shitty drake song was bumping.

“can i use your room, cho?” you ask politely. the way you say it is sweet and light, but choso can hear the not so nice undertones, the rage. the heartbreak. the fuck you of it all.

he looks like he's contemplating for a moment, then exhales through his nose. “both, huh?" he teases, earning a bashful look rom all three of you. "course, go crazy.”

you grin shyly as your fingers brush his wrist as you pass by, "thanks, love ya."

when the two men scuff by, choso nods, and yawns. “don’t fuck up my shit.”

satoru closes the door behind you with trembling fingers and suguru rubs his neck anxiously like he's ten seconds away from falling apart all over you.

they both look at you with wide eyes and unsure, after all, this was their first time.

they’re looking at you like you’re quite literally the single most amazing thing they've ever seen, and even with the air of uncertainty, they both looked so beautiful you wanted to sob.

you take a shaky step back toward the bed, and they follow suit.

they don’t rush you or fumble, they just inch closer like gravity’s dragging them to you. like they’ve been waiting a lifetime for this moment and they’d rather die before wasting it.

you stand next to choso's big comfy bed, suguru stands close infront of you as satoru circles behind, they're both sweating bullets. you watch as their hands shake with the need to touch, to grab.

"well... go on." you whisper.l

both boys tense up, but as soon as the hesitation's gone they're scrambling to try and make this feel as natural and consensual as possible before indulging in their fantasies, like they'd always said they would if this was to ever happen.

“is this okay?” suguru asks, brushing his fingers along the bottom of your skirt. “we’ll stop if you—”

“—no,” you breathe. “no, it's fine. don't stop, just... please.”

the boys look at eachother like they'd struck gold.

satoru’s long fingers pull your tight top up and over your body, kissing at your neck as he does so. suguru stands behind you, undoing the clasp of your bra with a deftness that makes your thighs clench, his mouth grazing your shoulder blades as the straps fall loose down your arms.

they undress you like they’re unwrapping some beautiful luxury gift. for virgins, they were doing wonderfully so far.

suguru’s hands slide down your sides to unzip your skirt, and it pools around your ankles in a heartbeat. satoru drops to his knees to help you step out of it, and you could swear he shudders when your bare thighs come into view.

“fuck,” he breathes. “you’re…”

but he doesn’t finish.

he just looks up at you, eyes wide behind his glasses, blue and blown with complete and utter awe, he's staring like you’re some divine creature.

then suguru turns you gently, his hand curling under your chin to tilt your face toward his. he kisses you slowly, and when he pulls back you’re trembling from the sensuality of it all.

you almost feel greedy having this much attention on you.

choso’s sheets are soft and rumpled beneath your thighs as they ease you down, laying you back so softly. satoru kneels beside you and suguru leans over you, and they begin to undress themselves slowly.

you cant help but groan because god, they’re unreal under all of that geeky shit.

suguru shrugs off his sweater, the hem dragging over his beautifully cut torso revealing smooth, pale skin and thick lines of muscle traced with soft black hair.

he’s covered in little scars, faint things like he’s lived a hundred lives just to get here, in this moment with you.

you can’t look away from the tattoos that curve around his chest, how they stretch over his muscle as he inches closer.

satoru pulls off his jumper in one messy sweep, ruffling his snowy hair and leaving it even more tussled than before. his t-shirt comes next, he’s a little leaner than suguru, but muscular all the same.

you stare, and they know you’re staring. i mean, you weren't being very subtle about it...

satoru goes redder in the face from this new attention, his hands are shaking again as he peels off his jeans. when you glance down, you gawk as his pretty cock slaps back against his tummy, so hard and long.

suguru’s slower as usual, keeping his eyes on you the whole time as he undoes his belt and pushes down his jeans, the snap of leather making your thighs squeeze together.

and then they’re both kneeling at the foot of the bed, fully undressed, looking at you like you’re god.

“she’s shaking,” suguru notices as his eyes trail up your bare legs. “we should start slow, satoru.”

“yeah,” satoru says, crawling closer. “yeah, slow, gotcha…” he swallows nervously.

you're genuinely overwhelmed at how methodical they seem to be, how having their undivided attention suddenly flipped the power dynamic, now you're at their mercy.

when they lay you back, when they open your thighs with trembling hands and eager mouths, you feel a flip of need in your stomach.

you’ve been touched before, plenty. you’ve been kissed, been fucked, been thrown around a bedroom by a man who only knew how to want you with his hands, not his heart.

sukuna was always rough and so, so selfish. he’d shove your knees apart without looking you in the eye, fuck you hard and fast like he was trying to pour out all of his frustration, and always left you cold and empty afterwards.

you let yourself be used, again and again. hoping that one dad, he’d see you, want you in the way romeo wants juliet.

and now? instead of that, there’s this.

satoru’s mouth hot and wet and oh so greedy as his tongue slides past your lips, moaning like he’s already got his cock inside of you.

suguru’s hands fan over your chest, groping your tits sensually, “fuck, want you so bad."

satoru pulls away from your lips with a gasp, tugging at your jeans. “fuck, want you bare. now.”

suguru butts in, “that okay?”

you nod, also breathless. “yeah,”

“good girl,” the purple eyed man smiles, his eagerness making you throb.

shit, for virgins these guys knew how to get a girl going, your mind was blown.

satoru falls to his knees and kisses your thighs feverishly, his spit drips onto your pussy before he laps it up with a filthy moan. “fuck, you’re wet,” satoru pants. “is that for us?”

you nod with your hips trembling, whines spilling out with each breath. "f—fuck! he's, yes it's for you." you groan.

suguru snakes a hand around the front for your cunt and finds your clit in record time, dj-ing the bundle of nerves using satoru's spit as lube. "aw, you like that baby? like having us both at once?"

they moan in sync when you moan out a "fuck, yes!"

satoru buries his face in your cunt like he’s trying to suffocate in it, his tongue circling your clit now as suguru toys with your nipples, his two fingers working deep inside you, slapping wet sounds into the quiet of the room. satoru's sloppy and greedy with his jaw completely soaked, eyes rolling back every time you whimper. “taste her,” he mumbles up to suguru. “holy shit, taste-”

suguru shifts positions and leans down without hesitation, then licks you right off satoru’s mouth. your knees almost give out.

“perfect,” he mutters.

“so fucking good,” satoru finishes.

they drag you further up the bed, both of them hard and leaking. you see the way satoru grips the base of his cock, flushed red and twitching, precum spilling down his knuckles. suguru’s is heavier, curved meanly upwards, all veined and dark, there's a piercing glinting at the tip.

“can we take you?” satoru pants while suguru's leaving heavy kisses up and down the sides of your shoulders.

“—yes!” you whimper, “please, please.”

the black haired ones on you first, face now buried between your thighs in place of satoru, tongue working your clit while satoru kneels beside your head, stroking his cock. “open,” he tells you, you obey, and he spits in your mouth with a devilish grin.

“swallow it,” suguru says, watching from between your legs. “good fucking girl.” he praises as he watches your throat bob.

they take turns. satoru fucks your throat slow and deep, his hands cradling your head like you're both fragile yet able. suguru sucks and licks up every inch of your cunt, his tongue curling inside you, then pulling back to spit on your clit before rubbing it in with his fingers.

“she likes that,” satoru says with a wrecked voice. “look how loud she's gettin'.”

“jesus,” suguru growls. “god, let me fuck her already—"

“wait,” satoru groans, pulling out of your throat with a pop. “i wanna be in her mouth when you go in.”

they flip you, get you on your hands and knees. satoru kneels in front of you, his cock glossy with your spit. suguru lines himself up behind you, hands firm on your hips.

you’re soaked and throbbingas he slides in with one slow, mean thrust, and you scream around satoru’s cock.

suguru groans a pornographic groan. “tight fucking pussy,” he pants. “gripping me so hard, fuck!”

“she's doing so well, taking my cock to the —fuck— to the base,” satoru gasps, thrusting into your mouth.

they fuck you in sync. suguru pounds into you from behind, each thrust making your thighs shake, cock punching deep into your cunt while satoru holds your face steady and uses your throat like a pocket pussy. tears streak your cheeks and spit drips from your lips.

you're completely and utterly wrecked, yet you’ve never felt more loved.

“gonna cum,” suguru growls, yanking you up by the hair. “gonna fill her up,”

“inside,” you gasp, pulling off satoru. “please, please come inside!”

suguru moans at that, and with one final pull, he's spilling inside you hard and deep. he keeps thrusting through it, fucking his cum back up into you.

“switch,” you mumble almost instantly. “i want both.”

satoru's all breathless but he's grinning like a kid on christmas, he helps you onto your back.

suguru leans down and kisses you filthily, cum still dripping from your pussy onto the sheets.

you’re shaking, but still hungry for more of this sweet, sweet sex.

“you sure?” satoru pants, slapping his cock against your ass before lining up.

“yes,” you breathe. and when you confirm, he slides in slowly.

he tried to hold back, but the moment he bottoms out, his control shatters. he slams into you, moaning like he’s possessed, watching his cock fuck suguru’s cum into you with each thrust.

“fuuuuk, you’re dripping,” he gasps. “that’s his, huh? all that from us?” he leans down and kisses your open mouth, then pulls back to spit in it again. you swallow with a moan.

suguru watches, stroking himself with a fucked our expression. “you’re both so hot,” he sighs. “look at you two, jesus.”

after a good few deep thrusts, satoru too finishes inside you hard, his cock spamming and jerking deep in your cunt. you feel every spurt, hot and full mixing with suguru’s, dripping down your thighs.

and then, “open up,” suguru says, kneeling over your chest from his spot beside the bed.

you stick out your tongue and his seed covers the inside of your mouth. you swallow it all and the action makes the boys hard all over again.

still, they gauge that this was probably enough for the first time, and they rush to clean you up immediately.

this was sex you could seriously get used to.

~

after the clean up, you’re asleep before either of them can even utter the word 'aftercare'.

curled between them in the tangle of choso’s sheets, one leg tossed over suguru’s thigh, your cheek pressed deep into satoru’s warm chest.

your breathing is soft and steady like you’ve never slept better, like you were meant to end up right here, with both of them wrapped around you tight.

satoru stares down at you, stunned.

“she’s asleep,” he whispers.

“mm,” suguru hums beside him. “out cold.”

satoru breathes out a disbelieving laugh. “holy shit.”

suguru smiles slowly. “yeah.”

“i mean,” satoru whisper screams, “did that actually just happen? like, what the fuck?”

he looks at you again, at your bare shoulder rising and falling and how your lashes kiss your cheeks. your hand is fisted into his shirt, you’re holding onto him in your sleep.

he swallows. “fuck, man.”

suguru’s hand rests lightly on your hip, his fingers dotting soft circles over your skin, he can’t stop touching you even now. “that shit was like a dream.”

“she was perfect,” satoru agrees.

suguru's hand slides carefully up your spine and you shift slightly in your sleep, a soft whisper, and both of them freeze as to not wake you further. but you don’t open your eyes, you just sigh, sweet and content, pressing closer into the warmth of their worn out bodies.

suguru watches you like he’s studying religious scripture. “i’ve imagined it,” he says quietly. “a thousand times. how she’d sound. how she’d taste.”

satoru nods. “i thought it wouldn’t be as good as i imagined.”

“mhm, but it was better,” suguru says, voice hoarse.

“so much better.”

their thoughts drift back to how easily you let yourself be taken care of by them, letting them see you vulnerable, see you cry, even. they knew you didn't get that with sukuna.

"bet that beg's never fucked her like that.” suguru jokes, and satoru rolls his eyes. “obviously. if some virgins can outfuck that clown, that's just embarrassing.”

tthey stare at you again, admiring your pretty features as you sleep soundly.

satoru brushes a knuckle along your temple. “she was genuinely phenomenal, oh my god.” he's obviously still convinced this was all a dream.

suguru hums. “she clenched so hard on my cock, i thought i was gonna die.”

they both fall silent again, looking down at how peaceful you were.

“i hope we made her forget. about him, i mean. could tell something was up,” suguru sighs.

satoru nods. “mhm, hope we gave her something to think about instead of whatever issues they're having.”

“she deserves it,” suguru murmurs.

“yeah,” satoru says. “she deserves everything.”

"and you don't even feel the slightest bit guilty? screwing a taken women?"

"nope. not when her man is that dick."

suguru just smiles, brushing his hands through your hair and humming in agreement.

the room smells like you, they smell like you. they’ve got you on their hands, in their mouths, under their nails. you’re in their teeth, in their veins, in their bloodstream.

they'd never felt so utterly consumed before, and they wouldn't want it any other way.

~

the door creaks open just after two.

choso leans into the doorway with a curious glance, taking in the sight of you sleeping peacefully against the two boys.

“hey.” he whispers into the darkness.

satoru flinches like he’s been electrocuted.

“jesus!”

“shhh.” choso murmurs into a dry tone. “you’ll wake her.”

suguru huffs, “shit, how long have you been standing there?”

“long enough,” choso says, stepping fully into the room now. he crosses to the side of the bed like he’s done it a thousand times. “relax, m' not pissed off or anything.”

“you’re not?”

choso shrugs. “i let you guys come up, lowkey egged her on, too.”

satoru looks at him. “so you’re not… like grossed out?”

choso snorts. “nah.”

suguru’s brow twitches. “you’re not… disappointed?”

choso shakes hi head at that.

he glances down at you again, at the way you’re sleeping, deep and undisturbed with a softness on your face he hasn’t seen in weeks. he sees the glow in your skin and the tension gone from your shoulders, melted away like butter on a hot day.

he sighs. “no, she clearly needed this.”

satoru and suguru exchange a glance, unsure if they’re about to be punched or hugged.

but choso only leans over, hands surprisingly careful, and nudges satoru’s shoulder with a low murmur. “alright, up.”

satoru quirks a confused brow. “what?”

“move, she sleeps better when she’s not squished between two lanky assholes.”

“but she’s—”

“oh my fucking god, move.”

his tone leaves little room to argue, so suguru sighs, then gets up stiffly trying not to wake you, untangling himself from the bedsheets and carefully withdrawing from the warmth of your body. satoru follows, groaning quietly. you stir a little but don’t wake, just curl inward into the space they leave behind, a faint sound of protest escaping your lips.

satoru almost cries at the loss.

“go,” choso puhes, “before she wakes up and feels weird.”

suguru looks at you one more time. then nods solemnly. he pulls on his hoodie, grabs his sketchbook from the floor, but satoru just stands there, staring.

choso raises a brow. “need help?”

“no,” satoru mutters. “i’m fine.”

he pulls his shirt on inside out, then they leave without another word.

choso sighs then pulls off his boots and shrugs off his jacket, folding it neatly over the back of his desk chair. he stalks back to the bed, careful not to wake you, then eases himself into the space satoru left behind.

you gravitate toward the new heat, you nuzzle into his chest with a little sigh, one hand fisting in the fabric of his shirt.

he smiles gently, taking in your adorably clingy nature.

“hey,” he murmurs fondly, brushing your hair from your face. “there she is.”

he doesn’t say anything else. just watches you sleep for a moment, long fingers stroking the plush of your cheek. your lashes flutter a little and your lips twitch, then you breathe his name without waking.

he closes his eyes contently, “sleep, ma,” he mutters. “you’re okay."

~

shit, your head was pounding.

your body was weighed down heavy with the kind of sex ache that makes your thighs shake when you stretch. you shudder under the covers and blink blearily into the chest in front of you.

“choso…?”

“hey.” his voice is sleepy and he’s barely opened his eyes. “mornin’, sweetheart.”

you’re nestled against him like you always are after long parties at his place, except this time your lips are swollen, your thighs are sore, and your body still sings with the memory of being ravished.

“uh, how did you—"

“js' found you like this,” he says simply, brushing a knuckle under your eye. “figured you’d want someone to keep the nightmares away or whatever.”

your heart melts.

“thank you, cho." you whisper.

he hums like it’s no big deal and like holding you through the night isn’t his favorite part of every party he has at his place.

you curl closer into him, your sleepy face tucked under his chin, breathing in his familiar scent. you and choso have always made sense, bestfriends since the beginning. you’ve never had to ask for much with him.

maybe it’d be easier if he didn’t care so much about you, if he could just be the guy who hosts the cool invite-only-parties and didn't get involved in the messy shit.

but he’s never had that option with you, no way.

not when he’s watched you make yourself small and insignificant for someone who doesn’t deserve you, he’s seen the way sukuna leaves you hollowed out and timid, he’s picked you up from the worst nights and still thought you were the best thing that ever happened to him.

he’s just there.

not because he wants anything from you, god, never, he’s not sukuna.

he just wants you to be safe, he wants you happy. wants you to know that someone sees you, that someone really gives a shit, because he really gives a shit.

so yeah, if it means slipping into bed beside you so you don’t wake up alone, brushing your hair back from your cheek while you breathe soft and steady, he’ll do it. because you’re his girl, even if you aren't really his girl. he’s always going to look out for you, no matter what.

if he can't be the one loving you right then he'll do everything he can to make those who can, do.

“hey, cho?”

“mm?”

“…do you have their numbers?” you ask shyly, trying to sound as flippant as you could.

he doesn’t have to ask who you mean, he just cheekily smiles. “yeah, baby,” he says. “i got you.”

"and cho?"

"yes?"

"don't tell ryo."

he would never, don't you worry.

~

monday

you told yourself it was just a one time thing. afterall, two guys at once was a bit much, even for you. (no matter if they were the best fuck you'd ever had.)

but then monday came.

you walk into the small campus café with your laptop tucked under one arm and your sunglasses still perched high on your pretty cheekbones, and there they were.

satoru and suguru. sitting in the back sharing a muffin, whispering furiously about whatever nerdy thing it was. normal, they hadn’t been inside you at the same time forty eight hours ago.

you almost turned around, but then suguru looks up, satoru following.

shit, they were so fucking pretty.

his eyes darkened when they landed on you like all he needed in this moment was to be close to you again, and you couldn’t move. couldn’t scoff and turn around, couldn’t not walk over to them when he raised a slow hand and curled his fingers in a quiet, come here.

so you walked over, and sat between them.

the vibe was a little akward, yet still somehow more comfortable than your expected. satoru was looking at you with that cute needy expression, and suguru smiled when his knuckles accidentally pushed at your wrist when he reached for his coffee. your stomach was flipping like a schoolgirl’s.

"you look as beautiful as ever, y/n." satoru murmurs as he grabs for your hand under the table.

"i still can't believe you're real, god, you're so cute." suguru whispers as his hands grip your thigh descreetly.

jeez, one night and they're getting this bold? you couldn't lie, you liked it.

an expectant smile crossed your lips when satoru leaned in and asked quietly, “wanna come over later?” you nodded, you knew you could never say no to these two.

tuesday

satoru keeps a bottle of lotion on his nightstand that smells like coconut and soy.

you’re not sure why that’s what sticks with you the most.

he'd kissed your thighs for fifteen full minutes before even touching you, he whispered mine, mine, mine into the hollow of your throat when you came, he looked at you after, eyes wet and mouth upturned like he’d seen something so divine.

instead of that, all you could focus on is lotion.

the smell of it on your wrists when you woke up in his bed, your body all aching and sore in the best way. when he sat behind you on the floor after your shower, hands gliding gently over your skin with the stuff, murmuring such sweet words in your ear.

“you’re so pretty like this,” he’d smile, rubbing circles into your shoulders. “all quiet and sleep.”

you let him touch you for a long time. let him press kisses down your spine, let him pull you into his lap and rest his cheek against your back as he listened to your hear beat.

you didn’t ask what this meant and neither did he, too soon for that.

wednesday

suguru brings you over to the dorm while satoru's out, and he sketches you.

you don’t know how you got to that point, one moment you were sitting on his bed in your underwear, eating strawberries from a chipped glass bowl, and the next he's looking at you like van gough looked at sunflowers.

“y/n, stay like that,” he said gently. you thought he meant it as a joke or something. maybe he was gonna do something freaky, but instead, he grabbed his sketchbook.

and then he drew you.

you followed his instructions and let him work away while you admired his beautiful face, taking in every little curvature of his blessed body. after he was through with sketching you raw, he placed his book aside, climbed onto the bed, straddled your hips, and kissed you so hard you felt him deep in your heart.

he’s quieter than satoru is and so much more intense. less prone to fidgeting, more prone to doing.

“you should be adored,” he said at one point, dragging his mouth along your collarbone as he plunged deeper inside of you. “you should be touched with all the care in the world.”

he didn’t realise you were crying until he kissed your cheeks and tasted the salt.

thursday

satoru’s the one who starts questioning every little thing first between the three of you.

at first he just acts really weird, he talks fast and says shit like “we’re not your boyfriends, right?” and, “i don’t wanna make it weird, haha, unless you do, but even then like… i dunno, just ignore me!”

you're lying on his floor in between his legs, he keeps running his fingers through your hair. you’re not wearing a bra, and he’s definitely hard, the perfect setting to have your mind turn hazy with pleasure.

but then, “do you regret it?” he asks suddenly.

"hm?"

“the weekend..” he replies. “and… everything after.”

you sit up with a confused look on your face.

satoru’s face is a mess of contradictions. he looks both nervous and cocky, like he’s daring you to reject him but also it would ruin him if you did.

you roll your eyes then kiss him rough until he's gasping for air.

“does that answer your question?” you murmur against his mouth, then he lets go of a groan.

“i’m so in love with you it’s disgusting,” he blurts out, then slaps a hand over his big mouth, turning red. “wait, pretend i didn’t—"

you kiss him again.

friday

suguru finds you in the library as you’re curled into a corner with your laptop, your hoodie's pulled over your head and your sunglasses are on. you're trying to avoid attention and pretend you’re being productive, when really, you’re just replaying the last five nights in your mind on repeat.

he smiles to himself and walks over, setting a cup of coffee by your hand. “hey there, pretty,” he says quietly.

he’s wearing glasses today with a loose button down, his hair is tied back in a low bun, he looks as perfectly put together as usual.

you grin before you can stop yourself. “hey, handsome.” he sits in the seat beside you, draping his arm over the back of your chair.

“you looked like you needed caffeine,” he murmurs. you glance at the coffee. it’s your exact order. “and a kiss,” he adds, even softer.

your face flushes hot.

“but i can wait until later.” he adds.

he doesn’t say, 'my place or yours,' but you hear it anyway.

you bite your lip, you know you weren't in a position to reject such a beautiful man. “later,” you echo, with a wide smile.

saturday

by now you stop acting like this isn't something you want.

there’s no “maybe this is a phase, maybe i just needed a distraction.”

there’s no one night stand logic that can explain the way suguru presses his face into your stomach after he comes, arms wrapped tight around your hips whispering about how he never wants to let you go.

there’s no throw away excuse for how satoru touches your face so gently, palms cupping your cheeks, thumb brushing your big lip, whispering your name as he thrusts in and out.

there’s no ignoring the ache in your chest when you leave them in the morning. your fingers hover over your phone every night, like maybe if you just called, one of them would show up at your door again. you’re not sure when this stopped being about sex.

and hell, you’re not sure it ever was.

saturday was spent overthinking.

sunday

satoru and suguru have you shared again, you're panting heavily from their joint efforts to make you finish as they caress your face tenderly, covered in sweat themselves.

"you did so well, baby. you took the both of us like a pro." satoru praises.

"it's like you were made just for us to take apart, isn't that right, honey?" suguru adds.

you could only whimper in reply from the intense moment that still hadn't been shaken yet.

the two hush you, whispering such sweet words while they kiss up and down your body trying to calm you down. you're left reeling with the thoughts you didn't want to acknowledge quite yet.

“i’m scared.” you whisper.

the boys stop their aftercare and move to hover around your face that's now somehow covered in tears.

"oh, my sweet girl... of what?" suguru asks, stroking your head as satoru rubs your cheek.

"it's just... this is getting too much. i'm scared of sukuna finding out, i'm scared of you two leaving me, or getting bored, or someone finding out, or—"

"—baby, relax. thats not gonna happen, we promise we'll—"

you cut satoru off. “but what if it’s just a phase? or something stupid we’re all into just because it’s new? what if i wake up and you guys leave? what if you don’t want me tomorrow? what if this whole thing is just…”

you're unloading everything that had been slowly eating away at you, you can’t finish through the small sobs.

suguru cuts in firmly this time. “no.”

"y/n, listen to me. me and satoru aren't going to abandon you, hell, if anything you should be the one walking away from us. were just two freak losers who got extremely lucky."

“yeah,” satoru agrees, his voice cracking halfway through it. “you’re not just something we wanted to fuck, okay? we want all of you, all of the time. but if sex is all you want to give us, then that's fine, we really don't mind.”

you close your eyes. the room is so quiet now, just your breathing and theirs, the soft creak of the floorboards as the building settles.

“it just feels so wrong... like i'm using you two to get over the pain someone else is giving me. someone who i'm still technically with..."

“we’re not taking anything negatively from this,” suguru speaks softly. “we don’t want anything you don't want. we just want you, in whatever way you want to be wanted.”

satoru exhales through his nose. “we’ve admired you for so long,” he murmurs. “we've been needing this for literal years, y/n, we're never going to just up and leave, it's a privilege you even looked our way that day in the hallway, let alone let us have you like this. morals be damned, we couldn't care less about you using us for solace.”

his confession makes you want to sob harder.

“i never thought i’d get to touch you,” suguru adds. “never even dreamed of this. of holding you like this. of being held by you, so don't worry your pretty little head, we're completley at your mercy.”

youre overwhelmed by the honesty, by the massive amount of devotion these two silly guys have you. hell, you were cheating on your boyfriend and using them as emotional anchors, they seriously were obsessed.

still, their attention always felt so pure.

“...you make me feel like i matter,”

“you do matter,” satoru assures, “you’re the realest person out there, y/n. and we lo-like you for you.”

"we love every part of you, okay? we're not gonna leave you." suguru smiles.

your eyes sting worse, and you think of sukuna, of all the nights you curled away from him after he’d taken what he wanted. you think of the mornings he didn’t even say goodbye. you think of the shame. the emptiness. the way you convinced yourself it was love when it really, really wasn't.

this, what satoru and suguru give you, is nothing like that.

you reach for them, pull them closer until their limbs are tangled in yours again, until you’re flush against suguru’s chest and satoru’s long body is draped around your back.

you close your eyes with a tight throat. “don’t let me go,” you whisper.

“never,” satoru murmurs into your hair.

“not ever,” suguru echoes, thumb stroking your waist.

~

now it was time to face the elephant in the room, after your week of emotional, intense sex with satoru and suguru, sukuna finally came over after a week of radio silence.

he basically cock blocked you just as you were about to leave your room and head to the boys, the quietness felt so disgusting when he was close.

he sits at the edge of your bed with his arms folded across his broad chest, you’re still by the door with your keys dangling from your hand, bag slipping off your shoulder.

“you’ve been weird,” he says flatly.

you blink, taken aback. “what?”

he doesn’t look at you when he says it again. “you’ve been weird. haven't texted for days. no invites.”

you gulp. “look, sukuna, i’ve just been—"

“busy?” he cuts you off, his voice deadly sharp. “yeah. busy ignoring me.” the door clicks shut behind you and your hand trembles on the knob.

“i’m not ignoring you,” you say much quieter now. “you’ve been busy too, no? with law midterms, remember?”

“don’t patronise me.” he scoffs.

“i’m not,” you murmur. “i’m trying to talk to you.”

he stands abruptly now pacing, fingers running through his pink hair in that agitated way that always comes before he says something horribly cruel.

“nah,” he mutters. “you’re trying to do damage control or some shit. every time i text, you take hours to respond. you come back home late, you dodge my calls, you’ve been hanging out with..." he pauses, squinting. “who’ve you even been hanging out with?”

"so you're stalking my location now?" you try to shift the conversation but the blank look on his face lets you know that he's not having it.

your mouth goes dry. you feel the heat rise in your cheeks, guilt, even though you told yourself a hundred times it wasn’t really bad cheating if he was doing the same behind closed doors.

“choso,” you lie. “and shoko. i’ve just been trying to keep my head on straight, kuna.”

“bullshit,” he snaps. “you’re lying.”

“i’m not!”

“don't fucking yell at me, you are.” he growls.

you can’t look at him, because he’s right, you are. not just about who you’ve been with, but about everything. about how you recoil when he touches you, you don’t like how he talks to you in front of your friends, you look for other names in your phone when things go wrong.

“why are you doing this,” you ask softly, “why are you trying to pick a fight with me?”

“because you’re not the same,” he snarls. “because something’s fucking off, and you think i’m too stupid to notice!"

you feel a knot in your stomach, not guilt, but anger. you’ve kept your mouth shut for months, made excuses for him, wiped away your own tears before anyone else could see them. and now he’s standing in your dorm, looking at you like you’re the problem? like he hasn’t been slowly sucking the light out of you since the start of the semester.

“it's none of your business. you do the same thing, sukuna,” you snap.

his red eyes narrow.

“you go ghost, ignore me for days, don't call, don't text. maybe i don’t wanna tiptoe around you every day. maybe i’m tired of getting punished for needing space, or being quiet, or not wanting to fuck you every single time you come over!”

his face twists. “so that’s what this is about?”

you laugh bitterly. “of course that’s the only thing you hear!”

“i fucking knew it,” he seethes, stepping closer. “you’ve been getting dick from someone else.”

your blood goes cold.

“the fuck?”

“who is it?” he demands. “that freak choso? is it toji? what, are you on some slut streak now, trying to fuck your way through all your little guy friends?”

you’re shaking with anger now.

“get out.”

“what?”

“get out, sukuna.”

he stares at you with his chest heaving.

“don’t talk to me like that,” you whisper. “don’t come into my room and call me names and accuse me of shit that you’ve done to me.”

he laughs then scoffs, stepping back. “so that’s it, huh? i call out your bullshit and suddenly i’m the villain?”

“you’re always the fucking villain!” you yell.

...

“you’re fucking pathetic,” he spits. “cry me a river, i'm gone.”

but you don’t cry. not until after the door slams or until you hear his boots stomp all the way down the hall, not until he’s fully gone. and then you’re on the floor.

knees pulled up to your chest with your hands shaking. it’s not even the fight, it’s the months you spent convincing yourself he loved you, you forgot how to want things that weren’t him, he turned every good thing sour and convinced you that it was your fault.

eventually, your hand finds your phone. you stare at your contact list through blurred teary vision. you scroll past 'kuna's' name, you scroll past choso.

and you stop on satoru and suguru's. your chest heaves with pain, you shouldn’t. they don’t deserve this. you can’t drag them into your mess just because you’re too weak to be alone.

but you think about their little confession earlier, how they were so adamant on being there for you, and decide this is the best thing you can do.

“hello?”

satoru’s voice is expectant like he was already waiting for you to call. you open your mouth, but nothing comes out except a strangled breath. “hey,” he asks softly. “are you okay?”

and you break. “can i come over?” you whisper. “please?”

satorus heart breaks in two when he hears the gentle sob in your plea, “of course,” he says. “i’ll come get you.”

“no,” you say quickly. “don’t. i'll come.” there’s a beat of silence. you imagine him looking at suguru. maybe nodding. maybe holding the phone between them like you’re some rare bird that landed in their hands and they’re afraid to scare you away.

“we’re here,” suguru says quietly now. “whenever you want.”

you nod, even though they can’t see you. “i’m leaving now.” then you hang up.

you stumble across campus with your hands shoved deep in your pocket, all you can think about is getting to their dorm and collapsing into their arms.

when you arrive, satoru’s there with the adorable messy hair you'd grown to love. suguru stands just behind him in a black t-shirt with his hair tied back, looking scared for whatever had hurt you now.

when you walk in past the boys, the pressure seems to ease up, but you could still feel the guilt eating away at you.

satoru comes to you first with his arms open and wide, suguru follows close behind, you fall into satoru’s chest shaking. he holds you like he wants to sew your broken parts together with his hands. suguru’s arms wrap around you both from behind, breath warm on your neck.

no one speaks until you whisper, “can i stay?”

suguru laughs solemnly. “you never have to leave.”

then they kiss you tenderly, this is what you needed.

some may of preferred a soft night full of praise and tight cuddles, but you? you just needed them to take your ability to think away, there was time for that softness later, afterwards.

ithey knew you well enough by now to know exactly how to take care of you in this kind of situation, and they got straight to it.

five minutes later they've wrestled your clothes off, and satoru’s tongue is trembling in your cunt like he’s going to cry from how good you taste.

he’s murmuring your name over and over with wet lips dragging sloppy kisses over your folds, his moans humming against your clit. he sounds wrecked, like he's unworthy but taking all he can get anyway, not at all entitled or selfish.

and suguru, he’s watching as his hand slides over your stomach, tracing circles against your skin as he holds you still for satoru’s mouth. every movement is so gentle, so purposeful.

“she’s shaking,” suguru whispers. “toru. slow down.”

but satoru just groans, deeper, like he physically can’t help himself.

“can’t, she’s so good— fuck, you’re so fucking good—" his muffled voice is strained and needy.

he laps you up with a helpless rhythm, his hands are gripping your thighs like he’s trying to keep you there, keep you there for him to service. his glasses are long gone, his eyes are glazed, his mouth is glistening with you.

you can barely breathe, you’re crying for what seems like the fiftieth time that week. not messy out of control sobbing, just quiet, stuttering tears. and it’s not from the orgasm building in your spine. it’s from how they’re treating you so gently.

suguru notices your wet face immediately and leans in, kisses your cheek, then, “you okay, sweetheart?”

"...i just... he never—"

your voice cracks and you can't finish the sentence, not that you need to.

because they know, they know.

satoru’s pace falters just a little. suguru’s fingers rub up and down your tummy.

“he doesn't deserve you,” suguru says, so low it’s almost a growl. “he can't handle all of this.”

you turn your head and sob once, the truth of his words really hit something deep within you it seems, because then you come.

hard.

satoru groans like he’s the one finishing, licking you through it with desperate, uncoordinated strokes, gasping against you like he’s addicted to the taste of your pleasure.

your body locks, then shudders, then melts.

and suguru pulls you into his big, safe arms, kissing your wet eyelids shut, murmuring soft, incoherent things against your skin.

you blink up at him, dazed and sore.

“do you wanna stop, baby?” he asks in a quiet voice.

and you say no.

hell no, you don’t want to stop.

you want to be held, ruined, then rebuilt afterwards.

you want them to drown out everything he left behind.

so suguru fucks you slow.

he guides you onto your back, one hand cradling your face, the other stroking down your thigh as he lines himself up. you feel the thick head of his cock press to your entrance, and your fingers tremble where they’re fisted in the sheets.

he pushes in.

inch by inch.

watching your face.

watching every reaction.

he doesn’t slam, doesn’t shove, only presses in gently until he’s buried inside you to the hilt and your walls are fluttering around him.

you gasp, whimper, any sound you could possibly be making in a situation like this was pouring out in humiliating waves.

and he moans, “fuck,” he breathes, forehead pressed to yours. “you’re— so tight, s-so good—"

satoru is still beside you, one hand in your hair, the other jerking himself slow, his mouth slack.

“she’s perfect,” he whispers. “she’s fucking... god, suguru, look at her.”

and suguru is, he fucks you like you’re made of glass. like this is the only chance he’ll ever get to love you. slow, dragging thrusts that push so deep they punch even the littlest sounds out of your sweet mouth.

you cling to him.

you whimper his name.

“please,” you gasp. “please! don’t stop— don’t leave—"

satoru kisses you so soft it makes your head hurt.

“never,” he says.

that seems to start the mantra of praise as they spill pretty words into the air.

"he didn’t deserve your body. or your heart.”

“we’ll take better care of you, baby.”

"pretty things like you need to be treasured."

and then, "open for satoru, sweetheart.”

you blink through the tears, still spread open and full of suguru, and then satoru is there again, cock flushed and leaking, breath ragged as he kneels by your head.

“can i?” he whispers. “i’ll go slow. i swear.”

and you nod.

because you trust them.

because you want them.

this was all happening so fast but you just couldnt seem to care.

satoru hovers your chest, his cock heavy on your lips and you open for him with tongue out, lashes wet, suguru still thrusting into you slow and deep and steady.

“fuck,” satoru breathes. “fuck, baby! just like that—"

you suck him in and he chokes on a deep, sensual groan.

his fingers curl in your hair as he starts to fuck your mouth, soft at first, like he’s afraid he’ll hurt you, but you whimper and gag and grip his thigh, and he loses it.

he starts moving faster, much deeper.

the wet sounds of your mouth around him mix with the slap of suguru’s hips against yours.

you’re being worshipped and all but consumed. you can’t speak, can’t even think, you’re just feeling, a vessel for their pleasure, full of their hands and cocks and pure, undying love.

because that’s what it is.

twisted and bruising.. but it’s love.

there's no possession, or violence. just two boys who’ve been obsessed with you for years, who would rather die than see you cry over someone who didn't deserve you again.

and when they both come, satoru across your tongue with a helpless sob, suguru deep inside you with a raw groan and a hand pressed over your heart, it feels like freedom.

this is what it feels like to be fucked loved right.

you lay there soaked while they pet your hair and whisper. “so good,” satoru smiles. “you were so fucking good."

“you always are,” suguru adds. “you’re ours.”

you’re not crying now, not quite. but your chest feels split open, nerves buzzing like something too big to hold is trying to crawl out. you can’t speak. can’t move. you just lay there, fucked full and coated in their cum, staring at the ceiling like it’s got answers hidden in the plaster cracks.

satoru takes note of your dazed expression. “hey,” he says softly, brushing a thumb over your cheek. “too much?”

you shake your head, but your mouth doesn’t cooperate.

suguru’s weight moves behind you, he’d curled around your back after they’d finished, warm and sticky yet safe. now he leans over you, his voice a low drawl in your ear. “you’re okay, you’re safe, baby. with us.”

you nod, a tiny tremble as satoru presses a kiss to your forehead. “let’s clean you up.”

they lift you gently, one arm under your knees, one around your back. satoru carries you to the bathroom while suguru turns on the shower, testing the temperature with his hand. steam curls around your skin, soft and warm.

they step in with you, satoru supports you against his chest, water running down both your bodies. suguru kneels in front of you with a washcloth, moving like he’s handling a painting or a prayer. “gonna clean you real gentle,” he says. “you did so good for us.” the first touch of the cloth between your legs makes you shiver.

“i know, i know,” suguru murmurs. “you’re sore. we’ll be careful.”

he’s not just washing, but caring for you as he dabs away the mess between your thighs. “look at how much we gave you,” he says softly, gazing up. “you took it all. every drop.”

you shudder, just a little, overwhelmed sound. satoru kisses your temple. “it's okay, baby. it's okay."

suguru cleans the rest of you up, at this point your entire being feels free of impurities, your soul, even. its like they’ve cracked your soul open and poured themselves inside.

you look up at them, blinking through tears and steam. “you don’t just want me for sex?” you whisper.

satoru makes a strangled sound and hugs you tighter. “jesus,” he breathes. “no, never.”

“we want all of you,” suguru says. "every inch of you, baby.” you bury your face in suguru's chest, he’s also a little shaky.

“you could fuck us a thousand times,” he says, voice cracking, “and we’d still just wanna talk to you. sit next to you and listen to you talk about anything and everything.”

“we wanna know you,” suguru says. “wanna ruin every memory you had with him, overwrite them.”

your heart breaks, but not from pain, or from pleasure, but from the terrifying, beautiful truth of being seen. being known.

suguru whispers, “you’re so good to us.” then satoru kisses your forehead. “you’re enough,” he says. “just like this.”

you fall asleep so warm, soothed down into unconsciousness by their arms. now, you’re silent between them.

suguru looks over you softly, and satoru is awake too. lying stiffly beneath you, eyes wide open and glassy in the moonlight. “you know she hasn’t fully broken up with him,” suguru whispers.

satoru’s face drops like a puppies “i know.”

“hm.”

satoru exhales, rubbing gently on your arm. “i just… i don’t wanna be a secret, y’know?” he says. “feels like i’m in middle school again. like i’ve got a crush on the most popular girl in school, and if anyone finds out, i’m gonna get laughed out of the room.”

“you’re not in middle school,” suguru mutters. “you’re in a bed with her.”

“i know. js' doesn’t feel real...i keep thinking,” he says softly, “what if she wakes up one day and regrets it?”

suguru doesn’t say anything. the thought has haunted him too. “what if this is just a rebellion?” satoru whispers.

“what if she’s just pissed at sukuna and we’re… convenient?”

“we’re not convenient,” suguru says. satoru lets out a short, bitter laugh. “she's been too vulnerable with us for this to just be convenient.”

"hm, i guess..."

“don't worry toru, everything is going to be alright,” suguru says. satoru nods and curls his arms tighter around you.

he presses his mouth to your hair. “i love you,” he whispers. not expecting an answer. just needing to say it. suguru’s hand smooths protectively over your stomach. “i do too,” he says. “always will.”

you stir a little, murmuring something incoherent in your sleep. satoru freezes and suguru holds his breath, but you don’t wake, just nuzzle closer.

your body knows where you’re safest.

~

you were back in your own orbit, mentally healing from the crash out with sukuna and using the memory of satoru and suguru to ground you to whatever schedule you were trying to stick to.

you were doing really well, things seemed a little less scary when you were alone nower days.

but, you know what they say about good things.

a disturbance from your daily note revision was interrupted by a loud knock. you open your dorm door half asleep, thinking it’s shoko or maybe choso coming to check in, your voice is groggy. “hey, who is it—”

“so you're fucking them?”

it’s sukuna. he storms inside without waiting, he smells like weed and sweat and pure and utter rage. when the door slams shut behind him, it rattles the frame. “answer me,” he snarls. “are you fucking gojo and geto?”

you blink, completely stunned. your heart jumps in your chest. “what are you even talking about?”

“don’t fuck around right now!” he growls, stalking closer. “don’t lie to me, i’m not stupid.”

“we're not a thing anymore sukuna why the fuck do you care?! you walked out on me!”

he scoffs, “you think that counts as a break up? did those words ever leave my fucking mouth?" he scoffs loudly. "god, you think i haven’t noticed? you've been walking around all chappy like, like you’ve been—” his mouth twists up in disgust, “—bred.”

you freeze.

“i didn’t want to believe it,” he spits. “but you’re fucking filthy. knew it the second i saw you the other night. knew something was wrong, you’ve got that look on your face, like you’ve been ruined, like some other dick already beat me there.”

“you’re out of your mind.” you roll your eyes.

“am i? am i?!” his voice ricochets off the walls. “how long has this been going on? how long you been sneaking around behind my back? letting those losers put their hands all over you? let them stretch you out like the whore you are?”

“don’t talk to me like that,” you say quietly, not matching his energy at all.

he laughs cruelly. “why not? isn’t that what you are now? a whore? letting two guys run a train on you like you’re fucking community pussy?”

you flinch like he’s hit you.

“what’d you do, huh? let them talk sweet to you?” he sneers, advancing again. “gojo tell you you’re pretty? geto say you’re ‘divine’ like he’s reading fucking poetry off your tits? is that all it took to turn you into a cheating slut?”

youre growing really sick of this degrading asshole, he opens his mouth again to choke out another quip, but you slap him, hard.

he doesn’t react, just wipes the corner of his mouth, then looks at you with a stare darker than fury.

“don't talk about them,” you say, voice trembling with rage. “they've treated me better in one night than you have this whole relationship.” you snarl.

“so that’s it, then?” his voice rises. “you let them rail you and now you’re in love? we're just over?”

“well yes? they actually give a shit about me."

he laughs again, but it breaks off. something flashes across his face, almost like pain. then: “they don’t care about you. they just wanted to see if they could fuck the golden girl. you’re nothing special, not once they’ve both had you.”

“you don’t know a thing about them.” you stand your ground, staring daggers into his eyes.

“i know they’re pathetic. i know they’re weak little virgins who’ve probably been jerking off to your instagram for years. and now what? they tag teamed you and whispered some sweet nothings while they watched each other fuck you? did you like that? getting split open like a pornstar, is that your thing now?”

you’re seething.

“i didn’t believe it,” he spits. “choso said you were glowing. said you were feeling good lately, didn’t even think twice. just figured maybe i’d finally gotten through to you, maybe you were actually starting to feel something. turns out you were getting it from them.” he shakes his head.

you take a breath, steadying yourself. “you never gotten through to me,” you say. “never even tried, so miss me with that bullshit.”

he snarls. “don’t fucking do that. don’t act like i didn’t care about you—"

“—you cared about you, sukuna. about being right. about being the one i came back to, even when you didn’t deserve me.”

his eyes widen with disbelief. “and they do?”

“they listen to me! they make me feel safe.”

he stares at you. his breathing is hard now, chest heaving. “so what, you gonna be their little girlfriend now? hold hands in the quad with your geeky little nerd boyfriends? gonna let them show you off like a piece of meat?”

“yeah, maybe,” you say. “maybe i will.”

he shakes his head. “you’re a fucking slut.”

you feel the blood drain from your face and he notices it. he sees the pain flash in your eyes. and for a second, just a small, fleeting moment, he looks like he regrets it.

you lift your chin. “don’t call me that.”

“why not?” he snaps. “it’s what you are now, isn’t it? playing perfect on campus while you get used like a fleshlight by the two weirdest freaks in the math building.”

“get out,” you whisper.

but he doesn’t move.

“get the fuck out!" you begin to yell, walking up on him until he backs up towards the door.

"you'll miss me." he tries to push, looking you dead in the eye as he smiles with that belittling glint.

“i missed you while we were still together, fuck face.”

silence.

"whatever. m' gone." and he turns, and he leaves.

"stay gone this time." you call out, slamming the door.

you don’t hear from sukuna again after that night. you thought maybe he’d show up the next day, demanding an apology, some groveling, some ridiculous admission that you were wrong to move on. but he doesn’t.

instead, from then on he starts showing up in other ways, on your feed, tagged in blurry stories from parties, surrounded by girls who don’t know better.

you hear through the grapevine that he’s been on a spree, sleeping around. saying shit like “i’m single now, guess i gotta make up for lost time,” with a smug little grin. even maki brings it up once, rolling her eyes. “he’s just a horny cunt. it’s pathetic.” you nod, sip your iced coffee.

“he’s trying to prove he doesn’t care,” choso adds. “but he does. it's fucking embarrassing.”

instead of replying you start filling that space sukun left with something else. ever since you finally broke shit off with him, you’ve been getting closer and closer to satoru and suguru, and not just physically anymore.

you're listening to them talk about their majors in the library as they help you with your marketing assignments.

you pose for suguru whenever he wants to draw you, his new folio of work was going to be centered around you this semester, apparently.

you'd sit in the middle of satoru's bed as suguru sat on the floor looking up at you, sketching lines. satoru would be busy typing away at his computer completing his homework. it was the kind of domestic bliss you'd always longed for in a partner, and in this case, partners.

on the weekends, the boys would take you out to pretty cafes, hidden spots where the lighting was perfect and the scenary was photographable. you'd put them to work taking various photos of you for instagram, saying you've been 'slacking off lately' because of them. "the fans need something to eat. after all, you two aren't my only ones, after all."

they just smile and count their lucky stars that they were able to help you curate the very thing they obsessed over not too long ago.

their dorm became the place to be, after parties you'd all crash out together in suguru's bed, tangled in the limbs of one another.

the boys staring became a normal thing, you'd always catch them looking at you, taking apart every movement you made. it was daunting at first, but now you knew it was just because they admired you so much.

it definitely made you feel special.

you go to another party the following friday. not one of choso’s this time, but a campus wide art show afterparty in some crumbling loft. suguru’s reading a short piece upstairs for his portfolio, and you cheer loudest in the crowd, earning a soft smile from the man.

satoru stands beside you in his hoodie and jeans, chewing his lip and looking like he’d throw hands for a single glance in your direction. afterward, you snap a photo of you sitting on a couch, a flash of suguru’s rings on your waist and satoru’s hand on your thigh. a caption that says, 'soft launch?' your comments go feral.

@/tysoc23: who is she with???

@/miamiamia she’s got secret lovers now?

@/innnoooo wish that was me.

every day you spend with them, your light gets brighter. you start studying with them more often in the campus chapel between classes, lying beside them in the pews while suguru reads out loud from his religion texts, you and satoru listen with fond expressions listening to him recite the scripture.

suguru smells like amber and ink, a smell you'd grown to adore.

every afternoon spent with satoru, he walks you across campus just to detour into the physics building to show you something dumb, a chalkboard equation that “reminds him of you,” because its so complicated yet beautiful, whatever the fuck that meant.

you cherished every second nevertheless.

he makes you laugh so hard your cheeks hurt. he always knows when you’re about to cry, even if you don’t.

they don’t push and they don’t ask for more than you’re ready to give. and yet, you want to give them everything.

satoru starts leaving one of his hoodies in your dorm becuas he knows how cold you get when they aren't there. suguru brings you incense and hangs it by your mirror. their things start to trickle in, little tokens, little bits and pieces.

one night, you fall asleep with your head on suguru’s chest and wake up to satoru’s fingers in your hair, his sleepy voice whispering something like, “she’s so perfect.” you pretend to still be asleep.

sometimes you wake up alone. sometimes you wake up tangled between them, your legs draped across suguru’s lap, satoru’s breath hot on your neck. and sometimes, on soft mornings, when the world is still, one of them will whisper that they like being your favorites.

you still don’t define it, but everyone, including the three of you, can tell you're a thing.

~

sukuna watches from the jealous, seething sidelines, and you know he was.

you catch him across campus sometimes, lingering too long when you walk by. you hear about the girls he’s sleeping with, the way he drinks too much now and picks fights with guys he used to ignore. you don’t feel anything for it anymore, pity, anger, jealousy, none of it.

it's just a good, fair distance.

~

a few weeks pass by of healing, love, friendship, all that lovely gooey shit.

you’re sitting at a tiny booth in a tucked away cafe, one of those old ones that still plays jazz from a radio and serves lattes in chipped ceramic mugs. your hands are wrapped around your cup, legs crossed under the table, suguru’s sketchbook open between you.

“this doesn’t look like me,” you tease, squinting at his latest drawing.

“it’s not you,” suguru murmurs, smirking faintly. “it’s the concept of you.”

“oh my god,” satoru groans from your other side, halfway through stealing the sweet foam from your latte with his spoon. “can we go five minutes without suguru seducing you with dumb art terminology?”

“i’m not seducing her,” suguru says, without looking up. “i’m studying her. for my project, duh.”

“same thing,” satoru mutters, dropping the spoon into your saucer and leaning over your shoulder. “let me see.”

you tilt the sketchbook so he can look. his chin brushes your temple and his breath is warm.

“whoa,” he says, genuinely awed. “she looks… weird but hot.”

suguru glances up and happily shrugs. “that’s what she is.”

you roll your eyes, but your smile is shy. “you guys are so weird.”

“and you like it,” satoru beams.

you bump your shoulder into his. “i guess.”

suguru just hums, pencil still moving. “you keep saying that like we didn’t catch you doodling our initials in your notebook last week.”

you go still. “…you went through my notebook?”

“you left it open.”

“that’s private!”

“you drew little hearts too,” satoru gasps. “and put my letters before his, you love me more!”

“i’m leaving.”

“you’re not,” suguru says calmly, flipping the page again. “you haven’t finished your drink.”

you fake roll your eyes, but genuinely, you've never felt more at ease.

the three of you orbiting each other so naturally, like this was always fated to happen.

you catch suguru’s eye, then he smiles at you softly. satoru tosses a sugar packet at you and sticks out his tongue. you laugh. and it’s good, more than good, actually. it's perfect.

you think you could do this forever, forever with these two insanely hot nerds who just so happen to be just as infatuated with you, as you are them.

forever intertwined with these people who look at you like you're made of gold.

you knew for the rest of your life, you were going to be deeply rooted in the narrative that was satoru and suguru, and god, not you, nor them, would have it any other way.

a/n i hope you liked this re-vamp! if you saw any typos... no you didn't. (i suck, ik i need to proofread plz don't throw tomatoes at mama)

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