Violet

He huffed out a laugh, shaking his head. “She was older—seventeen. Smelled like sea salt and oil paints, and sometimes, when she pressed a cold soda can to her wrist, it would glow faintly. Like—” he gestured vaguely, “like bioluminescence or something.”

He paused, then smirked, remembering something half-fond, half-infuriating. “I asked her about it once—why her arm did that.”

His voice shifted, mimicking hers, lighter, teasing—“‘Same reason yours does, I guess.’”

His fingers brushed his bicep briefly, like he was remembering the spot behind his left shoulder blade where his own mark glowed. “No one ever talked about it, not really. But when we walked into a room together, the grown-ups always went quiet. Like we’d tracked sand onto an antique carpet. Like we weren’t supposed to be touching.”

He exhaled sharply, letting the memory settle before pushing forward. “But she always smiled at me.”

His hand moved to his hair absently, something like muscle memory. “She said it had the shine of stormwater. Made me sit still while she braided it, like it was some ritual.”

The corner of his mouth twitched—not quite a smile, but something close. “I let her.”

And he didn’t say it, but the unspoken words lingered in the space between breaths.

Of course he did.

What else was there to do.

Megumi exhaled, shifting in his chair. “I grew up in this weird little town by the sea.”

He said it like a confession, weighted. “The streets were mossy and cracked. The tide never followed the forecast—it always came in early, like the ocean had somewhere to be.”

He rubbed his thumb against his knuckle absently, lost in thought. “People there whispered in circles. My uncle sold gas and always kept a lantern lit, like he was waiting for something. Her mom read fortunes for tourists.”

A pause. Then—“But us?”

He shifted forward slightly, elbows on his knees, eyes far away. “We had our own world.”

His voice softened just a fraction. “She built a fort behind her house with driftwood and orange tarps. That was our summer embassy. I brought notebooks. She brought stolen cigarettes she never lit.”

A quiet chuckle, like the memory still amused him. “Told me she was going to be an artist. I told her I’d find dead things for her to draw.”

The corner of his mouth twitched—an almost-smile, something old and fond. “It was a pact. A promise. I was sixteen. It already felt too big for my chest.”

Silence. Then, “Once, I cut my hand on a broken seashell. She kissed the blood and said—”

He tilted his head slightly, voice dipping lower, mimicking hers.

‘Your soul’s too loud, Megumi. That’s why the ocean talks back.’

He let the words hang for a beat, exhaling through his nose like he was tasting them again. “I didn’t understand it then.”

Another pause. “But I remember how she said my name.”

His fingers curled against his palm, subtle, instinctive. “Not like a sound. Like a vow.”

Megumi exhaled, tapping his thumb against the edge of the table. He wasn’t looking at the person across from him—not really. “Sometimes, when I snapped near her, my back tingled.”

His voice stayed steady, but there was something quieter underneath it. “I didn’t even know what a soulmark was back then. Just knew that in the summer heat, when she dozed near me on the bus home, something under my skin would shimmer. Like—” he hesitated, searching for the right word. “Like a memory dying to be remembered like it’s the only thing that mattered between life and death.”

There was a pause.

Then the person opposite him finally spoke.

“So, were you two ever… intimate? The soulmark must have been unbearable in that proximity.”

It wasn’t asked crudely, but clinically. Evaluative. As if there was an expected answer.

Megumi didn’t respond right away. His fingers stilled over the lip of his water glass.

Then he tilted his head slightly. His gaze lifted—not in confrontation, but calculation. The corners of his mouth twitched upward in something not quite a smile. A tick. Like a failed reflex.

“You think we could ignore it?”

He spoke softly. Without triumph or apology. Just a low, slow echo of an old truth that won’t stop hurting.

There had been classifications to these things.

Bond Intensity Grades, listed in columns in academic papers with sanitized acronyms—PBI, SDI, TCS.

His and hers had registered as a Tier S Somatic Symbiote Match when they were still teenagers.

The kind that lit up cortical imaging like wildfire.

The kind that made the skin warm even through walls.

The kind that made sleep impossible in separation and madness a quiet inevitability.

The kind you wrote about in research but never experienced if you were unlucky.

Or if you were the white-haired man.

Megumi had spent years studying those patterns in other people. But in his case, it had never been theoretical. His own soulmate mark—first a pale shimmer at the nape of his neck, later a branded flare of bioluminescent sprawl across his back and jawline—had darkened over time. Turned brittle at the edges. Now it looked half-scar, half-something with roots, or just burnt.

A wound trying to heal over a ghost limb.

Sometimes, he scratched at it in his sleep.

But the worst one was the pharyngeal burn—the patch tucked low behind the tendon at the side of his throat.

Right where a collar might hide it.

Where no one could see how it sometimes twitched when she was near (he’d look everywhere; she never had been) or how it ached when she was not.

Even now, as he spoke of her, his fingers drifted up—not to touch the place directly, but just to hover. Like his body was still unable to adjust to her absence.

By all means, he should have gone insane by now. It was a miracle, they’d said. After such a bond, it was ‘a big deal’ he was still functional.

Megumi wished he was insane.

Maybe then being alive wouldn’t hurt. Waking up wouldn’t feel like being cursed into the same nightmare everyday.

Or maybe he had already gone insane, and it was all just his imagination.

Or maybe just a small maybe she was still...

He exhaled slowly for control.

“I begged her,” he admitted at last, voice flattening with restraint. “To let me kiss her before she turned eighteen.”

There was a stillness, the words settling like dust.

“Before her birthday. I told her—just once. So I had something to look forward to. So the next year wouldn’t feel like drowning in turpentine.”

His hands tightened slightly—barely perceptible, unless you were looking. Like he was holding back the memory from bleeding.

“She wouldn’t let me.” He spat out through gritted teeth.

The room stayed quiet.

He didn’t offer regret, or resentment, or wounded pride. He didn’t perform heartbreak the way the unbonded imagined it.

He just said it plainly. Like a report. Rain again. She didn’t let me.

Then, after a pause, his thumb traced slowly across his left wrist—where once, at fifteen, she had painted a line in indigo ink. Not a mark. Not the official one. Just her version of it. Her way of marking him when the universe hadn’t done it yet.

She’d said, “It’s a map. So you can find your way back to me.”

And she had been right. Even after—no message, no warning—he kept returning to it. In dreams. In research. In the back of lecture halls where his students presented laughable theories about oxytocin cycles and socio-biological impulses.

He never corrected them.

Because there was no lecture, no journal entry, no chart or citation that could explain the way your throat burned only for one person in the world. The way your skin remembered another’s fingers like they were home. The way absence wasn’t a metaphor—it was a disease.

Megumi exhaled, rubbing the back of his hand against his jaw like he was trying to ground himself.

“She disappeared the next week.”

The words came matter-of-fact. Too sharp to be detached, too controlled to be grief.

“The house was locked. Her driftwood fort collapsed in the rain. Her mom’s garden was abandoned, leaves rusting like they were never meant to move.”

His fingers tapped against his knee, rhythmic, absentminded.

“Nobody told me anything. Just silence. When I asked my uncle, he shrugged and said—” his voice flattened, mimicking, ‘That’s how things go sometimes, kid.’

A beat.

“I threw up in the alley behind the shrine that night.”

He said it like a fact again. Detached, like he’d long stopped feeling real.

“Later, I went back to the fort and slept in it alone. The tarps flapped like ghost wings.”

He chuckled, but his gaze flickered upward for a second, past the room, past the listener.

“Her sketchbook was still there. Half-finished. The last page was a drawing of my back.”

His lips pressed together. His fingers curled slightly.

“Her fingerprints were smudged into the paper.”

Silence stretched, settling heavier than tar.

Then his gaze dropped to his wrist. His thumb brushed absently against the skin there—against the mark, the shimmer, the proof that hadn’t faded yet.

A/N: What do you think happened to her? 👀

Next Chapter [Tumblr/Ao3]

Beta: @/blackrimmedrose

Header & quote banner are by me, line dividers are by @cursed-carmine, engagement banner by @saradika-graphics.

Masterlist

Your smile got bigger, and he pretended not to notice how easily that worked on him. Eight years, and he still acted as if your face had caught him off guard.

The first year after Shibuya had been the worst. You had arrived on the day he should have died with no past anyone could verify, both hands full of cursed energy and panic, and somehow dragged him to Shoko before death could finish making its case. He survived, but the burns still took his eye. Then you stayed through bandages and fever. From the first time he saw his face, he turned the mirror to the wall. Through every meal, he claimed he could cook for himself and then left it untouched—he had called you a nuisance. You still brought him soup the next mornings.

Now you handed him a plate before he even thought to ask, loaded with rice balls, grilled chicken, and orange slices without the white threads because he hated them. “You remembered,” he muttered as if it still somehow caught him by surprise after eight years.

You gave him a look. “I lived in your apartment for a year to care for you, Kento. I picked up things.”

Across the blanket, Gojo gasped. “He let you live with him? Kento, you slut.”

Nanami turned away. “I’m sitting with Yaga.”

“Yaga’s asleep,” Gojo grinned at Nanami, chucking the man his car keys back.

Nanami caught the car keys, muttered something passive-aggressive, and stomped away to check his tent.

“So,” Shoko turned back to you, red in the face from canned beer. “When are you two going to stop making the rest of us pretend this is friendship?”

Your hand stopped over the salad bowl, and Gojo’s grin went feral with interest. “Oh, this is good.”

“Shoko.”

“What?” Shoko tipped her can toward Nanami, who had come back for something and then gone still behind you. “You saved his life, fed him for a year, planned his every birthday since, and know he gets weird about orange pith. At some point, paperwork should get involved.”

You looked over your shoulder. Nanami glanced back. And for a second, the river was louder than everyone.

Then you turned to the salad and said, “The potatoes are burning.” They were not.

After that the late lunch passed in silence while you both avoided eye contact until Gojo called to take a group picture. “Everyone in,” he grinned, holding his phone too high. “Birthday boy in the middle before he starts pretending he has emails.”

“I do have emails,” Nanami grumbled.

“Your internet is working?” Maki asked.

Nanami did not answer, which was an answer. Then he already started creeping toward the edge of the group when you noticed his hand go to the strap of his eyepatch. You saw it before anyone else did—the way his mouth thinned where the scar tissue pulled from the old, ugly habit of remembering his face existed.

“I’ll take it,” you said, reaching for Gojo’s phone.

Gojo looked offended. “I have the longest arms.”

“You’ll make everyone look short.”

Shoko rubbed Gojo’s pant leg comfortingly because she was drunk enough to show emotions in public.

You ignored Gojo and waved everyone closer. Yuta ducked behind Panda. Yuji shoved Nobara’s elbow out of his ribs. Inumaki held up two rice balls like peace signs. Shoko stayed seated with her beer and lifted two fingers without moving. And the rest awkwardly gathered around. While Nanami tried to stand behind you.

You looked over your shoulder. “Kento.”

He stopped.

“Come here.”

His mouth shifted, almost not at all, but you knew that almost. You had known it in hospital rooms, in pharmacy aisles, and in his bathroom when he turned the mirror to face the wall and told you he did not need help shaving. But you never told him to smile or that he looked fine, nor did you tilt his face toward the unscarred side or pretend the scarred side was not there.

Nanami was too proud a man for those things.

He stepped closer, looking at you, maybe in a warning or a plea not to make a thing of it. So you didn’t and took the phone, herded everyone into place, and, when Nanami tried to stand at the edge, said, “Kento, hold this.” And handed him the paper plate with the two skewers on it.

He frowned. “Why?”

“Because if Gojo holds it, he’ll eat them.”

“I’m not a big back,” Gojo said, already chewing.

Nanami took the plate because it gave his hands somewhere to be and confused him enough to get distracted from his body.

“Fine, fine,” Gojo said, lifting the phone higher. “Everyone act like you like each other.”

“I don’t act,” Maki declared.

“That’s why we cherish you, Kiki-chan.”

Maki’s hand immediately lunged to yank Gojo’s hair back.

You only stepped beside Nanami when the others crowded in, your shoulder brushing his arm as it had in hospital corridors, Jujutsu Tech halls, his kitchen at three in the morning, and every quiet place where he had tried to become awful so you’d leave him alone but failed because you kept coming back with groceries. “Ready?”

Nanami looked down at you, and for one second, his face shifted again—less alone, maybe. “Yes,” he answered. Then he turned his head at the last second because you chuckled when Shoko pinched Gojo’s cheeks—your eyes bright, one hand caught at Nanami’s sleeve, like you had done it without thinking.

The shutter clicked.

The picture happened in the middle of everyone laughing, talking, or yelling.

When you lowered the phone, Gojo took it back, glanced at the screen, and said, much softer than usual, “Oh.”

Nanami reached for the phone thinking Gojo was about to make fun of him. But then he saw the picture and realized he was not looking at the camera at all. Not even facing it.

He was looking at you.

The angle had hidden most of the eyepatch from view. His face was turned far enough that the scarred side fell into shadow, but that was the first thing his mind usually reached for, out of habit since Shibuya.

Then he followed his gaze in the picture and saw you.

You were smiling like the whole noisy riverside had narrowed to the space between your hand on his sleeve and his shoulder beside yours without any careful softness meant to spare him. Instead it was happiness, plain and unguarded—caught before either of you could hide it.

Nanami stared too long, and Gojo, for once, did not ruin it.

You too leaned closer, looking at the screen. “Oh.”

Nanami’s thumb squeezed against the edge of the phone.

“I look ridiculous,” you said, staring at something else.

“No,” he answered, too quickly.

You looked up at him.

His ears were faintly red. “You look…” He stopped. Everyone was still close enough to hear, and dignity was a habit even when it no longer saved him.

Gojo’s grin started spreading menicingly.

Nanami locked the phone and handed it back. “Send that to me.”

Gojo’s eyebrows climbed. “Yeah?”

“Yes.”

“Interesting.”

Shoko slapped his arm. “Satoru.” And Nanami thought she would be the voice of reason, but he’d forgotten the woman was drunk. “Let him do the Fushiguro thing in peace.”

Megumi looked up from where Yuji was showing him the backup photo his phone had taken from where it was propped against the cooler. “What thing?”

Gojo’s grin changed targets with speed. “Oh, you don’t know?”

Nanami had never been happier for Gojo’s lack of attention span.

Yuji zoomed in the picture on his phone before Megumi. And low and behold, in the corner of the photo, Megumi was looking at Yuji.

It wasn’t near him or past him but directly at him, with a small smile he clearly had no memory of making.

Nobara leaned over Yuji’s shoulder and made a noise of pure disgusted delight. “Oh, that’s embarrassing.”

“It was an accident,” Megumi snapped, snatching the phone away.

“You do this in every picture,” Panda laughed.

“I do not.”

Inumaki, already scrolling, turned his own phone around to show an old photo from their trip to Osaka.

Megumi lunged for it too, but Gojo caught the back of his shirt without even looking.

Yuji smiled traitorously. “You stare at me?”

“I was checking your surroundings.”

“By staring at my sleeping face in a locked train compartment?”

Megumi went red to the ears and tried to get Inumaki again. “Give me the phone.”

Gojo, delighted, lifted it out of reach.

Yuji leaned into Megumi’s shoulder, warm and shameless. “That’s cute.”

Megumi flicked the back of his head. “It’s not.”

Yuji rubbed the back of his own head but continued to grin dumbly.

Megumi covered Yuji’s face with one hand. “I’m going to kill all of you.”

“I’m sending it,” Gojo said to Nanami, still grinning, but he did not say anything else about the way Nanami had looked at you.

Your phone buzzed first. Then Nanami’s.

---

After dinner and the cake—which had been cut badly by Gojo while he was trying to get the biggest piece for himself and fixed by Maki’s blade—was eaten, everyone spread out. Nobara and Maki vanished into the woods with one lantern and two blankets. Shoko drank by the fire, her feet in Gojo’s lap while he massaged them and argued with her about the terms of their bet. Ijichi snored in a chair. Panda and Yaga were talking over roasted marshmallows. Inumaki and Yuta were catching fish in the dark with too much confidence. Far down the river, Yuji walked with Megumi, their shoulders bumping.

“Sensei’s sitting alone again,” Yuji said, nodding toward you by the water.

Megumi followed his gaze. “Nanami-san will go.”

“You think?”

“He has been watching her for twenty minutes.”

Yuji grinned. “They’re so married for people who say, ‘we’re just friends.’”

Megumi shoved his hands in his pockets. “He looks at her a lot.”

“She knows how he takes his coffee and practically everything he likes and dislikes.”

“He keeps pain medicine in his office for her cramps. Asked me to fetch it last time.”

“You know she bought him that ugly beige camping mug.”

Megumi’s mouth twitched, but he didn’t look at Yuji when his arm slid around his waist casually. “He says it was a practical gift.”

Yuji laughed and leaned into Megumi’s side. “The man is down bad in business casual.”

“You would know,” Megumi mildly smirked.

Yuji’s grin widened. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing.”

“You’re holding my waist while saying that, so it’s not nothing.”

Megumi looked away toward the river, where the lantern light caught the scars cutting across his own face: one near his left temple and eye, the other paler on the opposite side, half-lost when he ducked his head. “You were walking too close to the water.”

Yuji looked delighted by this.

Megumi’s hand tightened once at his side before Yuji could start testing him. “Shut up.”

Farther downriver, Yuta lifted the lantern higher while Inumaki crouched near the bank, one sleeve pinned and empty where his other arm used to be. The light caught the stitches across Yuta’s forehead when he bent too close, watching Inumaki’s face again instead of the water.

“Salmon,” Inumaki warned without looking up.

Yuta straightened immediately. “Right. Sorry.”

Inumaki glanced back at him, eyes soft above his collar, then pointed at the river like Yuta had been the one scaring the tiny fish away.

Yuji followed Megumi’s gaze and smiled softer this time. “Everyone’s kind of obvious tonight.”

Megumi huffed a small laugh. “You’re one to talk.”

“Huh?”

“You were staring at me in the picture too.”

“I can admit that…" Yuji’s grin went soft around the scar cutting through his lip. “Maybe I like looking at you.”

Megumi looked away first, jaw working like he wanted to argue and couldn’t find anything worth saying. The distant lantern light caught the scars near his left temple and eye before he leaned in closer, his hand moving lower on Yuji’s waist. “Shut up,” he muttered, eyes dropping to Yuji’s mouth as he dragged him closer. “Come here.”

Yuji’s hands fisted in Megumi’s hoodie as he glanced back toward camp. “What if someone sees?”

“We’re not fifteen anymore,” Megumi whispered near his ear, moving Yuji’s face back toward him with a careful hand. “And everybody here has seen far worse things than grown adults kissing.”

Yuji laughed under his breath, his breath warm against Megumi’s mouth. “That’s true.”

Megumi pushed him back against the nearest tree to get them out of the path where the firelight could reach. His hand slipped under the hem of Yuji’s hoodie and settled burning at his waist.

Yuji stayed still for half a breath.

Megumi felt it because he’d trained himself to trace the tiny delay before Yuji remembered where he was. The way his body sometimes braced for bad things before his mind caught up, like some old part of him was still waiting for another voice in his head.

Megumi’s thumb tapped into his skin.

Yuji continued to stare at nothing.

Megumi rubbed his skin again, gentler, and Yuji’s shoulders loosened. “Sorry,” he murmured.

“Don’t be.”

Yuji looked at him.

“Don’t apologize for that,” Megumi said, with his eyes dropping briefly to the scar through Yuji’s lip before returning to his face. “Just stay here.”

Yuji’s smile came back. “Bossy.”

“Yeah.” His hand stayed where it was, and for a second, Megumi thought about the stupid unfairness of it. Nanami could give someone things and call it practical. Gojo could make a public nuisance of himself with Shoko and somehow still have the world bend around it. But what Megumi wanted with Yuji, something with same surnames, still had to be phrased around loopholes, paperwork, and whichever court felt generous enough to recognize it.

He would still ask anyway.

Just not tonight. Tonight was someone else's.

But Megumi would ask soon. And Yuji would make some awful noise when he realized. Might laugh first, then cry after, then ask, ‘Are you sure?’ Like Fushiguro Megumi hadn’t built his whole life around being sure of very few things, and selfishly choosing Itadori Yuji every day wasn’t always going to be top of them.

Megumi hooked his thumb in Yuji’s belt loop, keeping him close. “Besides,” he said, lower now, eyes dropping to Yuji’s mouth, “it’s easier to appreciate you in the dark.”

Yuji’s smile got warmer. “Oh.”

“Yeah,” Megumi muttered, having difficulty taking his eyes off Yuji’s lips. “Oh.”

Yuji’s gaze flicked once toward the firelight, then back to him. “You gonna use your technique, bro?”

“Don’t—” Megumi’s ears went red, but he knew to suppress his reaction because he knew that Yuji said dumb things when flustered or nervous or excited—pretty much all the time. “Don’t make it sound weird.”

“You’re the one who said it.”

“I meant so no one sees you panic every time someone walks past.”

Yuji’s smile softened at the edges.

“And yeah,” Megumi’s other thumb brushed against Yuji’s lips and his scar, and he added, quieter. “Only if you want.”

Yuji stared at his mouth and at the broader line of Megumi’s shoulders, where he crowded him against the tree without actually pinning him there. “Yeah,” it came easily, his breath catching around the word. “I—ah—want you to.”

The shadow at Megumi’s feet started to gather around them, darkening the space between the tree and the river until the campfire disappeared into a dark blur through the leaves.

Yuji let out a small, nervous laugh. “That’s kind of hot.”

Megumi closed his eyes and kissed him before Yuji could make the moment difficult by being sweet.

Yuji wrapped both arms around him because Yuji had never learned how to accept small things from Megumi without giving his whole body back.

---

Back by the river, you sat with your feet near the water, your lantern beside you. The paper plate on your lap held a slice of cake you had barely touched.

Nanami stopped beside you. “May I sit?”

“It’s your day.” You smiled up at him.

“I was told I’m allowed very little free will today.”

“That’s because you were trying to ditch your own birthday party.” You moved your plate, and he sat on the grass with a careful breath. His knee clicked. You reached into the bag beside you to hand him the small cushion you had packed.

He stared at it.

“For your knee,” you told him. “Take it before I throw it at you.”

He took it, and for a while, you both just watched the river pull silver lines around the stones.

“I heard Shoko,” he murmured.

“I figured.”

“I should have answered.”

You picked at the cake with your fork. “You don’t owe people an answer about me.”

“I owe you one.”

Your hand stilled for half a second before going back to picking at the cake.

Nanami looked down at his plate, keeping his scarred side half out of the lantern light.

“I wanted to spend today alone. That was the plan. A quiet mountain cabin. Sandwich from a shop. A book I would barely read.”

You nodded.

“Then you sent a list of food. A map. A reminder about sunscreen. Then seven messages about whether I could still eat spicy sauce.”

“You can’t.”

“I can. It just comes with regret.” His mouth curved a little.

Then he sighed. “I was annoyed. Then I looked forward to it all week.”

Your throat worked around a small laugh that came out thin. “You’re bad at gratitude.”

“I’m worse at friendship, apparently.”

You finally looked at him. He met your eyes, and this time he didn’t look away first. “You were there when I was hard to be near. Then I made it harder. I knew you would come back, so I let myself be careless with your feelings.”

Your fork dug into the cake because you didn’t know what to say to that. Some small part of you tried to make sense of it before you could hope. Pity, obligation, eight years of habit, his loneliness finding the nearest person who already knew where the medicine was kept.

Then Nanami reached into his jacket, pulled out a small box wrapped in brown paper and tied with kitchen string, and handed it to you. “I bought this months ago,” he whispered. “Just kept waiting for a dignified moment.”

You opened it.

A key sat inside, along with a tiny wooden tag carved with your name.

Your breath caught and you looked up at him. “Is this because you feel responsible for me?”

His answer came too fast to be polite. “No.”

Then he lowered his voice. “I would like you to come home.” His voice roughened at the edges. “As mine. In whatever order you can accept. Girlfriend first, if that is easier. Partner. Wife, someday, if you can forgive the delay. If you still want that after we learn how to stop pretending.”

Your palm pressed to your mouth.

He looked alarmed. “Was that too much?”

You laughed into your palm. “Kento, you gave me a house key as a birthday gift on your birthday.”

“It seemed practical.”

“You are so stupid.”

“Yes,” he smiled, softer now. “I am aware.”

You leaned over and kissed the scarred side of his mouth before he could brace for it, his skin warm against your lips.

Behind you, from across the camp, Gojo screamed, “PAY UP, SHOKO!”

You smiled against him.

He sighed, warm and beaten. “I should have invited you to the mountains.” His hand closed over yours, and he kept the key pressed between both your palms.

Gojo’s voice carried across the camp again, loud enough to make bats startle somewhere in the trees. “SHOKO, YOU CAN’T CHANGE THE TERMS AFTER THE KISS. MY SIX EYES CONFIRMED IT.”

“I can do whatever I want,” Shoko called back, flat and drunk. “Your first choice is dead.”

The camp went still for half a second.

Then Gojo shouted, “Take that back.”

“I meant I’m the only doctor you idiots have.”

“WE HAVE MY GOOD STUDENT YUTA NOW.”

Yuta immediately grabbed Inumaki’s sleeve and started dragging him farther downriver.

“I did surgery on him. And you. I’m superior.”

“YAGA, SHE’S BULLYING ME AGAIN.”

Nanami closed his eye. “Ignore them.”

You laughed softly, and the sound made his hand tighten around yours. You were still too close to him, leaving small pecks against the scarred side of his lips. The little wooden tag pressed into your palm, your name carved into it like a promise. “Kento.”

“Yes?” He hummed.

“I’d like to come home with you.”

He went still.

You looked down at your joined hands because saying it while looking at his face would have made your voice crack. “Not tonight. I mean, obviously, but I mean properly. I want to move in. I want to start dating. I want…”

Nanami’s face changed slowly, like watching the door open after standing outside with his hand raised for years. “Girlfriend first,” he added, quieter.

You nodded.

“Partner when you are ready.”

You looked up at him. “I’m not the only one who has to be ready.”

He lowered his gaze, thumb moving over your knuckles, careful around the key. “I have been ready in undignified ways for some time.”

Your smile broadened. “That might be the most romantic thing you’ve ever said to me.”

He gave you half a smile. “Hope it’s not the last. I intend to do better.”

“You’d better.”

He looked toward the river because smiling at you too openly still cost him.

You remembered his face before Shibuya only in fragments now: old photographs, mission reports.

This was the face you knew better. “I do need time,” you admitted. “For the move, I mean. I have things at my apartment, clothes, books, souvenirs, the kettle you said was a fire hazard.”

“It was a fire hazard.”

You smiled down at the key. “I’ll bring the kettle last.”

“I will dispose of it humanely.”

You slapped his arm lightly. “You will not.”

“I will hire someone.” He sounded like he was going to get someone from the dark web.

“Kento.”

His mouth curved, small so that nobody across the camp would have noticed. You did because you had always noticed him in the margins.

He glanced down at your plate. “You did not eat your cake.”

“I got proposed to by a man who doesn’t know if he asked me to be his girlfriend or his wife. I don’t care about the cake right now.”

His expression sharpened with immediate concern. “Do you want something else?”

“No. I’m teasing you.”

“I still need an answer.”

You loved him for that. In his dry insistence, he could be given a kiss, a key accepted, and a future placed in his hand and still worry about your blood sugar before his own feelings. “I’m okay,” you answered. “Just tired.”

That, he believed. Then he stood with effort, offered you his hand, and you let him pull you up. His knee bothered him. You knew the exact stiffness in his jaw that meant it had started to ache.

“You should go back. Before Gojo remembers he has lungs and yells again.”

“He never forgets.”

“No. He simply uses them irresponsibly.”

He walked you back through the camp slowly. The fire had sunk low. Shoko was laughing at something Gojo was saying too close to her ear, her cheeks flushed from beer, one hand resting on the back of his neck as if she’d put it there to keep him from running off into the dark. Yaga and Ijichi had already retreated to their tents on the far end of the site. Panda lay outside his father’s tent with one paw over his face, asleep under the stars with a plushy like a log and snoring as one.

You saw Nanami notice all of it.

Nobara and Maki had not come back. Neither had Megumi and Yuji. Inumaki and Yuta were still missing somewhere downriver with the lantern and the knife, which you chose not to examine too closely.

At your tent, Nanami stopped. The zipper was halfway open. Inside, your blanket had been kicked into a pile, your overnight bag still unlatched, clothes spilling out because Nobara had insisted she could style you for glamping and then abandoned the project the second Maki called her name.

“I’ll see you in the morning,” Nanami told you.

“You’re not going to make sure I’m zipped inside so a bear won't attack me at night?”

“There are no bears here.”

“You looked up bears before coming here?”

“I know you would have.”

“Touché,” you said, stepping into the tent. “Good night, boyfriend.”

The word sank in him for the first time.

He stood there for half a second longer than necessary, his expression caught inside something softer. Then he bowed his head once, because Nanami Kento had no available defense against being called yours except good manners.

“Good night,” he repeated, lower this time. Then he walked back to his tent with red ears.

You waited until his silhouette disappeared past the fire before you looked at the key again.

You did not sleep but lay on your back under the thin blanket, phone held above your face, the key box sitting on your stomach because you just couldn't put it away tonight.

Outside, the river moved, leaves shifted, someone’s tent zipper caught, and bamboo wind chimes knocked softly near the picnic shelter.

You opened your messages.

You: I should probably ask what your move-in requirements are before I accidentally bring the fire-hazard kettle.

His reply came so fast that your chest warmed.

Kento: The kettle is not entering my home.

You: Is it not mine?

There was a pause long enough for you to worry you had made it too much too fast, even though it had been eight years.

Then his typing bubble appeared.

Kento: Our home. The kettle is still not entering it.

You covered your mouth with your hand.

You: Cruel landlord.

Kento: Boyfriend. Possibly partner. Future husband, if I do not lose the position over fire safety.

You stared at the message until the letters blurred at the edges.

Outside, Gojo laughed somewhere, quieter than usual. Shoko told him to shut up in a voice that had no real conviction behind it.

You: You’re very confident about future husband.

Kento: I have been accused of waiting too long. I am correcting the record.

You: By proposing an entire life on your birthday.

Kento: It seemed practical. I deserved a gift, and you deserved something permanent for planning this day and everything before it.

You: I’m going to bite you.

Kento: That is not a logistical concern.

The squeal you made into your blanket was embarrassing and muffled. You rolled onto your side, holding the phone close to your face.

You: I keep thinking I’ll wake up and you’ll decide this was fever brain.

Kento: I am not feverish.

You: The key is beautiful, and my name carved into it looks good.

Kento: I had a professional do that. (It was Megumi.)

You realized he didn't want anyone to spoil it.

You: That makes it sweet, actually.

Kento: I am aware.

The next message came after a long moment of his typing bubble appearing and disappearing and reappearing.

Kento: I wanted you to have something that could not be mistaken.

Your throat tightened. All the noise outside seemed to move further away. Even the river sounded softer from inside the tent.

You: Kento.

Kento: You have had very little permanence since you came here.

You stopped breathing for a second.

Kento: No family records or household. No one to call if something went wrong who belonged to you before this world took you in. You have made a life anyway. I know that. I am proud of that. But I wanted you to have a door that opened because your name belonged there.

You pressed the phone to your chest and stared at the dark fabric of the tent roof.

Untethered.

You hated that word. It made drifting sound graceful.

Gojo and Ijichi had made you legal enough for payroll, rent, hospital forms, and mission reports, but none of it reached backward. There were still blank spaces where parents should have gone. No childhood address. No family name that meant anything here. No one who could say what you were like before this world took you in.

You had caught yourself envying the students for ugly things: clan fights, dead relatives, living relatives, inheritance arguments, grief with names attached. At least someone had known them before.

Jujutsu Tech gave you a file. Shoko gave you headache medicine before you asked. Gojo bought things you never requested and called it community support. The others made room for you without making speeches.

And Kento.

Kento with the second phone charger he pretended came in a pack of two. Kento whose apartment had become the only place your body slept properly. And now he was saying your name belonged on the door.

You typed and deleted six different replies.

You: I don’t know how to say what that means to me without sounding pathetic.

Kento: You have listened to me say “girlfriend first, partner, wife someday” beside a river. I no longer have grounds to judge anyone’s process.

You laughed, but it broke halfway into a few tears.

You: I didn’t think I’d get to be someone’s family officially here. I know that sounds stupid because people choose each other all the time, but I didn’t think it would happen to me. Especially not with someone who knows I drink coffee like it counts as water.

Kento: It does not.

You: I’m being vulnerable. You can be nice.

Kento: You are. I am keeping you grounded.

You: By attacking my coffee?

Kento: By reminding you that I know it.

You blinked hard, looking for the right emoji to express your distaste.

Kento: When you first appeared, I was suspicious of you.

You: Romantic.

Kento: You had no file, no verifiable history, and enough cursed energy to drag a half-dead man out of Mahito’s grasp. Suspicion seemed reasonable.

You: Still romantic.

Kento: I was also afraid you would disappear the same way you arrived.

You did not know what to say to that.

Kento: I expected someone to explain you eventually as a curse, technique, or a temporary consequence of some larger cruelty. I thought if I became too accustomed to you, the world would correct itself and take you back.

Your fingers hovered above the keyboard.

Kento: Then you stayed. Argued with my pharmacist, replaced the mirror I turned to the wall with one too small for me to avoid entirely. You even left soup at my door after I called you a nuisance. You became domestic before I was ready for you to be irreplaceable.

The tent blurred. You wiped at your face with the heel of your hand and nearly dropped the phone.

You: You can’t say things like this over text.

Kento: I can say them outside your tent if you would prefer.

Your whole body went warm.

You: Oh lord no.

Kento: Understood.

You: I mean yes? Or no. I mean I’m wearing an old shirt and crying.

Kento: I have seen worse.

You: You are so bad at this.

Kento: Noted. I will improve.

You smiled into the dark. Then his next message came.

Kento: If things become too dangerous again, I need you to understand something.

You sat up.

Kento: I will not let Jujutsu society decide what happens to you. I have given enough of my life to institutions that eat people and call it duty. If the choice is between staying and keeping you safe, I will take you and leave.

You reread that message, a mix of emotions swirling inside you and choking in your throat.

You: You mean that?

Kento: Yes.

You: But you love your work.

Kento: I love being able to help where I can. That is not the same thing.

You: And if I say I don’t want you giving everything up for me?

Kento: Then we will discuss it like adults. And I will still keep the car maintained.

It was just so like him, devotion inside an emergency plan.

You were still staring at the message when another sound came from outside.

At first, Nanami ignored it.

In his own tent, sitting upright with his back against a rolled sleeping bag because lying down had proved useless, he heard canvas shift from the direction of Gojo’s tent and assumed the man was awake.

Which was not unusual. Satoru rarely slept like other people. Three hours, sometimes less, then he would wander the halls of the school or appear in kitchens, bright-eyed and awake past reason, eating someone else’s food and pretending insomnia was a lifestyle choice.

Nanami typed another message, thumb moving carefully.

Kento: For clarity, I am not planning to take your choice away. I am saying you have one with me now. If something like Shibuya happens. If we need to leave, we leave together.

The shuffling continued. A soft thump. A rustle. Then something like a hand catching against tent fabric.

Nanami paused. Then resumed typing because whatever Gojo Satoru did at night was between him, God, and the nearest vending machine.

Kento: I should have told you earlier. Years ago.

A muffled laugh came from the other tent.

Shoko’s.

Nanami’s typing slowed. Another rustle followed, lower this time, rhythmic enough that his mind and his technique, traitorous and precise, started assembling possibilities he did not want.

No. Absolutely not.

Satoru would not.

Nanami stared at the wall of his tent.

Then a muffled sentence came through canvas and night air, Satoru’s voice far too pleased with itself to be mistaken for sleep talking.

Nanami closed his eye. And for several seconds, he sat very still.

Satoru wouldn't do that. Wouldn't traumatize his students like that, would he?

And there were students nearby.

Former students, yes. Grown adults now, all of them old enough to drink, vote, kill curses, and make bad decisions in forests. But still. They had been children once. Children Satoru had bequeathed and taught. Children Nanami had, against his will and better judgment, worried about.

Except Nobara and Maki had disappeared into the trees hours ago. Megumi and Yuji had walked off in opposite direction around the same time—even their cursed energies weren't within a detectable radius now. Inumaki and Yuta had not returned from whatever fishing ritual required one knife and an alarming amount of staring contest. Panda slept like a boulder on the other side of camp. Yaga slept like a dead man with a pension. Ijichi slept like a person who had spent fifteen years being emotionally waterboarded by Gojo Satoru and could sleep through artillery if it meant nobody needed him.

So Satoru was traumatizing no one he cared about except Nanami.

Oh, but wait… Ijichi.

Nanami’s eye opened. That was it, wasn't it?

Satoru had pointed out, years ago to Kento, the way Ijichi hovered around Shoko with the doomed attentiveness of a man bringing coffee to a woman miles out of his league. Had mocked him for it, interfered with it, sabotaged it, and once bought him a book on “assertive romantic communication” that Ijichi had accepted with both hands and visible despair. The book contained the worst possible advice, such as shaving your head made you more aerodynamic for dates.

That was not poor judgment.

It was Satoru declaring territory.

Nanami put on his headphones. Then his gaze dropped to his phone.

You were in the tent near his—awake, emotional, and his to care for. And you could probably hear this. His thumb moved before he had fully decided.

Kento: Pack your bag.

Your reply came quickly.

You: what

Kento: Quietly. Ten minutes. Meet me just outside the campsite entrance.

You: Kento what happened

He glanced toward the canvas wall as another sound reached him.

Kento: Satoru.

A momentary pause.

You: oh my god

Kento: Yes.

You: shoko?????

Kento: Unfortunately.

You: is everyone else asleep

Kento: Gone, asleep, or morally unreachable.

You: what does morally unreachable mean?

Kento: Panda.

You: Kento I can’t just flee a campsite because Gojo and Shoko are having sex

Kento: I can. Pack.

You were outside in eight minutes after having packed so quickly that even your bag was zipped wrong and your hair had come loose around your face.

Nanami was already waiting near the entrance sign with his overnight bag in one hand. His hair was mussed from where he had dragged his fingers through it, and his eyepatch strap sat a little crooked. He looked you over once, checking that you had your shoes, your bag, yourself, then said, “My car is nearby. There is a hotel ten minutes from here. We will return in the morning.”

You followed him to the car. He opened the passenger door for you, and you hid a smile because he had always done that, even before tonight, even when he could still pretend it was only manners. Now the same small gesture felt claimed. He shut the door once you were inside, walked around to the driver’s side, and started the engine.

Neither of you spoke for the first few minutes of the drive. The road out of the campsite was narrow and dark, trees pressing close on either side. Nanami drove with one hand on the wheel, his profile lit by the dashboard glow. The eyepatch hid one side of him. The scars caught in uneven lines. You watched his hand shift, steady on the gear, and remembered the way it had held yours around the key. Halfway to the hotel, his expression changed.

“What?” you asked.

He looked horrified. “Have you been drinking?”

You stared. “What?”

“At the camp. Shoko was giving everyone beer. Gojo had that terrible sweet alcohol. You were emotional. I should have asked before taking you anywhere.”

“I had half a canned peach thing four hours ago.”

His jaw tightened. “That is not an answer.”

“It was barely alcohol.”

“That is also not an answer.”

“Kento, I am not drunk.”

“You were crying.”

“Forgive a girl for being emotional after pining after a guy for eight years then suddenly being pulled out of the friend zone.”

He opened his mouth. “That was not—" Then he realized better and closed it. His grip eased slightly on the wheel, and he tried again. “That was not intended to impair judgment.”

“Well, it did.”

“Then I shouldn’t have sent the texts.”

“I didn’t say that.” You leaned your head against the window, smiling despite the ache in your chest. “I’m sober. Just feeling happy because you accidentally became my whole life and then asked me that we could stop pretending.”

He swallowed. The car stayed very quiet after that.

At the hotel, Nanami carried both bags, and you let him because arguing with him in the lobby would have turned him into stone.

The receptionist looked at the two of you—your rumpled clothes, his serious face, the bags, the hour—and made a decision behind her polite smile.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “We only have one room available.”

Part 2 [NSWF] - This week

Masterlist | Prequel

Taglist: @maplewood-valley @moruteloli

The woman’s hand hovered over the large child for a long moment. She drew back as if stung. 

She wrapped the dead baby in a scrap of cloth and tied it with a shaking knot. The two survivors shifted in the emptiness he left behind.

At the door, a man waited with a flickering oil lamp. His face stayed in shadow.

But his fingers flexed around the handle when his eyes landed on the infants.

The woman from next door who’d delivered the three stepped out with the living pressed to her chest.

The man leaned forward to inspect the larger one.

A sneer of pure disgust warped his mouth.

His hand struck the woman's wrist. Both infants dropped to the cold ground.

The girl cried. The boy did not.

The man turned his back. The woman hesitated in the doorway. Her gaze flickered between the two small shapes on the dirt. She stepped inside and shut the door.

The torchlight disappeared. The wind didn’t fill the silence.

The boy lifted his head first. His breath rasped in short, steady puffs. The girl crawled over the hard earth until she touched his arm. Her cheek pressed against his shoulder. Her fingers clutched his skin. 

The boy stared at her for a long moment, unblinking. His hand moved once, a slow sweep across the dirt until it bumped her side. She made a small sound and held on tighter.

Night passed. The cries stopped. The cold never left.

By dawn, both children had dragged themselves toward the trees.

The forest smelled of damp soil and old leaves. Thin branches rustled overhead. The children moved in short bursts, collapsing and rising again. The girl clung to the boy’s hair whenever he pushed forward. He accepted the pull, steadying, not resisting.

Birds flitted above them.

Neither child looked.

Their attention stayed on the ground for movement. Dry rustles. Quick flashes.

The boy lunged at shadows, arms wide, mouth open. The girl clung to him until he forced her away to chase something. She crawled behind, slow but persistent.

The first kill was a frog. His hand slammed on it, fingers trembling with effort.

The creature squirmed.

He brought it to his mouth and bit down.

The frog’s broken leg spasmed in the dirt.

The girl stared at the gore on his lips. She crawled closer and nudged her face toward his hand. He paused long enough for her to take a shred from his grip.

Her throat strained as she swallowed. Tears leaked from the corners of her eyes. She tried another bite again. The boy shoved the rest into his mouth and sucked the bones.

As days passed, they learned together.

Crawling turned into swaying steps.

Swaying steps became short bursts of running.

Hunger shaped their movements. The girl pointed toward the sound of rustling in tall grass. The boy veered toward it without hesitation.

Sometimes he fell first. Sometimes she did.

A rabbit snared in a crude trap was their first real feast.

The boy’s teeth tore through fur. The girl pushed in whenever he lifted his head.

He snarled once.

She flinched and backed away.

He ripped off a leg and dropped it near her feet

 She sniffed the meat before bringing it to her mouth.

He watched her chew, then returned to the body without another sound.

Nights grew colder.

They curled close, limbs tangled.

Her small hands found his chest. His breath warmed her forehead.

When he stirred in the dark, she pressed her head against his shoulder until he settled again.

Seasons changed. Their bodies hardened.

The boy’s muscles tightened along his arms and legs. The girl grew lean, fast, and quiet.

She learned to track him by the sound of his steps. He learned to track her by the shift of her breath.

One night, a boar charged through the undergrowth. Its tusks slashed the air.

The boy pushed the girl aside and lunged at the animal. His fingers dug into coarse hair. The boar jerked and dragged him along the ground.

The girl scrambled up and grabbed a fallen branch. She struck the boar behind the ear

Once.

Twice.

Again and again.

The creature staggered. The boy tightened his arms until the neck snapped.

Both children collapsed near the carcass. Their panting filled the dry air. Blood soaked their skin. The girl pressed her forehead to the boar’s belly. The boy lay beside her, his shoulder brushing hers.

By morning, only bones remained.

Their hunts grew bolder.

One morning, both followed a deer trail toward the sound of chatter

At the edge of a clearing, children sorted river stones by size near the packed earth of a footpath.

The girl moved toward them with the slow, deliberate tilt signalling new prey. Her eyes stayed fixed on the stones, then on the children, waiting to see if they would allow her closer. The boy remained behind her, weight low, the lower mouth on his abdomen working in a steady, wet pulse.

One child’s gaze tracked the heavy swell of his stomach, the second mouth shifting with each breath. Another noticed the extra arms pressed against his sides and stumbled back.

 A high, sharp cry broke from them, and the group fled toward the huts, calling for elders.

The girl did not retreat. She lingered, shoulders stiff, deciding whether to follow the children or take their stones. The boy seized her forearm and hauled her into the undergrowth before adults could reach the clearing.

The young siblings traveled farther from the forest as their legs strengthened.

Villagers spotted them near the river. A woman fetching water screamed. Children hid. Men reached for tools and tried to chase the feral pair back into the trees.

The boy stopped closer, mouth curled, teeth bared. The girl stood behind him, arms around his neck.

Rocks flew from slings. One struck her arm. She clutched the wound. The boy grabbed her hand and pulled her away without looking back.

These encounters carved their roles more sharply. He walked ahead. She walked with a hand on his back, guiding him toward paths with fewer people. He shifted course with each tug.

More years passed.

The boy’s strength grew beyond what starvation should permit. His shoulders widened. His frame stretched. Crimson eyes sharpened.

Cursed energy flickered around him like heat on stone.

The girl watched the thin blades rise from his hands and vanish into the trees, silent and more precise than their makeshift spears.

When she tried to force the same motion.

Nothing answered. Her fingers remained dull and cool.

The only difference she ever sensed lay deeper: a strange pressure beneath her ribs, as if her organs were stacked where they shouldn’t be.

Nothing showed on her skin like it did on her brother's.

During a drought that left the forest stripped bare, he turned his hunger on her.

She was collecting firewood when he caught her under one arm and drove her into the dirt. His lower mouth opened and shut, and the massive tongue lolled out, tasting the air.

She tore at his face and bit his wrist until blood filled her mouth.

He tore her arm from the socket in one clean wrench.

She screamed.

He bit down and chewed.

Then the pressure in her chest shifted.

Muscle and bone reknit with slow, grinding force.

The limb returned piece by piece, steaming in the heat.

He watched.

She stayed still, breath shaking, testing whether he would try again.

He tore the arm a second time, slower, studying the process.

She howled, but the limb reformed again.

He sat back, calculating.

She crouched opposite him, heart racing, the rebuilt arm trembling from the strain.

Her curse was nothing like his: no external mutation, no offensive flare, only internal redundancy  in organs that rebuilt what he broke. Slow. Costly. Painful.

He gave her the other limb to roast on the fire.

After they had eaten, she tried to summon sparks again.

But a stand of trees collapsed in the distance under the force of his next attempt.

Still, she followed.

Her flesh strengthened him faster.

One afternoon, they found a hunter’s shelter deep in the woods.

A man lay slumped inside, his neck torn open by some creature. The smell of blood saturated the space.

The boy stepped over the corpse without hesitation. The girl hesitated at the threshold, then joined him.

He tore into the body while she rummaged through the shelter for tools.

She returned with a knife. He took it from her hand and inspected the blade. Her fingers brushed his knuckles. He let her stay close.

From that day, the girl used tools while he used raw force.

She sliced strips of meat. He felled larger prey.

She carried their bag. He cleared their path

 Their movements braided together like instinct.

The first time they encountered sorcerers, the air thickened before their arrival.

Four men moved through the trees with purpose, their garments clean and their faces set

The boy stopped walking. The girl moved closer to him, clutching the knife, sensing the change.

One sorcerer lifted a charm. The paper crackled in the air. Another sorcerer spoke, his voice steady but cold.

The boy stepped forward.

The fight ended quickly. The sorcerers lay broken in the dirt. The girl crouched beside one, eyes scanning the tools that spilled from his belt.

She collected a pouch of dried herbs, a folded map, and a small mirror. The boy watched her gather everything, his expression unreadable.

More sorcerers found them as the years advanced. Each encounter pushed the boy’s power higher. The girl adapted to his pace, but the gap widened.

She expressed nothing when he killed. Observed the technique, memorized the timing of each strike.

They reached a town on the edge of a valley by late spring.

People whispered as they passed. The boy walked through the center road with his head high. The girl followed with her short hair pushed back, her steps silent.

When the town leader approached with guards, the boy stared without blinking. The guards lowered their spears. Sweat dripped from their brows. The girl stood at the boy’s side, hands loose at her hips.

A single flick of his fingers sliced the guards from their knees. The town leader trembled.

The boy walked past him without slowing. The girl paused just long enough to pull a handful of dried rice from an abandoned stall, placed the grains into a pouch, and hurried after her brother.

They took residence in a deserted miya at the edge of the town. The walls towered around them, floors creaked under their weight.

The boy moved through each chamber in silence. The girl followed with a torch, lighting only the rooms they intended to use.

Over time, people left offerings at the outer gate. Food. Tools. Cloth.

The girl inspected each basket before carrying anything inside. The boy ignored most gifts unless something caught his interest: a blade, a rare fruit, a jar of medicinal paste.

Nights became quiet.

The girl walked the courtyard with a lantern. The boy sat on the roof, watching the valley below. When she returned from her patrol, she placed the lantern near him and climbed up to sit beside him. He did not look at her.

Rainstorms soaked the valley during midsummer. Lightning split the sky. The miya walls trembled under the wind. The girl stood at the entrance, drenched and gripping her blade.

The boy stepped through the rain to her side. His hair clung to his skin, crimson eyes lit by every flash.

She pointed toward movement near the gate. Figures approached with charms and weapons raised.

He moved first, not waiting for her again. His footing was silent on the soaked stone. She stayed behind him out of necessity, sliding into openings he left only because he left them.

The fight carried through the Heian rainstorm.

Spells cracked against the ground. His strikes tore through defenses with careless exactitude. Anyone who slipped past him reached her instead, and she cut them down because failure meant dying in the mud beside them.

When the last intruder fell, she stepped over the bodies and stopped a short distance from him. Rain soaked the blood on his hands as he turned toward the miya, already moving.

The next morning, the survivors of the town brought more offerings. The girl sorted them. The boy ignored them. They lived without interference.

Seasons rotated again.

The valley slowly recognized a pattern. Wherever the boy walked, people lowered their heads. Wherever the girl walked, people stepped aside without looking at her eyes. They grew accustomed to her quiet presence and her brother’s looming shadow.

One winter morning, snow blanketed the ground. The girl practiced bladework beneath the gate, her breath rising in faint clouds.

The boy emerged from the miya, his steps cutting a direct path through the snow. He passed behind her without slowing. She sheathed her blade and followed.

They crossed the frozen fields. The town sat silent under frost, untouched by their passing. Birds lifted from branches, scattering before them.

Her boots left narrow tracks beside the deeper impressions his stride carved.

He stopped at a cliff overlooking the valley.

Wind pressed their clothes close to their bodies.

The girl halted a respectful distance behind him.

He surveyed the land with the unreadable calm that sat just above his violence.

She folded her arms for warmth and stayed where she was.

The sun rose, pale against the snow.

A/N: I wrote it for those of who have lost their brothers or never had one.

Masterlist

Header is by me, (feel free to use.) Dividers by @carmine & @saradika-graphics.

Hygiene: Don’t repost without permission, lift, or 'AI remix' my works.

You’d been done for a long time. And didn’t care if people called you selfish—you weren’t born to be someone’s last priority, to be squeezed in only when it was convenient for him.

The man barely had any communication skills outside of engine specs and horsepower stats. You loved bikes too, sure, but not enough to make them the only conversation you had with your boyfriend.

You wished every day he’d give you the bare minimum—“Babe, you look hot today,” or “You handled that well.”

Even nicknames felt like asking him to solve quantum physics. Last time, you’d jokingly called him “Captain Avoidance.” He’d stared at you like you’d just asked him to name a feeling beyond “hungry” or “tired.” The closest he’d gotten to pet names in months was “Hey” and the occasional “You,” and even then he sounded constipated, like acknowledging your gender was too far. You’d once tried calling him “baby” during the last time you had sex (which you couldn’t even remember what era it happened in). He’d frozen like you’d just addressed him by his government name in a tax fraud investigation.

But no, all he now ever did was mumble about bikes.

Even fights weren’t safe. Sometimes you had to translate your anger into biker lingo just so he’d pretend to understand.

Sukuna wasn’t a bad boyfriend.

His parents were gone, and he had Yuji and Choso’s futures on his back alongside his own. So his priorities were different.

And you often didn’t make the list.

You’d met him in school, back when you were too naïve to spot men and their endless promises—“After this exam, I’ll have time for you,” or “After this job, we’ll go on vacation.”

Ten years later, you were still waiting.

You’d tried to be supportive. God, you really did.

You’d offered him your decent enough flat after his parents died suddenly, even welcomed his younger brothers in. But it was always the same: “Yuji has school; gotta make lunch; talk later,” followed by unanswered calls. Or “Choso has practice.”

You gave him every chance to let you in, but he never accepted help, never made time.

Out of a mix of loyalty, stubbornness, or maybe the ghost of whatever maternal instinct made you think to apologize for existing when he worked late, you stayed.

His old job could have paid well, but between sending both brothers to one of the most expensive art and sports universities in the country and paying for his own postgrad degree in some subject he only pretended to care about, he wore himself down to nothing.

You had a small business that earned enough to support all three of them if he’d let you, but Sukuna clung to the ‘provider’ role like someone was going to pop out of a bush one day and hand him a trophy for looking fifty before he hit thirty.

Then the fucker had to go and get a job as a fucking ship captain.

It sounded great in theory—good salary, decent benefits, lots of overseas travel, the kind of job people brag about. But buried in the fine print was the reality: he’d be gone for ‘six months,’ which, in Sukuna-speak, meant twenty-two.

Twenty-two months with maybe two to four weeks at home—if he actually wanted to see you. And most of the time, he didn’t even bother letting you know he was back in the city.

So, once again, you were stuck waiting.

Waiting while he was at sea, waiting while the satellite zone “didn’t allow calls” (or, more likely, while his workaholic ass couldn’t be bothered).

You’d believed that excuse until his Instagram showed him perfectly capable of finding time to drink and laugh with every guy on his crew—just not enough to pick up the phone for you.

So when he lost all his bike’s savings sending his brothers to college, you knew you had to step in—not just to help him, but to save yourself from drowning in his misplaced priorities.

Which is why you were standing here, watching him eye the gift you’d bought like it was the love of his life.

“Hey, are you listening?” He asked, eyes still glued to the same fucking bike.

His voice yanked you out of your thoughts. “Mhm. I got it in red because I think it suits you best,” you said, more to fill the air than anything.

“I saw the black one overseas—it looked really good,” he replied, oblivious.

His words might have hurt if he’d actually been listening to you, instead of rambling in his own little world.

You cut him off mid-yap. “Take me on a ride at least. I got it fully registered under your name, insurance and everything. If a ‘thank you’ is too much, just do that.”

That finally shut him up.

His face went a little red. “Oh, of course. Thank you.” He stood and gave you a side hug—the kind you give a colleague at a retirement party.

You sometimes wished he was cheating or gay, just so your suffering could’ve ended earlier.

Then you gave him that fake smile girlfriends wear when they’ve already decided to dump you. The one that later makes men say, “We were fine, and then she just left.”

Once you were seated, he started the engine and immediately went back to his rambling. “The sound is so fucking cool. It’s a beast.”

You hummed, slid your headphones in, and didn’t bother to listen. Not that you could’ve heard him anyway—not at the speed this bike was capable of.

Once he started driving, Chop Suey bled into your ears, overlapping with Boys. You smiled faintly, eyes wandering over the city as it blurred past.

You used to like Sukuna once—at least, you think you did.

But trying to remember it now was like trying to find a contact lens in a running river.

“Why’d you leave the keys upon the table?” The miserable, half-yelled vocals made you smile again today. Not because you were happy—because you were ready. Ready to finally let go.

He drove past the flyovers where the streets went empty, and that’s when you noticed: you were holding him.

Not sitting stiff and distant like you were afraid of being an inconvenience. No—you were actually holding him like you wanted to be there. Like a girlfriend who was cherished.

“Are you listening?” He half-turned to look at you, then saw the headphones and faced forward again.

He hated when you wore them.

You’d once told him you loved his voice—back when you meant it.

Now, they were your shield from his constant, mind-numbing rambling about anything BUT acknowledging your existence.

He never said anything about it, of course. Saying something would require caring enough to start the conversation. And you were never that high on his list.

So when your hand slid forward to palm him on the expensive leather seat, his body jolted like you weren’t his girlfriend at all.

“I need that bad boy to do me right on a Friday

And I need that good one to wake me up on a Sunday

Hide the scars to fade away the shake-up…”

The lyrics wrapped around you in Dolby clarity.

But you didn’t feel hurt—not anymore.

So instead you leaned in, close enough for your breath to brush his ear over the helmet. “Want me to stop?”

Your hand stayed where it was, feeling him harden fast beneath your palm as the bike ate up the dark, empty streets.

He didn’t speak. Or maybe he did, and you didn’t hear. But his hand found your other wrist, guiding it up so he could kiss the pulse there.

You froze for a moment—you hadn’t expected to get this far. He usually shut you down whenever you tried to initiate anything.

Something twisted in your stomach. Butterflies? Or just the warning sign before something crashes and burns?

You didn’t care and slid your other hand down the waistband of his sweats, careful with your long nails. The heat of him was familiar in your palm, but only in the way a half-faded memory is—something you know you’ve felt before but can’t summon the meaning of anymore.

You wrapped your hand around his cock, slow pumps broken by the occasional press of your thumb against the tip, just enough to make him jolt minutely.

As always, his hand came down over yours, his stomach vibrating like he was speaking—though whatever he said was lost under the music.

“I had to trash the hotel lobby,” the lyrics bled in, matching whatever restless mood had taken you over as the wind rearranged your hairstyle.

Then, without warning, he half-turned, plucked one headphone out of your ear, and started yelling over the engine. “Fuckin’ take these off when you’re with me!”

You grinned like an unrepentant idiot, pulled his helmet’s visor up, and kissed him. Fast—barely a brush of lips—then pulled away.

Not because you weren’t horny for his entire existence, but because you’d learned better than to ask for things he’d never give with genuine happiness.

He turned his face forward again, tapped your hand in his sweats, and muttered, “It’s nice… but we’ll crash.”

Normally, you would’ve barely held back your tears and crawled away, back to the edge of the bike, like he was made of Heisenberg’s acid.

But you didn’t.

Instead, you leaned into his ear and murmured, “Come on, baby. It’s been too long. Let me, then you can drop me off in fifteen minutes.”

No ‘I miss you.’ No ‘I need you.’ No ‘you should fuck me like a loving boyfriend or at least pretend to give a fuck about me so that I don’t hate myself every time I pass a mirror.’

Nothing. Just logistics.

He didn’t answer. Just moved his hand away from over yours.

On the outskirts of the quiet city, the moon hung low, dipping its light into the streets like it was trying to wash them clean. The bike’s engine purred under Sukuna’s control, steady and unbothered, just like him. He kept talking about the specs—muttering over the throttle response, the feel of the brakes—like the only thing worth noticing tonight was the machine.

You wrapped one arm around his waist, pinning it tight across his stomach. The wind tore through your hair, carrying that faint trace of his cologne—the one you used to bury your face in, back when you didn’t know you’d grow to despise it.

You leaned in anyway, pressing your lips to the back of his neck.

His shoulders stiffened, then rolled once in that barely-there shiver you’d learned to read as interest.

Your fingers found the lines of his abs beneath his hoodie, tracing them the way you once traced him in dim parking garages and half-lit stairwells—those nights he’d grab your wrist, drag you against him, and snarl against your ear, “You’re a fuckin’ succubus.” Nights when the risk made him look at you like you were the only thing on earth worth losing his mind over.

But that was a long time ago.

Your other hand kept moving under his waistband. He didn’t comment—no smirk, no sharp remark—just a subtle hitch in his breathing. You stroked him in sync with the bike’s hum, slow, deliberate. The bass in your headphones thumped in your skull, drowning out his rambling until all you could hear was the way his breath kept catching.

His grip on the handle tightened, knuckles pale. Then, without turning his head, his voice dropped, rough from the wind and something else. "You’re gonna seriously make me crash, dumbass."

“Maybe I want to,” you murmured into his ear, dragging your thumb over the tip just to feel that half-jolt of his body against yours.

He leaned back slightly, resting his head against your shoulder.

It was an echo of old nights when he’d press his weight into you against the wall of some empty room, telling you to keep your damn voice down while his own was breaking.

With one hand you undid the clasp and took off his helmet just to bite his ear lightly, your other hand moving faster now. He exhaled hard—half groan, half laugh—and the sound carved something sharp into your chest.

The city lights thinned as the road opened into the empty stretch of highway. His muscles coiled beneath you, tension rippling through him until he let out a shuddering gasp. His release was hot across your fingers, the warmth fading fast in the cool air.

You held him tighter for just a second longer, your cheek pressed to his back, feeling the staccato rise and fall of his breathing.

The bike sped up again. You slipped your hand free, wiping your fingers against a disinfectant tissue from your purse without ceremony, a small smile curving your lips—not quite satisfaction, not quite grief.

Leaning forward, you pressed a kiss to the back of his shoulder blades. Just a second too long. Just long enough that, if he remembered anything about tonight later, it would be that.

The outskirts of the city blurred behind you, the moon low enough to catch on the black gloss of his helmet. The bike’s engine purred rapidly beneath you, a mechanical heartbeat, each vibration running through your thighs and straight into your chest.

You put his helmet back on his head, clasped it, and then moved your arms to curl around him, heat familiar in the way a smell from childhood is—distant, dulled, and heavy with things you don’t want to pick apart.

He leaned back a fraction, the weight of his helmet pressing into your shoulder.

And for a second—just one, your mind cut sideways—a parking garage, five years ago, before his first shipment. The hood of your car warm against your bare thighs, his hoodie bunched above your chest. His mouth against your throat, muttering, “Remember this. Remember me like this.” You’d laughed into his jaw, nails raking his scalp, the metallic stink of oil and gasoline around you. Someone’s footsteps two levels up, the rush of almost being caught, his hand clamping over your mouth.

The way he looked at you then—like you were danger dressed in skin.

The sound of his horn yanked you again—behind a gas station, midnight, six years ago. Your ass pressed to the wall, his jacket open enough for his hands to slide under your shirt. He’d been laughing about something stupid—some guy at his old work, some broken part—and then he’d just looked at you. No warning. And you’d ended up there, his belt open, both of you too far gone to think about whether the security camera above was even real.

But in the present, the road opened wide, empty.

The memory flickered again, four years ago—an alley outside a café, back when you were both still pretending you had time for each other. He’d pushed you against the brick, hands framing your face like he meant it. Like he wanted to take his time. His calloused hand wrapped around your throat—not squeezing, just holding. Like he needed to anchor himself to you. “Still with me?” he’d rasped, sweat dripping from his jaw onto your collarbone. You’d nodded, gasping. His grin was all teeth. “That look on your face. Fuck. Do it again.”

Now, you just kept your arm tight around him until his breathing leveled out.

The bike slowed near the edge of the city. You were already bracing to be dropped off without a word—his usual disappearing act, his favorite magic trick—when he flicked the turn signal and veered left instead.

The neon OPEN sign of a tiny all-night café blinked weakly ahead, its light stuttering over cracked pavement.

Your eyes widened in almost surprise, almost laughed. “What—running out of gas or something?”

"Shut up, woman," he said flatly, at least acknowledging you were a woman. He parked, kicking down the stand like the place had been his idea all along and not a last-minute pity date. "Coffee."

Inside, the place had that greasy-sugar air of 2 AM choices, the kind of smell that clung to your clothes in a way you’d notice hours later. The walls were the jaundiced beige of too many nicotine breaks.

You washed your hands in the bathroom, staring at your reflection. The pink at the edges of your nails, faint crescent marks in your palm where you’d been holding him. Your hair was sporting a whole new ‘organic’ look courtesy of the wind, but you smoothed it more out of ritual than vanity and went back out.

He’d already staked a booth—helmet on the table like a passive trophy—phone face up, thumb scrolling his phone with the absorbed posture of someone more comfortable in a group chat than across from a living person.

You slid into the seat opposite him. His expression was blank in that way that made it impossible to tell if he was avoiding looking at you or if you’d just stopped being worth looking at.

“I got you the usual,” he said, eyes still on the screen.

“Thanks.” You said it small, and the cup felt like his inattention.

He didn’t know your usual had changed in the last five years. But sure, points for autopilot.

Two paper cups, steam curling in the stale air. You took a sip, the bitter heat biting your tongue—apparently your taste buds had also moved on without telling him.

He dove back into bike porn: throttle response like it was foreplay, aftermarket exhausts he described with more reverence than saints, the angle of a mirror haloed in lamplight. His voice hit that familiar fever pitch—"how it handled better than he’d dreamed,” the engine’s scream in fourth gear a love song he’d kill to hear on loop.

Then came the phone in your face.

HDR shots he’d taken that night—chrome gleaming like liquid sin, a wheel posed like a centerfold. Close-ups so intimate they felt less like photos, more like fossil-fuel worship. Family portraits for a man married to machinery. He didn’t even notice you in the reflection of one.

You hummed in all the right places, dropping a “Looks good” like coins between his monologue.

“Mhm,” he said, eyes flicking up for half a second before diving back into the specs. You were background noise. A polite applause track.

And definitely not the woman he’d forgotten to love.

“Very cool.” You nodded when his gaze snagged yours—feeding him the little affirmations that kept his engine running.

Somewhere between aftermarket exhausts and mirror angles, his rant stalled. “So… what’d you do today at work?”

His first question about you in four months.

Maybe his lizard brain finally pinged ‘ask about her asshole.’ Or maybe you were reaching, and he’d just run out of bike facts.

A plain question. But you felt its weight—the too-late weight of a train arriving after the station burned down.

You smiled like you hadn’t been waiting years for that basic curiosity. “Nothing exciting.”

He nodded at you like you were a weather report at sea, but his eyes lingered a fraction longer, like he was trying to remember something about you that wasn’t bike-shaped.

You cut the moment before it could grow legs. “You know, you sound like those old guys who buy a bike and won’t shut up about it at barbecues.”

He smirked—a half-smile where his mouth did the work his eyes forgot. “Yeah, but mine’s actually fast.”

You kept your face neutral because you’d learned to ration expression like counterfeit cash.

He hadn’t asked about your day to know you.

He asked because questions were routines he could manage. Because the bike needed a listener, and you were convenient—atleast right now when all his buddies were at sea or asleep.

So you didn’t tell him.

You didn’t tell him how your day had gone, what you’d been thinking about before he replied to your text to meet him, how you’d already decided this was the last time.

Instead, you steered the conversation back into his favorite ditch: his new bike.

“You should change the seat,” you said, because you always landed on tiny details where his attention might register.

“It’s fine.”

“It’s… brown and… ugly.”

“Shut up.” His mouth twitched like he might be smiling, but his eyes didn’t shift from yours—studying you the way someone checks a noise in the house they can’t quite place.

You sipped the coffee, politely smiling.

The cup warmed your hands more than his presence ever did.

There was a small throb beneath the café’s fluorescent light, a pause that wanted to be an apology and was only a pause. He had that look sometimes—the look of a man who suspected a thing existed but refused to invent the vocabulary to describe it.

The silence between you thickened, not with noise but with all the sentences you’d stopped saying. “You’re already thinking about upgrades, aren’t you?”

He kept the habit of looking at you the way people look at their favorite picture: fond, a little distant, as if you were something he came back to rather than someone he wanted to keep. “Maybe. Don’t start with me.”

He didn’t know you’d stopped starting a long time ago—you just quit sending the memo.

The silence between you was thick enough to chew, and you both pretended not to choke on it.

You’d gotten good at that. At acting like it was fine when it wasn’t. At memorizing the shape of his crimson eyes for the last time without letting it show.

The café’s shitty fluorescent light softened the harsh lines of his face, making him look tired instead of dangerous. His hands were loose around the paper cup, long fingers tapping absently at the cardboard sleeve. You caught the tiny scar near his brow—the one he’d never admit was from a fight—and wondered if you were the only one who still noticed it.

You smiled without permission—not the brittle, default smile you’d been using all night, but something real, unguarded. Because you knew.

This was the last time.

You buried it before he could catch it.

“So,” you said, casual as syntax, “you think I could drive it?”

He did that automatic male reflex of overconfidence. “Not a fuckin’ chance.”

“Scared I’ll be better?”

“It’s heavy. You’ll crash it.”

You snorted. “I don’t have to deadlift it, you know.”

That was the last thing you said that made him almost smile.

He drained the last of his coffee, set the cup down, and immediately picked up his phone again. A text lit the screen, his thumb moving fast over the glass.

Not even a glance up.

You stirred your drink just for the noise, waiting to see if he’d notice.

He didn’t.

Probably Yuji or Choso. Or one of the guys from the ship group chat, sending blurry pictures of imported liquor and calling it ‘bonding.’ The kind of conversations he could answer in seconds while your messages sat unread for hours.

“Important?” you asked lightly.

“Mm? Nah, just replying to something,” he said, still typing. Which was like saying you were ‘just putting out a fire’ while tossing gasoline on it.

You leaned back, watching him check his watch right after he hit send.

Your own phone buzzed in your lap. Two notifications—one from work and one from him. Not him that was in front of you. The other.

Text me when you’re home safe.

The one person who’d been answering you without needing a five-day grace period.

You replied with a cute gif, then glanced at the work message, thumb hovering to tap it open—when Sukuna finally shoved his own phone into his hoodie pocket, leaned back, and looked at you.

“You’re always on that thing,” he said, deadpan.

You looked up at him. “You were literally just—”

“Yeah, but mine’s quick.” He shrugged like that made it different.

You almost laughed.

Quick was exactly the problem—how fast he could reply to anyone but you.

If hypocrisy were horsepower, you’d never keep up.

You slid your phone back inside your handbag, not because he asked, but because you didn’t feel like giving him the satisfaction of catching you mid-reply. He didn’t need to know the only reason you were holding it was to tell another man you’d made it home in one piece.

He checked his watch—again—like this coffee stop was overtime he hadn’t authorized.

You didn’t need to ask the time. You knew it by heart: the exact minute he’d manufacture an excuse to deposit you home.

So he could sleep alone in his own bed.

Despite you living alone. Despite him living alone now since his brothers left. Despite seeing him once every 2 years—if you were lucky.

If he noticed the way your smile thinned, he didn’t comment. Just let the moment pass, like the whole interruption hadn’t happened.

And somehow, this was the part that still got under your skin—not the absence, but the way he could be here and still not be here. Like you were just background noise in his story.

You finished your coffee in silence, watching him plan upgrades for a machine with more vocabulary than he had for saying he’d been wrong about you.

When you left the café, the air had cooled enough to sting your cheeks. Once you’d climbed back onto the bike, wrapping your arms around him out of habit more than desire, he slipped back into the comfortable script—rambling about the ride home, the incline on certain streets, how the engine held up in the cold. You hummed in agreement, nodding at the right beats, keeping him in the safe little bubble where everything was about machines and roads and not about you.

You never told him you’d been holding him in more ways than one tonight. Not that he cared.

By the time he dropped you off, the air between you had thinned into something almost normal.

Which was, in its own way, the cruelest trick.

You swung your leg off the bike, feet hitting the pavement harder than you meant.

Then turned to head inside, but the question pushed its way out before you could stop it.

“So… when do they want you back?”

“I have to report to the capital tomorrow.”

Of course he did.

And of course he didn’t tell you until you asked.

“Don’t start again,” he said, groaning like your voice was a headache he’d been putting off.

“What? I didn’t even say anything.” You frowned, brows knitting.

“Yet. But you look ready to start a scene.” He cut you off, already turning away. “Don’t ruin a nice day. It’s late—get inside.”

He shut you down before the old you could have turned it into a fight. Before you could have cried.

You swallowed the sharp reply that tried to climb up your throat. “When will you be back?”

The helmet stayed on.

A glossy red shell sealing him off from you, from this moment, from everything that used to be familiar.

Two years.

Two fucking years since you’d seen his face, touched his skin, heard his breath catch in the dark. And now he sat there like a stranger, hands still on the handle.

“I don’t fuckin’ know.”

The voice grated through the helmet’s modulator—tinny, hollow, wrong. Not the voice that used to whisper your name like a secret against your neck.

He didn’t lift the visor. Didn’t brush his knuckles over your cheek like he did the last time in the morning. Just stood there, armored and impenetrable, smelling of ozone and distant smoke.

You wanted to crack it open. To claw at the clasps, scream into the dark slit of the visor—"look at me. See what you left. See what’s left of me. I was still here waiting.” But your fists stayed clenched at your sides.

“Do you need someone to drop you off tomorrow?” you asked, adjusting your purse strap so it wouldn’t dig into your shoulder.

For a heartbeat, you thought you saw his helmet tilt, just a fraction. Like he might… look.

“It’s early. I’ll get a cab.” He spoke like you’d just asked him to carry furniture. Like your concern was an inconvenience.

It didn’t matter anymore.

You stepped forward and hugged him anyway, one last time, pressing your arms around the soft shell of his hoodie before he could start the engine. “Have a safe flight.”

No kiss. Not even a gloved hand on your shoulder. Just the weight of his dismissal, thick as the armor plating between you.

Then you turned, waved, and left.

You knew he wouldn’t ride off until you were inside, but you didn’t look back.

Once the door clicked shut behind you, you took off your bag and stretched your arms above your head, muscles stiff from the cold and the ride. The wall clock in your kitchen read 4:03 AM. You stared at it for a moment, hands still raised, letting the silence of your apartment settle over you like a blanket you weren’t ready to pull close.

Outside, his engine finally rumbled to life, low and reluctant, before fading down the street.

You pulled out your phone out of the bag and typed:

Wanna get coffee in the morning?

You hovered there for a good minute, thumb poised, before realizing he was probably already asleep. With a small sigh, you chewed absently on your lower lip, then hit call instead.

He picked up on the third ring—voice low, warm, edged with that groggy roughness that sounded far too good for someone claiming not to be trying. “Mm… hey baby. Sorry—fell asleep. How was your day?”

Your lips curled before you could stop them. “It’s 4 in the morning. Of course you were asleep. If you weren’t, I’d be more concerned.”

A quiet laugh, the kind that felt like it belonged in a corner booth at some all-night café in a children’s storybook. “I told you I’d wait for your text.” Sheets rustled in the background—soft, unhurried.

“You don’t have to stay up all night for me,” you said, shaking your head even though he couldn’t see. “Just pick up when I call.”

“The bar,” he muttered, voice dry but still warm, “is in hell.”

You laughed, sinking onto the couch. “Did you even see my text?”

A faint pause, more shuffling, then his voice came a little farther away—like he’d turned to check the phone screen. “Yeah… I see it now. Give me thirty minutes to shower; I’ll come get you.”

You frowned. “You haven’t even properly slept yet, have you?”

“It’s fine. I’m not a kid,” he said, but the defensive note only made you smile harder. “Besides… can’t keep my girl waiting.”

The way he said it—not a grand declaration, just fact—slipped under your skin. You pressed your lips together to stop the grin, failed miserably.

“Not your girl,” you teased, more out of habit than conviction.

“Sure, sure.” You could hear the smile in his voice. “You can argue with me about that over breakfast.”

Before you could answer, another incoming call lit your screen.

Checking the caller ID, you groaned under your breath. Fucking hell, why is he calling again? Probably still on about whatever bike ramble you’d escaped earlier.

“I’ll wait for you then,” you murmured, ignoring the other call. “Try to hurry… but don’t speed.”

A soft hum of amusement, then: “Of course. I’ve got a reason to live now, sweetheart.”

You smiled harder, the kind of smile you didn’t need to fake, then the line clicked.

Something in you had learned the tone of Sukuna’s calls.

This one wasn’t urgent, wasn’t angry—just that flat, low buzz of someone who wasn’t calling for you so much as for the empty noise you could provide. Like you were a podcast he could put on in the background of his own life.

Still, the number lighting up your phone at four in the morning had the same pull it always did. You answered before you could talk yourself out of it.

Old reflexes and all that.

“What happened? Are you okay?” you asked, reaching for the half-warm glass of water on your table and taking a slow sip.

“Who were you talking to at 4 in the morning?”

No hello. No lead-up. Just straight into the little cross-examination he did when something itched at him.

You shouldn’t have picked up. But this was what happened when you’d trained yourself for years to smooth over his moods before they fully formed. “Nothing,” you said. “Food delivery.”

It was a flimsy lie, but he didn’t ask for details. He never did. Asking would require the baseline curiosity of seeing you as a person, and he’d long since filed you under “reliable background noise.”

He hummed—that soft, distracted sound you knew meant he’d accepted the excuse but not believed it. You could hear the wind whipping around him, so he was still driving home and needed you to fill the silence like a radio.

Then, without warning, he veered off, “You ever see the black matte finish they’re putting on some of the new Ducatis? Looks sick.”

You let your mouth curve before your mind caught up. “Mhm.”

Not warmth—just a placeholder. You’d learned long ago that enthusiasm only encouraged longer monologues.

“And the frame—but you wouldn’t like the non-sports frame,” he chuckled, lighter now. “But it’s gorgeous. I’m thinking… maybe six months from now, if the shop still has the model, I’ll change it.”

You hummed again. “You can do it now; I won’t mind if you love it.” You knew how to make it sound like encouragement without committing to interest.

He droned on, more chirpy from approval—well, at least as chirpy as Sukuna could get with you.

Then you leaned your head back, eyes tracing the cracks in your ceiling, and wondered if maybe now he’d stop pretending. If maybe he’d finally let go of what he’s been trying to let go of for years now.

You.

He laughed softly, not at anything you’d said, but at the image in his own head.

The truth was, you and him had been on different music for a long time. And maybe after tonight, you could stop pretending too—let him drift off to wherever, to whoever, he actually needed now.

Because it just wasn’t you anymore.

And as much as it stung to admit it, being alone had made you realize something ugly: you hadn’t been to him what he’d been to you.

You almost hoped—stupidly, masochistically—that he’d change for the next person. That he’d get to experience someone worrying when he was late. Someone who checked if he’d eaten after he’d fed his brothers.

But you couldn’t be that person.

Not because you couldn’t. God, you’d tried.

But he didn’t want it from you. Still, you caught yourself wishing he’d have someone like that—even now, when it seemed like he had more friends than ever.

A sudden burst of barking cracked through the background—deep and guttural. You pictured the rottweilers by the gate.

So he was home already.

“Okay,” you said. “You get changed and sleep then; talk later.”

“Do you have to sleep?” he asked, suddenly.

You paused for a second. “…No. I just wanted to shower before bed.”

You said it slowly, like you were feeling out the edges of his question. And then it clicked—he wasn’t staying on call because he missed you or felt bad.

In some other life, maybe he’d be capable of that, or maybe you’d never given him space enough to miss you because you’d just always been there whenever he remembered you existed.

He was staying on call because the bike had made him excited, and either none of his friends were awake or didn’t exist in the way he needed, especially not the ones he’d share every stupid, giddy detail with.

And you were… always awake enough for him. Always on standby.

So he kept going.

Talking about the sound the engine made when he revved it at the start. About the smell of the shop—oil and dust and faint chemical tang that probably clung to his hoodie now. He described Chrome the way other people described constellations. And you sat there, phone pressed to your ear, giving him just enough noise to keep the monologue running.

A horn blared outside your building.

You glanced at the clock, cursed under your breath.

“I’ll call you in a bit, gotta go pee,” you lied, already standing and grabbing your bag. You didn’t give him a chance to answer before hanging up.

Your fingers were clumsy on the strap as you swung it over your shoulder, heartbeat ticking faster—not because of him, but because of the timing.

You yanked the door open.

And froze.

He was already there, hand raised mid-air to knock.

The streetlight cut a pale half-circle across his face, catching in the faint lines under his eyes. He smiled—that crooked, half-awake thing he wore when his brain hadn’t quite booted up yet.

“Hi.”

You stared for half a beat longer than was polite, grinning stupidly. “…Hi.”

His smile was disarming in its softness, and it made you forget Sukuna for exactly that reason.

He tilted his head toward his car parked at the curb, shiny even under the weak light. “Come on. Got something to show you.”

“Where?”

“You’ll see.”

He walked you out and opened the passenger door like he was auditioning for the role of A Functional Adult. There was a bouquet on the seat.

You stared at it. “Who died?”

“Nobody. It’s flowers for… my girl.” He grinned stupidly, but his cheeks were red.

He always had flowers even when he wasn’t used to this. Used to having a girlfriend who kept him around longer than a month.

It was the stupidest thing, and it became one of the reasons you’d started loving him in the small ways that felt dangerous.

He was the opposite of Sukuna in ways that are boring and therefore enormous.

Where Sukuna was furnace-flame intensity and absence, this man was low heat, a steady pilot light you could trust to stay lit. He wore a jacket that somehow looked comfier for the scuffs, and his hair was softer than any flowers he’d bought you.

You still remembered the first time you met him. The bike’s paperwork day.

When you’d been standing in that stifling, over-lit licensing office with a pen that kept leaking and the distinct feeling you were slowly losing brain cells. Sukuna hadn’t picked up his phone once—not when the finance guy had started asking you to “confirm the CC to horsepower ratio” like you weren’t the one who’d just paid for the damn thing.

The office guys circled you like vultures with clipboards, asking the same redundant, mansplaining questions on rotation.

“Do you know how much pollution this model produces?”

“Yes.”

“Are you sure?”

“I didn’t hallucinate the spec sheet, no.”

You’d been halfway to committing murder via pen cap when a new voice cut in from behind you. Calm, unhurried.

“Hey, she’s fine. Give me the forms—she’s signing for it, not applying to pilot a fighter jet.”

You’d turned, half ready to fight him too, until you clocked the uniform. His uniform. Or lack thereof. And the fact that he was very much out of place at a bike licensing desk, his position clearly far above the sad mortal realm of paper shuffling.

But he’d just taken the forms, slid them across to you, and murmured, “Skip line six; they never actually read it.”

Ten minutes later, he’d not only sorted the paperwork but handed you a cup of tea and a plate of the sad little wrapped biscuits from the office kitchen. Like some kind of absurd, tall bureaucratic guardian angel.

When he’d given you his number, it hadn’t even been flirty. “For updates,” he’d said, pen tapping against the form. “Strictly professional. I promise not to spam you.”

And he hadn’t—at first. Just those minimal, efficient updates that kept the process moving. Not a single emoji.

One night, months later, you found yourself outside some rich-bitch club on the far edge of the city—the kind your friends swore had “good vibes” but really just smelled like overpriced perfume and desperation.

You’d driven yourself there because there were no decent cabs in that part of town after dark. Now it was 3 AM, your girlfriends had disappeared—either into the beds of random men or their own boyfriends—and you were the only one standing in the gravel lot, drunk, cold, and wondering when being “fun” had started to feel like being disposable.

No one texted to check if you got home safe. No one even noticed you were gone.

A few guys lingered by the door, voices low, eyes flicking over in your direction. One of them took a step forward, slow enough to pretend it wasn’t about you.

You tightened your grip on your phone, the screen blurring as you pulled up Sukuna’s name.

He didn’t pick up. Not the first time you tried. Not the fifth. You even left it ringing once, just to see if he’d swipe it away or let it go dead. Either way, nothing.

You thought about calling Choso next, but he’d never been more than polite to you. Sukuna had made sure you were barely a footnote in his brothers’ lives—only Yuji ever actually spoke to you. You tried him, too. Straight to voicemail after the third attempt.

The sting in your eyes was sudden and stupid. You didn’t want to cry, but the alcohol had other ideas.

And then you remembered. Gojo had once mentioned—offhand, mid-paperwork—that he lived “sort of nearby.”

You stared at his number.

It had only ever been for work.

You’d never texted him something personal, never called without a reason.

You didn’t even know if he’d remember who you were without a license plate number in the sentence.

Still, you pressed it.

He picked up on the second ring. Groggy, voice warm and rough in a way that made your chest ache harder. “...Hello?”

The second you heard him, the tears came harder, tripping over your words. “Sorry—it’s late, I know—but I’m stuck. My car—there’s no cabs—can you maybe send someone? Please?”

He was quiet for maybe half a second. Then, “Text me your location. Don’t talk to anyone. Get inside; lock yourself in the bathroom if you have to. I’m coming.”

You kept the pepper spray in your hand the whole time. Even when his headlights cut through the dark fifteen minutes later, even when you recognized his tall frame getting out of the car.

“Flat tire,” he said, crouching down before you could even explain. “Easy fix.”

The thing was, you didn’t know him—not really. Not personally. Just enough to know his job was important enough that changing your tire was way beneath his position. But he didn’t say a word about that. Just worked quietly, tools moving with the same easy precision you’d seen over a desk.

When he was done, he leaned against the side of your car and nodded toward his. “You’re not driving home drunk. I’ll come back for this tomorrow—get in.”

You hesitated. “You’re not gonna lecture me?”

He shrugged. “You’ve already had a bad night. I’m not adding to it.”

It was such a simple thing, but it undid you more than you liked.

He drove you home without asking for the story, without trying to play hero. Just made sure you locked the door behind him before heading back into the dark.

That was the night he stopped being just the guy who’d helped you with a bike form once.

That was the night you became friends.

It slowly became months of him orbiting your life in small, consistent ways—calling just to tell you about something bizarre he’d read, sending pictures of whatever absurd snack combination he was experimenting with, asking your opinion on some obscure bit of trivia at midnight because, apparently, you were the only one awake who’d answer.

Then the pain got worse—Sukuna not answering calls because he was “busy with driving a fucking ship.” Busy with work. Busy with the gym. Busy in ways that made you feel like asking for five minutes of his voice was an inconvenience.

The first time that night you called twice in a row, he texted:

What’s wrong?

By the fourth missed call that night, he didn’t bother replying.

When he finally picked up, it was sharp, like you’d interrupted something sacred. “What the hell is wrong with you? 18 missed calls?”

“I—” You bit down on the instinct to apologize. “I just wanted to hear your voice.”

“I’m in the middle of something. Stop blowing up my phone like that. I’m not your damn emergency contact.”

It landed harder than you’d admit, but your heart sank in that familiar way it always seemed to do with him now.

You hung up before your voice could give you away, sitting in the dark with your phone still warm in your palm, feeling your own pulse in your teeth.

You didn’t text Gojo that night. But you scrolled back through the messages—photos of terrible sandwich experiments, screenshots of articles with captions like “look at this bird, it’s committing fraud,” a late-night “settle a bet for me” that had nothing to do with a bet.

The next night, you called him without thinking.

“Hey,” he answered, voice low and lazy, like he’d just leaned back in his chair.

“Do you know,” you said, “there’s a law in Switzerland about owning just one guinea pig?”

“Yeah,” he replied instantly, “because they get lonely. Same reason you shouldn’t own just one hermit crab.”

You laughed, leaning back into your pillows. “You’re not even gonna ask why I know that?”

“I already know why you know that. You’re you.”

It kept happening. Every night, some odd, sprawling conversation about everything and nothing. He’d talk about fixing a busted radio at work. You’d send him a picture of the moon from your window. He’d make fun of your tea collection. You’d argue about which dinosaur would win in a fistfight.

Once, in the middle of describing how a certain type of satellite worked, he trailed off and said, “You sound tired. Want me to shut up so you can sleep?”

You hesitated. “…No. Keep going.”

Meanwhile, Sukuna’s voice became something you rationed.

You stopped calling unless you had a reason. He stopped noticing you hadn’t called at all.

One night, after days of silence, you dialed him again.

“Yeah?”

“Nothing, just wanted to know how you were.”

A sigh, heavy. “I’m fine. Can I call you later?”

“Will you?”

Another pause. “Yeah, sure.”

He didn’t.

Gojo never asked about Sukuna. But sometimes, when you were halfway through telling him about a book you’d found at a thrift shop, you’d catch a note in his voice—something careful, like he was keeping his hands behind his back so you wouldn’t notice he wanted to reach for you.

He joked like it was easy, but he listened like it was rare.

And if he thought you were out of his league, he never said it outright. But you could hear it in the way he let you lead the conversation, in how he never pushed for more than you gave. Like he was afraid you’d wake up one day and remember he was just some guy who knew too much about weather balloons.

Two nights later, you texted Gojo.

Drinks?

He didn’t make it complicated. Just sent you a location.

You talked for hours about the kind of things only two people slightly too awake for their own good would care about. Space debris. Obsolete laws. Why certain birds looked like they were planning crimes. He had this way of getting you to think about something so odd and specific that, for whole minutes at a time, you forgot what it was like to feel unwanted.

“Did you know there’s a law in Australia about what percentage of fruit has to be in jam for it to be called jam?” you said, leaning over the table.

He tilted his head, genuinely intrigued. “What’s the cutoff?”

“35%.”

He grinned, slow and warm. “And you just… know that?”

You sipped your drink. “I’m full of useless information.”

“Mm.” His eyes narrowed in mock suspicion. “I think you’re full of dangerous information. Like the kind that’ll get me in trouble for laughing in a meeting because I’m thinking about bird conspiracies.”

It went like that for hours—him making you laugh until your face hurt, you catching yourself leaning in just a little too far. Somewhere between the second drink and the slow walk to your car, you’d kissed him.

It wasn’t messy or rushed. His hand cupped the side of your jaw like he was still making sure it was okay to be there, and you let him.

You slept with him that night—not out of anger, not out of spite, but because for the first time in a long time, you felt like someone wanted you. Not a placeholder version of you. Not the convenience of you. Just… you.

The next morning, you woke to the smell of coffee.

He was leaning against the counter, phone tossed face down beside him, watching the kettle hiss. He didn’t ask how you took it—just set a mug in your hands, steam curling against your face.

“There’s something I should tell you,” he said, voice steady but not guarded.

You took a sip, meeting his eyes over the rim. “Okay.”

“I have a daughter. Technically my niece. My sister passed away a few years ago.” He said it simply, like a fact, but his gaze didn’t leave yours.

You nodded slowly. “How old?”

“Six. She likes dinosaurs, hates cucumbers, and thinks I’m the tallest person alive.” A faint smile tugged at his mouth. “She might be right about that last part.”

You set the mug down. “Do you… want me to meet her?”

“Not yet,” he said without hesitation. “That’s not me keeping you away—it’s me making sure this is… I don’t know, solid. For both of us.”

You hesitated, and he leaned forward slightly, the sunlight cutting across his cheekbone.

“I’m not asking to be your only,” he said. “I’m okay if I’m not. But I’m here. And I’m not going to disappear because you called too many times.”

The words landed in your chest like something you’d been bracing for without realizing it.

You didn’t say thank you. Instead, you wrapped both hands around the coffee mug, just to keep from reaching for him again too soon.

He didn’t introduce you to everyone in his life at once. Just a few friends over time—people who actually knew his life, who’d smile at you like they’d heard of you before you walked in. Sukuna had never bothered with that. Half the time, you weren’t sure if his friends even knew your name.

With Gojo, there was no performance. No stage-managing of your role in his life. Just a steady unfolding, one person, one piece at a time.

Now, 10 months later, you were sitting in his car, that bouquet between you, the window cracked to let in the cool night air.

“Where are we going?” you asked, side-eyeing him.

“Mini camping trip.” He grinned at the road ahead. “I’ve got ramen in the back. With eggs, before you ask. Thought we could eat it by the dam, watch the sunset. Boring couple stuff.”

“You’re really leaning into this ‘I’m not like your ex’ angle,” you said, smirking.

“I don’t even know your ex,” he replied easily, “but I’m betting I could beat him at time management, hydration, and flossing. And I also don’t give a fuck about him.”

You snorted, half turning toward him. “That’s a low bar, officer.”

“I like my victories achievable,” he shot back, and you hated how easily he could disarm you like that—without trying to make it a game, without making it about winning at all.

You didn’t say it out loud, but you knew: if Sukuna had been here, he wouldn’t have planned it but would have been reluctantly dragged into it by you in hopes of trying to reconnect.

He drove in silence for a minute before you noticed the passenger footwell. “You have a camping stove in your car.”

“Emergency kit.”

“That’s not an emergency kit, that’s probable cause.”

“It makes great ramen.”

You side-eyed him. “Do you pick women up at 4:30 AM just to feed them noodles in your car?”

“Not women. You.”

“Am I gonna end up in a crime podcast with midroll ads and the caption ‘Previously cheating woman gets cannibalized by side piece.’”

He laughed, genuinely, then said, “I don’t need to cannibalize you to taste you, babe.”

You made a face. “Gross. Keep driving.”

He had a government job, but he managed time well. So well that he always managed to answer your calls and never left you waiting on dates too long.

The drive was quiet, the kind of quiet that’s comfortable if you let it be. The dam came into view just as the sky started bruising into morning.

He parked, hopped out, and said, “Stay put.” Then he popped the trunk and came back with two cups of instant ramen and three eggs.

You then watched him work the tiny stove. “You’ve definitely killed someone with that before.”

“You can eat cold noodles if you prefer.”

You folded your arms. “That looks like a fire hazard.”

“It’s a fire hazard that makes good broth,” he said, kneeling to light it.

“I’ll risk the murder stove.”

Steam curled into the cold air. You sat on the hood with him, knees brushing.

“Thought Sukuna was back,” he said, finally.

“He is.”

“And?”

“And I’m here.”

“And you’re here?”

You slurped a mouthful. “Your detective work is stunning.”

He mixed his eggs with the warm broth. “So that’s over, then.”

“You sound sure.”

“I’ve got eyes.”

You shrugged, chewing. “What else do your magical eyes tell you?”

“That you didn’t dress to impress me today.” His gaze slid down your chest. “Which is a shame. I put on cologne.”

You snorted. “I thought that was printer toner.”

He laughed. “Touché.”

He continued to smile without looking at you. “You could’ve just said it’s over.”

“You could just mind your business.”

“I could,” he said easily, “but then I wouldn’t get to see you try to look intimidating while eating noodles.”

You smacked his arm.

When the noodles were gone, he leaned back on his hands, watching the water. “You’re staring.”

“Only because you look like a stock photo for ‘man on break.’”

“Want me to pose?”

“I don’t have enough storage on my phone for that kind of cringe.”

“Want me to look more mysterious?”

“Impossible. You brought daisies and instant noodles.”

He turned his head toward you, slowly. “You want mysterious, or you want honest?”

You considered. “Honest. But funny.”

“Funny costs extra,” he said, closing the distance just enough for you to feel his breath.

You laughed despite yourself, and he smiled—small, not showy.

The air felt different then. Not heavy, just… shifted.

He leaned in closer when he said, “Gonna kiss you now.”

You arched a brow. “Announcing it? Very romantic.”

“Consent is hot,” he murmured.

You rolled your eyes and kissed him first.

It was instant calm, like your brain stopped running and took a vacation on his tongue. His hand came up to cup your jaw, thumb brushing the corner of your mouth like he was making sure you’d still be there when he pulled back.

When you did, you smirked. “You taste like salt and bad life choices.”

“You taste like kimchi ramen and denial.”

Back in the car, he rested his hand on your knee at a red light. “You cold?”

“If that’s your idea of checking temperature, your sensors are broken.”

He squeezed once. “You’re warm enough.”

“You’re so full of shit.”

“And yet, you called me.” His voice was low, almost amused, as he turned onto the empty road and pressed a kiss to the back of your hand.

You looked out the window so he wouldn’t see you smile. “Shut up and drive.”

The rest of the drive was spent with him offering you to connect to his car’s Bluetooth like it was a peace treaty. “Play something from your phone.”

You scrolled for a few seconds, then tapped I’m a Barbie Girl. The synth intro blared through the speakers, obnoxious enough to echo in the empty road.

Gojo glanced at you, one brow raised. “Really?”

You bit back a grin, waiting for him to complain. “Mm-hm.”

Instead, he started singing. Loudly. Off-key. And with alarming enthusiasm, which had your thighs pushing together.

“Hiya, Barbie

Hi, Ken

You wanna go for a ride?

Sure, Ken

Jump in”

You put a hand over your mouth in horror. “You are not supposed to enjoy this.”

He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel, still belting out the chorus. “Oh, I’m loving this. You’re always getting control of the music from now on.”

The sun was just starting to push up over the horizon when you leaned over, squinting at the light. “Sunglasses,” you said, pointing at the glove box. “Now. We’re not doing the squinting contest.” Given you both were light sensitive.

He smirked but reached over with one hand to flip the latch. You immediately started rummaging.

“What the hell is this?” you asked, holding up a pack of wet wipes.

“It’s wipes.”

You narrowed your eyes. “Which bitch are you wiping?”

Gojo snorted. “Yeah, because I’m constantly cleaning women in my car.” Then without hesitation he added, “It’s for my daughter.”

“And can she attest to your statement, sir?”

“She’s six; she can’t legally attest to anything.”

“Suspicious.” You pulled out a bar of dark chocolate. “And this? Bribing your mistresses?”

“YA, I forgot, that’s for you,” he said, tapping the steering wheel like he wasn’t already smiling at how ridiculous you sounded.

You found a roll of mints, a small bottle of eyedrops, and a folded paper bag. “You’re so boring. I was expecting at least one scandal in here.”

He shrugged. “Guess I’m disappointing like that.”

You shot him a sly look, then grabbed his phone from the cup holder. “Maybe the scandal’s in here.”

He didn’t stop you. Just said, “Go ahead,” then told you the password again in case you forgot, like he was curious how long it’d take you to find nothing.

And you didn’t.

Most of his chats were with coworkers or old friends. The only group thread that wasn’t work-related was with his friends, who were clearly tired of hearing about you.

You blinked at the screen. “Half of this is just you talking about me.”

“Yeah,” he said simply. You tried your root checking skills, even the delivery apps, battery/data usage and last opened apps. Nothing.

“Your lockscreen—” The words stalled in your mouth as your eyes locked on the photo.

It was you and him, mid-laugh at something beyond the frame, faces tipped toward each other like the moment had been private even back then. You knew the day instantly.

Your last birthday.

Sukuna had called once at midnight—no nickname, not even your name—just an awkward “Happy birthday” followed by, “make plans with your friends,” before saying he “had to go.” Twenty months at sea, and all he could manage after that was a surprise cake in the one flavor you’d told him multiple times you hated.

You’d been ready to cry in your apartment, open a bottle of wine, and disappear for the next 24 hours… until the knock came.

You grabbed your metal baseball bat, cracked the door open halfway—only to see Gojo standing there with the biggest bouquet you’d ever been given. Flowers you actually liked. Not the half-dead single roses Sukuna used to bring after you yelled at him for never buying any. Not the “barely alive” ones he claimed were “good enough” while somehow never thinking expensive whiskey was a waste of money.

Gojo had remembered your birth date from the bike paperwork months back—and taken the day off months in advance. He’d insisted you had to be “kidnapped for a full 24 hours.”

He’d planned everything down to the hour: your favorite breakfast spot, a lazy drive to nowhere, a sunset you didn’t think anyone could schedule (but somehow he had). And when you went quiet halfway through dinner, he didn’t press—just nudged your knee under the table until you smiled again.

He’d remembered your coffee order without asking. Kept water in the car because he “didn’t trust the restaurants near the lake.” Let you pick the playlist, even when it meant listening to songs he pretended to groan at but still sang under his breath.

He’d even somehow managed to end the day with a few fireworks on Suguru’s rooftop along with a wish lantern.

And now… seeing that day saved as his lockscreen—the exact second your laugh had hit him so hard he’d fumbled the camera—something sharp and tender caught in your chest.

Gojo glanced over, one hand loose on the wheel. “What? Find something incriminating?”

You tucked the phone back into the cup holder before you could overthink it. “Just evidence you’re whipped.”

“Don’t sound so shocked.”

You rolled your eyes, but your lips wouldn’t quit twitching.

He smiled without looking away from the road, that infuriatingly calm curve of his mouth making it obvious he didn’t mind one bit. “And?”

“And nothing,” you muttered, looking out the window. But your reflection in the glass was still smiling.

Once home, you unlocked the door without looking at him, shoulder bumping the frame as you shoved it open. Then you turned and caught his collar in your fist before you’d even opened the door completely. “How many hours do you have before work?”

His brows lifted, hands always moving to your waist. “Three.”

“Good enough.” You dragged him in by his jacket, pushed the door closed with your foot, and walked him backwards into the hallway.

There was a small laugh under his breath—the kind you could feel in his chest as your hand stayed on his shirt. “That’s how you’re hosting me now?”

“You want tea instead?”

“I mean, tea and this wouldn’t be the worst—” His back hit the wall, and you kissed him before he could finish.

He tasted like ginger and the faint, clean trace of the toothpaste he’d used hours ago. His hands stayed low at first, fingers resting lightly at your hips, like he was still giving you space to change your mind. Which only made you press closer.

“You’re terrible at small talk,” you murmured against his mouth.

“Lucky for you,” he said, lips brushing your jaw now, “I’ve been practicing the other kind.”

You laughed—sharp, involuntary. “That sounded like you rehearsed it.”

“I did,” he admitted, smiling into your neck. “In the car on the way here. Had a whole list, actually, but you seem to be in a hurry.”

You hooked your fingers into the back of his hair and tugged. “You talk too much.”

He hummed—not agreeing, not disagreeing—and kissed you deeper.

By the time you pulled him toward the living room, his jacket had slipped halfway off his shoulders. He stepped out of it without breaking stride, dropping it onto the couch.

The light from the window was that early-morning grey, catching in his hair when you tipped his head down to kiss him again. This time, his hands weren’t tentative. They splayed over your back, pulling you in like he’d been thinking about this since the day you met at the DMV, and maybe even before.

Somewhere between the next kiss and the way his palm slid along your spine, you realized he was doing exactly what he always did—reading you without making it obvious. Every shift, every pause, every time you leaned in instead of back, he matched you. Not trying to take over, just… making it easy to want more.

You broke away just enough to look at him. “You’re staring.”

“Observing,” he said, voice low but teasing. “You’re prettier up close.”

“That’s not an observation. That’s flirting.”

He leaned in, close enough you could feel the curl of his smile. “Can’t it be both?”

“Three hours, right?” you asked, breath catching a little when his thumb traced the edge of your hip.

“Two-fifty now.”

You almost smiled. “Better not waste it, then.”

He laughed again, softer this time, and let you pull him toward the bedroom like you’d been the one driving all along.

The city outside was only just starting to stir—delivery trucks rumbling somewhere far off, a few birds testing the morning—but in here, the only thing that mattered was the slow, steady way he made you forget there’d ever been anyone else.

Satoru wasn’t some seasoned Casanova. He was a little older, sure, but sex hadn’t been a constant in his life either—not until you. You weren’t much different; years with Sukuna had trained you to stop expecting, stop asking, then the last four years of being treated like you were contagious had dulled every edge you used to have.

Until now.

Until Satoru.

Ever since you’d started dating, weekends together turned into whole stretches of barely leaving the bed, the both of you tangled up, learning each other with shameless, rabbit-quick frequency.

By the time you came back to yourself, your clothes were somewhere on the floor, and he was above you, weight warm and certain.

“I want to try something,” he murmured, voice low, like he was already picturing it.

You nodded too fast, breath catching, and that got you one of his rare, crooked smirks beneath his mussed hair—soft from your fingers racking and pulling, falling a little into his eyes.

He slid an arm behind your back, shifting you before your brain could keep up, pulling you up against his chest as he lay beneath you, your spine pressed to his front. And then you felt him—thick and unbelievably hard, pressing against your ass like he had no patience left.

One arm stayed wrapped around your stomach, holding you flush to him. The other hooked under your knees, pulling them together easily, closing your thighs together up until the heavy weight of his cock was nestled snug in your folds with no room for Jesus.

The heat of it punched the air out of your lungs. You made a sound—low, caught somewhere between a gasp and a moan—and he just hummed, like he’d been waiting to hear it.

You didn’t need to be told. Your hips started moving before you could think better of it, rocking back into him, dragging your slick over the length of him, the insistent friction catching on your clit every time you shifted.

Better than foreplay. Better than anything.

You could see it when you looked down—the flushed, pretty pink tip of him peeking in and out from where your thighs held him tight, smearing more slick every time you moved. His breath was rough against your hair, lips brushing your ear, your throat, your jaw like he couldn’t pick a place to stop.

When a bead of his precum smeared over your clit, you whined, thighs clenching tighter. “Please… please, Satoru…”

“Please what, baby?” His smirk curved against your skin, his voice steady in a way his body wasn’t—because every so often, his hips would jerk up into you, betraying how close he already was.

“It’s too much,” you breathed, almost on the edge of tears with it.

He just made a low sound of approval, fingers slipping up to move your hair from your damp face, the other hand shifting to your chest to pinch and roll your nipple with startling precision. “My pretty girl can take a little more than that, huh.”

“S’toru… I need more,” you groaned, but your hips wouldn’t stop. You were still grinding yourself down on him, desperate, like you could pull your orgasm out of him through sheer will.

“Need more what?” he coaxed, mouth tracing your jaw, his tone all teasing patience. “Use those exact words for me.”

“Need you inside me,” you finally got out, the words muffled against your own bitten lip.

He hummed, not even pretending to hide the pleased edge in his voice. His hand slid lower, fingers brushing over your clit just once—enough to make your whole body jump—before he shifted his grip and lined himself up.

He didn’t rush at first. The head of his cock pushed forward slowly, the stretch deliberate, and your breath caught hard in your throat. His arm once again locked around your stomach, keeping you flush to him so you couldn’t squirm away, not that you wanted to.

The low groan he let out when he was halfway in felt like it went straight through you. “Fuck—always so tight.”

You tipped your head back against his shoulder, eyes fluttering shut, the heat of his breath on your neck making you shiver. “Satoru…”

“Yeah, I know.” He pressed his mouth to your skin—your neck, your shoulder—like he was marking territory, then pushed the rest of the way in with one slow, heavy thrust that had your nails digging into his forearm.

The stretch had you dizzy, the angle making every inch of him feel obscene.

“Move,” you whispered, more like a plea than a demand.

He chuckled, low and warm. “Not until you say it again.”

“Please—” you started, but then his hips pulled back almost all the way then rolled forward in one deep thrust, and the words dissolved into a loud moan.

“Please what?” He was all smug patience, but the way his hand flexed on your stomach betrayed him, his own control fraying.

“Please fuck me.”

That got him moving.

Slow at first, rocking into you like he wanted to memorize every second, then faster when your hips started meeting his, when the sound of you grew messier and needier, when your nails dug deeper in his skin.

The wet slide of him in and out and the skin slapping against skin was obscene in the quiet room, broken only by your breathless noises and his occasional curse in your ear.

“Always so wet for me,” he murmured, his teeth dragging over the sensitive spot just below your ear. His hand on your stomach tightened where he could feel himself, while his other hand found your clit and circled lazily, like he had all the time in the world to ruin you.

But his eyes—his eyes were transfixed on your bouncing boobs that jumped harder with his rapidly fastening thrusts.

Your thighs trembled. “I’m gonna—”

“Go ahead, baby.” He pressed his mouth to your neck, his voice rough now. “Wanna feel you suck me in.”

The coil inside you snapped hard, the orgasm ripping through you so suddenly it stole your breath. Your back arched against him, thighs squeezing, and his own rhythm faltered as he groaned low into your skin.

Like clockwork he felt it, your walls squeezing around him like they’d keep him there forever.

A few more thrusts and he was spilling into you, hips pressing deep, his breath hot and uneven against your ear.

For a moment, neither of you moved. Just breathing, your heart still tripping over itself while his arm stayed locked around you like he wasn’t ready to let go.

Finally, he kissed the side of your head and murmured, “Told you you could handle a little more.”

You laughed weakly, but your smile lingered.

The orgasm hadn’t even fully ebbed before he was moving you again—turning you over, pulling your hips up, slotting himself back in like he hadn’t even come.

“Insatiable,” you muttered into the pillow, your voice still shaky.

“Yeah, well…” His hands slid up your back, thumbs pressing into the knots at your shoulders before trailing down again. “You think I’m gonna waste my first shot at having you all to myself?”

You glanced over your shoulder, hair sticking to your cheek. “First shot?”

“Mm,” he hummed, snapping his hips forward just enough to drag a broken sound out of you. “Now that King Julian’s out of the picture, I can keep you. Spoil you. Come home to you every night.”

“That’s… a lot of talking for someone who’s supposed to be—” You cut off with a gasp when he thrust again, deeper this time.

He leaned down over your back, his mouth brushing your ear. “Not talking you into marriage… yet. But at least move in with me.”

You laughed breathlessly, shaking your head. “Too far—”

“I’ll make it worth your while.” He pulled out slow, then drove back in, his pace turning sharp enough to make your head slide forward on the pillows. “You’ll see.”

Your protest died in your throat the moment his hand slipped between your legs again, circling your clit with maddening pressure. His other hand stayed locked on your hip, holding you still while he worked you up with ruthless ease.

It built fast—too fast—and you tried to fight it, muttering, “No, I—” before your whole body shuddered, legs twitching violently and you came hard, a sudden rush soaking the sheets beneath you.

Gojo stilled for a second, then laughed low, pleased. “Oh, look at you.”

His hand stroked over your thigh, possessive. “My little tidal wave.”

You groaned into the pillow, half-embarrassed, half-giddy, and he grinned wider, like he’d found his new favorite thing.

By the time he’d wrung another out of you—this one on your back with his fingers inside and his mouth on your breast—you weren’t even sure what you were agreeing to when he murmured, “So, you’ll move in?”

“…Yeah,” you sighed, too blissed out to care, and his answering smirk told you he’d never let you live it down.

You were still catching your breath when he scooped you up and flung you on his shoulder like laundry, then smacked your ass for good measure, ignoring your muffled, “Satoru, the sheets—”

“They’re already ruined,” he said easily, carrying you into your bathroom. “And so are you, but we can fix one of those.”

Steam filled the small space as he turned on the water. He stepped in first, pulling you in after him, and the hot spray loosened the stiffness in your muscles instantly. You stood there for a moment, eyes closed, letting it run down your face—until you noticed him fumbling with the bottle of shampoo like it was a puzzle box.

“What are you doing?”

“Trying to open it.” He frowned at the cap. “Why’s there a lock on soap?”

“It’s not soap; it’s shampoo.” You took it from him, flipped the top open with one hand, and squeezed some into your palm. “You’ve been using that 3-in-1 body-hair-truck washer crap, haven’t you?”

He didn’t answer, just grinned dumbly, which was answer enough.

You reached up, fingers working the shampoo into his hair. He bent forward a little to make it easier, eyes closing as your nails grazed his scalp.

“Feels good,” he murmured, voice gone low in a way that had nothing to do with sex this time.

“Yeah, that’s because you’ve been torturing your hair for years. You need a hair mask too.”

“Hair mask?” He cracked one eye open. “Is that the one that makes the hair smell like flowers?”

“No,” you snorted, rinsing the suds from his hair. “That’s whatever garbage you keep in your gym bag. This actually makes it soft.”

He let you work in the second product, his hands resting easy on your hips, a faint smile tugging at his mouth. “You like taking care of me, huh?”

You rolled your eyes. “I’m just making sure my boyfriend doesn’t look like he bathes in motor oil.”

“Mmh. My live-in girlfriend, soon,” he added, smug.

You flicked water in his face, but your grin gave you away.

By the time you finished, he smelled faintly of you and felt annoyingly pleased with himself, leaning in to murmur, “Guess you’re stuck being my personal hair specialist now.”

---

The ringtone cut through the half-light, low and tinny against the hum of the AC.

Sukuna cracked one eye, the edges of his vision still fogged from sleep, and fumbled for the phone.

Choso’s name glowed across the screen.

“Yeah?”

“Just calling before you fly out. Where you leaving the keys?”

Sukuna rubbed a hand over his face, feeling the grit of too little sleep. He glanced at the bike parked by the window—still wrapped, still spotless, like it was posing for him. “Garage. On the hook next to the fuse box.”

“You sure no one’s—”

“Yeah, yeah,” Sukuna cut in, already swinging his legs over the edge of the bed. “It’s locked. I’ll send you the code if I change my mind.”

Choso lingered a beat. “You see her before you go?”

“No. Dropped her off last night.” He left it there, not in the mood to unpack whatever tone Choso thought he heard. “I gotta get ready. Flight’s in a couple hours.”

They hung up.

For a moment, Sukuna just sat there, thumb hovering over his recent calls. No missed ones from her. She’d said she was going to “pee” and call him back—like it was important enough to specify—and then nothing.

She probably fell asleep. She’d looked tired last night.

He hit her name once, let it ring until it cut to voicemail.

That was enough.

If she wanted to talk, she’d call.

The bathroom tiles were cold under his feet as he shaved, water running hot enough to fog the mirror. He tried not to think about how long it had been since she’d cooked for him.

Not because she couldn’t—hell, she used to—but because he’d made it impossible. Never home. Never hungry at the right time. Never giving her the chance.

And now, standing there with the razor in his hand, he felt it: that small, needling thing under the ribs. The bike in the other room wasn’t cheap. She’d done that for him—no strings, no whining about the cost—and he was about to disappear for God knows how long again without even seeing her in daylight.

He cleaned the razor under the running faucet, jaw tightening.

Two years without her in front of him, and the one night they had, he’d snapped at her for… what? Touching him first? Acting like she still wanted him?

He pulled on his hoodie, checked the time—8:12 AM. He’d leave for the airport at nine. Enough to grab coffee, maybe eat.

But the nagging stayed.

It wasn’t guilt exactly. Just the vague sense of something left undone.

He tried to blame her—because it was easier. She didn’t call as much now. Didn’t push. Let the space stay open instead of filling it. And in his head, that meant she’d already checked out. That he wasn’t the only one pulling back.

Still… the bike sat there. Brand new. Waiting for him to ride it. And for the first time in a long time, he wondered what the hell she’d been doing while he was asleep.

His bag was already zipped, passport wedged between his wallet and the edge of his phone case. He glanced at the time again—8:28 AM—and booked a cab without thinking about it.

By the time the driver rolled up, the bike was still sitting there in the same spot, its chrome red catching the strip of light between the curtains.

He locked the house and handed the rottweilers over to the retired K9 unit woman next door. As he patted their heads, he recalled when Choso and Yuji had already left while he was about to; she’d asked to take care of them, only for Sukuna to deny her.

He knew his dogs well enough to know she couldn’t handle four naturally aggressive animals—what if they attacked her? She lived alone. But he kept that part to himself, remembering the sadness in her eyes.

Sliding into the backseat of the cab, he rattled off “the airport” and leaned his head against the glass.

Two years.

It always sounded shorter in his head than it looked written down. Two years wasn’t so long when you were used to measuring everything in nautical miles and cargo schedules.

But it should have been long enough for her to find someone else. Someone who didn’t spend half their life floating over deep water, coming home with salt in their skin and not much else to show for it.

And maybe that was the point. Maybe it was easier if she did.

He’d thought about ending it before—more than once.

Not because he didn’t like her.

He did. Hell, he liked her too much sometimes.

But liking her didn’t make it fair.

Not when every plan was set to the clock of his departures, when she couldn’t even cook him dinner without counting how many nights she’d get to do it before the next ship took him.

How long was she supposed to wait?

The driver asked something about the route, and Sukuna nodded without hearing it.

It wasn’t like he’d be coming back any different. She was still young. She could get married, have a kid if she wanted. None of that fit into his plans, though. He had taken on the responsibility of paying off Choso and Yuji’s student debts to give them a real chance at something. That meant many more sea trips ahead.

He was halfway to the expressway before the thought landed heavy enough to make him shift forward.

“Make a quick stop at—” He caught himself, jaw tight, then said her street name.

The man glanced at him in the mirror, one brow lifted in the universal cabbie "why now?" expression. Sukuna didn’t bother answering.

He just sat back, watching the city peel open in streaks of gray and pale blue, wondering what the hell he’d even say when he got there.

Goodbye, maybe. Or nothing at all.

Just enough to see her face one more time before the tide pulled him out again.

The cab rattled over a crack in the road, and Sukuna’s phone screen dimmed in his hand.

He’d already mapped out the next two hours in his head—airport lounge, one last coffee, maybe a call to Yuji if the signal held. The sort of practical pre-departure autopilot he lived in these days.

But the thought landed anyway, slow and heavy.

He hadn’t said goodbye. Not properly. Not face-to-face.

Not that she’d be expecting him. Not after last night. Not after the four years before it.

He stared outside the window. Shop shutters clanging open. A stray dog limping across the curb. His mind kept circling the same question—what the hell would he even say when he got there?

When the cab slowed into her street, he told the driver, “Wait here. Give me five minutes.”

The man sucked his teeth. “Meter’s running. Be fast.”

Sukuna didn’t answer—just pushed the door open and stepped into the morning air.

The building was across the road, paint new, balconies stacked like teeth. He started toward it, shoving his hands into his jacket pockets, already rehearsing something vague. Had sometime to see you. You still have that spare key? Take care of yourself.

Nothing that could be mistaken for what it wasn’t.

He was halfway across the asphalt when motion caught his eye near the front steps.

Her.

Hair mussed by the wind, head tipped back mid-laugh.

And next to her—some tall bastard he’d never seen before, hands holding her waist. His voice carried just enough for Sukuna to catch the tail end:

“…Come I’ll drop you off at work. And I’ll arrange movers to pick up your stuff this weekend.”

She nodded like this was already settled. Then reached up, curled her fingers in the man’s hair, and kissed him.

Not a quick brush. Not a polite hello.

The kind of kiss you gave someone you’d been leaning toward for a long time.

It landed in Sukuna’s chest like a misfired round—no heat, just a dull, ringing shock.

He kept walking anyway, boots eating the distance until they were only a few feet away.

She didn’t see him first—the other guy did.

Broad-shouldered, smug in that I’ve-got-what-you-don’t way men got when they knew they were the one you had to meet now.

“Who the fuck’s this?” Sukuna asked, eyes burning.

Her head snapped toward him then. Eyes widening. “…Sukuna.”

The name left her lips flat, not soft. Not the way it used to.

He didn’t look at her yet—just let his gaze rake over the man in front of him. No recognition, no matching name to face. Which meant this wasn’t one of his brothers’ friends or anyone from their circles.

He tipped his chin toward her. “You moving out?”

She didn’t answer right away, so the man did. “Yeah. With me.”

Sukuna’s mouth curved, but it wasn’t a smile. “Good for you. Guess she’s got her next ride lined up.”

That earned him a quick flash of teeth from the guy—more irritation than fear. “You got something to say, say it.”

He finally looked at her then, eyes narrowing. “You ever tell him you had someone waiting? Or did you skip that part?”

She crossed her arms. “There was nothing to wait for. You made sure of that. And he knows; he’s always known.”

It should’ve hit. Instead, he rolled a shoulder like it was just weather. “I never cheated on you. Never gave you shit I couldn’t follow through on. I took care of you when I could—and this is how you pay it back? By playing house with some guy who—”

“—some guy who gives a fuck about me,” she cut him off.

The man rested a hand on her lower back like he was keeping her steady. Or keeping her from stepping closer.

Sukuna’s jaw ticked once. “Careful. People who move in fast usually move out the same way. You think she’ll treat you differently? That she won’t get bored? Ask yourself how many times she’s had to keep herself entertained while you weren’t around.”

“Funny,” the man said before she could speak, “I don’t seem to have that problem.”

It was almost casual, but there was steel under it.

Sukuna’s mouth flattened. “You think you’re immune because you’ve got the honeymoon glow? Give it a year. She’ll find someone to call when you’re not picking up.”

Her voice cut in hard then. “Enough.”

For a second, they just stood there—the three of them in a messy triangle on the pavement, morning traffic edging past like nothing was happening.

Finally, Sukuna exhaled through his nose, turning the look on her one more time. “You could’ve just told me you were done.”

“You could’ve just noticed.”

“Pick up the bike from my place and give my house’s spare keys to the neighbor.”

“You never even gave me any fucking keys, Sukuna!” she snapped, voice cutting across the street hard enough to make people slow down and stare. “And if you try to make me take that bike back, I’ll burn it in Yuji’s fucking room while he sleeps. You love him above everything, don’t you?”

Sukuna knew exactly what she was doing. It was always extremes with her—throwing lit matches just to see if anything would burn. Years of neglect had rewired her that way; she’d say anything, push anywhere, if it meant pulling a reaction out of him. And right now, the reaction she wanted was simple: make him keep the damn bike.

But what only Gojo knew was that she was trying to get him to remember her after she was gone, even if it was just by that bike.

Sukuna’s chest tightened, and the words came out louder than he meant. “Are you even fucking listening to yourself? This is why you’re fucking impossible. This is why when I think about a future with you, I wanna crush my fucking skull.”

The other man—Gojo, Sukuna would later learn—shifted forward like he was ready to step in.

But she didn’t let him, as she took another step toward Sukuna instead, eyes glassy, voice breaking under the burn of tears and nothing but pure venom. “You feel like rabies.”

The line hit harder than he’d thought it could.

He stepped back, glancing toward the cab idling at the curb.

Then he crossed the street without looking back, though every part of him wanted to turn once, just to see if she was still watching.

But he could hear her sobs… and someone else comforting her.

---

The offer came in a basement club that stank of beer mats and burnt wiring.

Sukuna had been leaning on the mic stand drunkenly rapping something on the ship in his off hours, shirt damp from the heat, voice still hoarse from yelling over the cheap speakers.

A man in a suit—too clean for the place—pressed a card into his hand and said, “You ever think about doing this for real?”

Sukuna smirked, flicked ash at the floor, and pretended not to care. But the card burned in his pocket all the way to his quarters.

The first tracks weren’t even his own.

The label tossed him a couple of half-finished beats and told him to “make them mean something.”

He did. Every hook spat acid; every verse came back to the same refrain—women as vipers, women as betrayers. The crowds ate it up.

By the time the third single dropped, his voice was everywhere: in the taxis, on the shop radios, blaring from cracked phone speakers in back alleys. Men with too much beer in their guts and not enough spine in their backs sang along like it was scripture. They quoted him online, made clips, printed his lines on T-shirts.

He didn’t correct them when they called him a prophet.

The label liked the persona—The Man Who Knew Better.

They dressed him in black leather and platinum chains, lit him in red and white on stage like a warning sign. They told him to lean into it, so he did. Every show, he picked someone from the front row, looked her dead in the eyes, and delivered the nastiest verse like it was meant for her alone.

The money came fast. So did the women.

At first, it was a blur of green rooms and hotel keys slipped into his pocket, lipstick he didn’t bother learning the shade of. Then the nights got longer. A bottle before the set to “loosen up,” two after to “come down.” He told himself he could stop whenever he wanted.

He didn’t.

The hookers started after the first tour—safe, simple, no conversations that could trap him. They didn’t know the songs were about her, and he liked that. Liked that they didn’t flinch when he got too rough or too quiet.

But the quiet was the worst.

The quiet drunk sex was when her name crawled up his throat without permission. The first time, the girl laughed like he’d made a joke. The second, she looked at him too long. By the fifth, his manager was paying extra to make sure no one repeated it.

The label told him to take a break. He told them to fuck off.

The second album went platinum in two weeks. Every track was sharper, meaner. In interviews, he rolled his eyes when women journalists asked about “misogyny in the industry.” He said things like, “If the shoe fits,” and the male hosts laughed too hard.

On stage, he was untouchable. Offstage, he was rotting.

Hotel carpets blurred into one long stain. His phone filled with numbers he didn’t save, texts he didn’t answer. The minibar was always empty by morning.

His manager started shadowing him everywhere—through airports, into cars, even backstage—to make sure he didn’t disappear for days again. The label hired a PR fixer to mop up after him, spin his public image back toward “rebel genius” and away from “liability.”

The genius part was easy to sell. The rebel part was real.

There was always one more drink, one more hit, one more night where he swore he could stop and then didn’t.

In the mirrors of club bathrooms, his eyes started to look like someone else’s—too glassy, too mean. He avoided looking too long.

She never called. Never texted. Not once. Not even on his birthday.

But every so often, some girl at the bar would say she liked his “old stuff better,” and his chest would twist in that ugly, specific way. The way it had the day she kissed some stranger in front of him and called him rabies.

He told himself he didn’t care.

The tour buses got bigger. The hotels got nicer. The hangovers got worse.

Once, in a five-star suite, his manager found him passed out on the balcony in the snow, bare-chested, a bottle still frozen to his fingers. They didn’t mention it again.

He started skipping sound checks. Started showing up to the stage so high the lights felt like they were cutting his skin. The crowd didn’t notice—if anything, they screamed louder when he slurred.

Men still idolized him. Still called him the voice of their heartbreak, their rage, their “truth.” They didn’t see him dry-heaving in the green room or pouring neat rum into his coffee cup at ten in the morning.

Some nights, when the room was quiet and the drugs hadn’t hit yet, he’d think about her.

Not in the way you missed a person.

More like the way you missed the one place you could have been better if you’d been smart enough to try, or maybe if your life wasn’t shitty enough that you’d have the energy to.

But then the phone would buzz. Another show, another flight, another girl who didn’t know enough to see past the act.

And he’d go. Every time.

---

The first time he saw her again, he almost missed his cue.

House lights were still low, stagehands muttering in headsets, the bass thrumming under his boots, when she stepped into view on the upper deck walkway. Blue sundress, hair caught by the wind, a drink in one hand, the other resting on the rail beside—him.

Laughing at something she said, sunglasses even at dusk, leaning just close enough that the crowd below would think something out of a magazine spread. And the kids—two of them. One hanging off her hip, the other clutching the man’s hand, looking bored in the way only kids who know they’re loved can afford to.

Sukuna’s jaw locked. He looked away before her gaze could drift down to the stage.

He didn’t say her name into the mic. Didn’t even let the set list falter.

But for the first time in years, the lyrics tasted stale in his mouth.

He caught her alone the next night.

Or maybe not “caught”—more like spotted her slipping through one of the quieter corridors after the late buffet, without the man or the kids trailing behind.

He didn’t think about what he’d say. Just matched her pace until she noticed him.

“Didn’t expect to see you here,” he said, voice too casual.

She stopped. Not startled exactly, but there was a flicker—like she was calculating exits. “You’re performing here?”

“For a couple nights.” He leaned against the wall, arms folded. “Guess they wanted a sell-out crowd for once.”

She nodded once, eyes already scanning past him. “Well. Congrats.”

The small talk chafed. “So… those kids?”

Her mouth quirked—half smile, half warning. “One of them’s mine. The older one’s Gojo’s niece. He’s been raising her since her mom died and father remarried immediately.”

“Gojo.” He let the name hang. “That the guy you were with?”

“That the guy I’m with,” she corrected. No hesitation.

Something in his chest itched. “Guess you moved on fast.”

Her brows pulled together. “It’s been years, Sukuna.”

He shrugged, but the image of her laughing on that deck wouldn’t leave. “Could’ve fooled me.”

Silence stretched.

She shifted her weight like she was about to walk past, so he pushed—just enough to hook the conversation.

“What happened, anyway? You got tired of me being gone? Needed someone glued to your side?”

Her eyes went flat. “You really think that’s why?”

He gave a small laugh that didn’t feel right in his throat. “Yeah, I do. You always wanted to be the center of the room.”

“No,” she said, voice so even it made him pause. “I just wanted to be in the room.”

He didn’t know what to do with that. “I never lied to you.”

“You kept me on a shelf,” she said. “And pulled me down when you were bored.”

“That’s bullshit. It’s not my fault you couldn’t stand my brothers.”

“Why do you still think I was trying to break your family?” Her tone didn’t rise, didn’t meet his heat. That was worse. “You were gone two years at a time, Sukuna. I screamed myself hoarse for you to see me. And when you did show up, it was after you’d run out of other people to talk to.”

He felt his shoulders go rigid. “So what, you punish me by running off to some guy with a toddler?”

She laughed then—not sweet, not forgiving. “You think I’m punishing you? God knows how many women you’ve had in your bed since me, while I’m still with the same guy because he sees me, and I don’t take that for granted. You think I’d take you back?”

The laugh dug deeper than the words. “So you believe the shit they print about me now?”

“I believe what you were when I knew you.” She stepped sideways, brushing past his arm. “Which is worse.”

He caught her wrist before she could take more than a step. “You don’t get to walk away without—”

“Without what?” She cut in, and her voice sharpened just enough to freeze him mid-sentence. “Without giving you closure, you’ll never understand? Without repeating everything I begged you to hear when I was still stupid enough to think you cared?”

His grip loosened, but he didn’t let go. “You’re making me out to be the villain here. It wasn’t all my fault.”

“Maybe you are,” she said, and this time she pulled free. “But the point is, I don’t care anymore.”

The corridor felt narrower. He matched her pace again, something sour curling low in his gut. “You don’t just stop caring about someone you—”

“I did.”

Her hair swung as she turned another corner, and for a second he thought she might actually disappear into the crowd. The thought clawed at him.

“You really think he’s better than me?” He called after her.

She didn’t slow. “I know he is.”

That landed heavier than he wanted to admit.

He sped up again, slipping ahead to block her path. “You think he’ll stick around when it gets hard? You think he won’t find someone younger, prettier—”

Her hand was already on his shoulder, pushing past. “If he does, I won’t waste years trying to make him stay.”

He hated how calm she was. How little of him she seemed to carry now.

“Let me take you for a drink,” he said, softer. “Just to talk.”

She looked at him then—not the way she used to, not even with anger. Just… pity. “You can’t drink your way back to me, Sukuna.”

Before he could come up with something sharp enough to hit back, another voice cut in. “You lost?”

Gojo stepped up from behind her, one arm sliding around her waist like it belonged there. His eyes—too clear, too sharp—locked on Sukuna with that infuriating calm some men were born with.

She relaxed into him without thinking. That stung.

“Just catching up,” Sukuna said.

Gojo’s smile didn’t touch his eyes. “She’s all caught up.”

The unspoken “and you’re done here” rang louder than the bass line from the theater upstairs.

Sukuna’s jaw worked, but the words didn’t come. Not the right ones, anyway.

“Let’s get ice cream.” Gojo said to her, turning them both without another look, steering her down the hall toward the brighter, noisier decks. Her hand was on Gojo’s back, fingertips pressing lightly as they disappeared into the crowd.

Sukuna stood there a moment longer, feeling the ship’s slow sway under his feet.

When he finally headed back toward the performer’s quarters, the corridor felt even narrower than before.

A/N: I was originally gonna write Nanamin as the side piece while talking to my beautiful babygirl @mullermilkshake, then ya'll flooded the polls for Gohoe, so here we are. Also, I just realized I might have gotten the nickname for Sukuna "King Julian" from @vampshxde. My bad, pookie, I didn't realize it while writing.

If you’re here for feral dysfunction, pick a side in the comments: rabid ex or whipped upgrade—then tell me which line made you want to throw your phone.

Tag list: @getovibesonly

Dividers are my own.

Masterlist

Your smile got bigger, and he pretended not to notice how easily that worked on him. Eight years, and he still acted as if your face had caught him off guard.

The first year after Shibuya had been the worst. You had arrived on the day he should have died with no past anyone could verify, both hands full of cursed energy and panic, and somehow dragged him to Shoko before death could finish making its case. He survived, but the burns still took his eye. Then you stayed through bandages and fever. From the first time he saw his face, he turned the mirror to the wall. Through every meal, he claimed he could cook for himself and then left it untouched—he had called you a nuisance. You still brought him soup the next mornings.

Now you handed him a plate before he even thought to ask, loaded with rice balls, grilled chicken, and orange slices without the white threads because he hated them. “You remembered,” he muttered as if it still somehow caught him by surprise after eight years.

You gave him a look. “I lived in your apartment for a year to care for you, Kento. I picked up things.”

Across the blanket, Gojo gasped. “He let you live with him? Kento, you slut.”

Nanami turned away. “I’m sitting with Yaga.”

“Yaga’s asleep,” Gojo grinned at Nanami, chucking the man his car keys back.

Nanami caught the car keys, muttered something passive-aggressive, and stomped away to check his tent.

“So,” Shoko turned back to you, red in the face from canned beer. “When are you two going to stop making the rest of us pretend this is friendship?”

Your hand stopped over the salad bowl, and Gojo’s grin went feral with interest. “Oh, this is good.”

“Shoko.”

“What?” Shoko tipped her can toward Nanami, who had come back for something and then gone still behind you. “You saved his life, fed him for a year, planned his every birthday since, and know he gets weird about orange pith. At some point, paperwork should get involved.”

You looked over your shoulder. Nanami glanced back. And for a second, the river was louder than everyone.

Then you turned to the salad and said, “The potatoes are burning.” They were not.

After that the late lunch passed in silence while you both avoided eye contact until Gojo called to take a group picture. “Everyone in,” he grinned, holding his phone too high. “Birthday boy in the middle before he starts pretending he has emails.”

“I do have emails,” Nanami grumbled.

“Your internet is working?” Maki asked.

Nanami did not answer, which was an answer. Then he already started creeping toward the edge of the group when you noticed his hand go to the strap of his eyepatch. You saw it before anyone else did—the way his mouth thinned where the scar tissue pulled from the old, ugly habit of remembering his face existed.

“I’ll take it,” you said, reaching for Gojo’s phone.

Gojo looked offended. “I have the longest arms.”

“You’ll make everyone look short.”

Shoko rubbed Gojo’s pant leg comfortingly because she was drunk enough to show emotions in public.

You ignored Gojo and waved everyone closer. Yuta ducked behind Panda. Yuji shoved Nobara’s elbow out of his ribs. Inumaki held up two rice balls like peace signs. Shoko stayed seated with her beer and lifted two fingers without moving. And the rest awkwardly gathered around. While Nanami tried to stand behind you.

You looked over your shoulder. “Kento.”

He stopped.

“Come here.”

His mouth shifted, almost not at all, but you knew that almost. You had known it in hospital rooms, in pharmacy aisles, and in his bathroom when he turned the mirror to face the wall and told you he did not need help shaving. But you never told him to smile or that he looked fine, nor did you tilt his face toward the unscarred side or pretend the scarred side was not there.

Nanami was too proud a man for those things.

He stepped closer, looking at you, maybe in a warning or a plea not to make a thing of it. So you didn’t and took the phone, herded everyone into place, and, when Nanami tried to stand at the edge, said, “Kento, hold this.” And handed him the paper plate with the two skewers on it.

He frowned. “Why?”

“Because if Gojo holds it, he’ll eat them.”

“I’m not a big back,” Gojo said, already chewing.

Nanami took the plate because it gave his hands somewhere to be and confused him enough to get distracted from his body.

“Fine, fine,” Gojo said, lifting the phone higher. “Everyone act like you like each other.”

“I don’t act,” Maki declared.

“That’s why we cherish you, Kiki-chan.”

Maki’s hand immediately lunged to yank Gojo’s hair back.

You only stepped beside Nanami when the others crowded in, your shoulder brushing his arm as it had in hospital corridors, Jujutsu Tech halls, his kitchen at three in the morning, and every quiet place where he had tried to become awful so you’d leave him alone but failed because you kept coming back with groceries. “Ready?”

Nanami looked down at you, and for one second, his face shifted again—less alone, maybe. “Yes,” he answered. Then he turned his head at the last second because you chuckled when Shoko pinched Gojo’s cheeks—your eyes bright, one hand caught at Nanami’s sleeve, like you had done it without thinking.

The shutter clicked.

The picture happened in the middle of everyone laughing, talking, or yelling.

When you lowered the phone, Gojo took it back, glanced at the screen, and said, much softer than usual, “Oh.”

Nanami reached for the phone thinking Gojo was about to make fun of him. But then he saw the picture and realized he was not looking at the camera at all. Not even facing it.

He was looking at you.

The angle had hidden most of the eyepatch from view. His face was turned far enough that the scarred side fell into shadow, but that was the first thing his mind usually reached for, out of habit since Shibuya.

Then he followed his gaze in the picture and saw you.

You were smiling like the whole noisy riverside had narrowed to the space between your hand on his sleeve and his shoulder beside yours without any careful softness meant to spare him. Instead it was happiness, plain and unguarded—caught before either of you could hide it.

Nanami stared too long, and Gojo, for once, did not ruin it.

You too leaned closer, looking at the screen. “Oh.”

Nanami’s thumb squeezed against the edge of the phone.

“I look ridiculous,” you said, staring at something else.

“No,” he answered, too quickly.

You looked up at him.

His ears were faintly red. “You look…” He stopped. Everyone was still close enough to hear, and dignity was a habit even when it no longer saved him.

Gojo’s grin started spreading menicingly.

Nanami locked the phone and handed it back. “Send that to me.”

Gojo’s eyebrows climbed. “Yeah?”

“Yes.”

“Interesting.”

Shoko slapped his arm. “Satoru.” And Nanami thought she would be the voice of reason, but he’d forgotten the woman was drunk. “Let him do the Fushiguro thing in peace.”

Megumi looked up from where Yuji was showing him the backup photo his phone had taken from where it was propped against the cooler. “What thing?”

Gojo’s grin changed targets with speed. “Oh, you don’t know?”

Nanami had never been happier for Gojo’s lack of attention span.

Yuji zoomed in the picture on his phone before Megumi. And low and behold, in the corner of the photo, Megumi was looking at Yuji.

It wasn’t near him or past him but directly at him, with a small smile he clearly had no memory of making.

Nobara leaned over Yuji’s shoulder and made a noise of pure disgusted delight. “Oh, that’s embarrassing.”

“It was an accident,” Megumi snapped, snatching the phone away.

“You do this in every picture,” Panda laughed.

“I do not.”

Inumaki, already scrolling, turned his own phone around to show an old photo from their trip to Osaka.

Megumi lunged for it too, but Gojo caught the back of his shirt without even looking.

Yuji smiled traitorously. “You stare at me?”

“I was checking your surroundings.”

“By staring at my sleeping face in a locked train compartment?”

Megumi went red to the ears and tried to get Inumaki again. “Give me the phone.”

Gojo, delighted, lifted it out of reach.

Yuji leaned into Megumi’s shoulder, warm and shameless. “That’s cute.”

Megumi flicked the back of his head. “It’s not.”

Yuji rubbed the back of his own head but continued to grin dumbly.

Megumi covered Yuji’s face with one hand. “I’m going to kill all of you.”

“I’m sending it,” Gojo said to Nanami, still grinning, but he did not say anything else about the way Nanami had looked at you.

Your phone buzzed first. Then Nanami’s.

---

After dinner and the cake—which had been cut badly by Gojo while he was trying to get the biggest piece for himself and fixed by Maki’s blade—was eaten, everyone spread out. Nobara and Maki vanished into the woods with one lantern and two blankets. Shoko drank by the fire, her feet in Gojo’s lap while he massaged them and argued with her about the terms of their bet. Ijichi snored in a chair. Panda and Yaga were talking over roasted marshmallows. Inumaki and Yuta were catching fish in the dark with too much confidence. Far down the river, Yuji walked with Megumi, their shoulders bumping.

“Sensei’s sitting alone again,” Yuji said, nodding toward you by the water.

Megumi followed his gaze. “Nanami-san will go.”

“You think?”

“He has been watching her for twenty minutes.”

Yuji grinned. “They’re so married for people who say, ‘we’re just friends.’”

Megumi shoved his hands in his pockets. “He looks at her a lot.”

“She knows how he takes his coffee and practically everything he likes and dislikes.”

“He keeps pain medicine in his office for her cramps. Asked me to fetch it last time.”

“You know she bought him that ugly beige camping mug.”

Megumi’s mouth twitched, but he didn’t look at Yuji when his arm slid around his waist casually. “He says it was a practical gift.”

Yuji laughed and leaned into Megumi’s side. “The man is down bad in business casual.”

“You would know,” Megumi mildly smirked.

Yuji’s grin widened. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing.”

“You’re holding my waist while saying that, so it’s not nothing.”

Megumi looked away toward the river, where the lantern light caught the scars cutting across his own face: one near his left temple and eye, the other paler on the opposite side, half-lost when he ducked his head. “You were walking too close to the water.”

Yuji looked delighted by this.

Megumi’s hand tightened once at his side before Yuji could start testing him. “Shut up.”

Farther downriver, Yuta lifted the lantern higher while Inumaki crouched near the bank, one sleeve pinned and empty where his other arm used to be. The light caught the stitches across Yuta’s forehead when he bent too close, watching Inumaki’s face again instead of the water.

“Salmon,” Inumaki warned without looking up.

Yuta straightened immediately. “Right. Sorry.”

Inumaki glanced back at him, eyes soft above his collar, then pointed at the river like Yuta had been the one scaring the tiny fish away.

Yuji followed Megumi’s gaze and smiled softer this time. “Everyone’s kind of obvious tonight.”

Megumi huffed a small laugh. “You’re one to talk.”

“Huh?”

“You were staring at me in the picture too.”

“I can admit that…" Yuji’s grin went soft around the scar cutting through his lip. “Maybe I like looking at you.”

Megumi looked away first, jaw working like he wanted to argue and couldn’t find anything worth saying. The distant lantern light caught the scars near his left temple and eye before he leaned in closer, his hand moving lower on Yuji’s waist. “Shut up,” he muttered, eyes dropping to Yuji’s mouth as he dragged him closer. “Come here.”

Yuji’s hands fisted in Megumi’s hoodie as he glanced back toward camp. “What if someone sees?”

“We’re not fifteen anymore,” Megumi whispered near his ear, moving Yuji’s face back toward him with a careful hand. “And everybody here has seen far worse things than grown adults kissing.”

Yuji laughed under his breath, his breath warm against Megumi’s mouth. “That’s true.”

Megumi pushed him back against the nearest tree to get them out of the path where the firelight could reach. His hand slipped under the hem of Yuji’s hoodie and settled burning at his waist.

Yuji stayed still for half a breath.

Megumi felt it because he’d trained himself to trace the tiny delay before Yuji remembered where he was. The way his body sometimes braced for bad things before his mind caught up, like some old part of him was still waiting for another voice in his head.

Megumi’s thumb tapped into his skin.

Yuji continued to stare at nothing.

Megumi rubbed his skin again, gentler, and Yuji’s shoulders loosened. “Sorry,” he murmured.

“Don’t be.”

Yuji looked at him.

“Don’t apologize for that,” Megumi said, with his eyes dropping briefly to the scar through Yuji’s lip before returning to his face. “Just stay here.”

Yuji’s smile came back. “Bossy.”

“Yeah.” His hand stayed where it was, and for a second, Megumi thought about the stupid unfairness of it. Nanami could give someone things and call it practical. Gojo could make a public nuisance of himself with Shoko and somehow still have the world bend around it. But what Megumi wanted with Yuji, something with same surnames, still had to be phrased around loopholes, paperwork, and whichever court felt generous enough to recognize it.

He would still ask anyway.

Just not tonight. Tonight was someone else's.

But Megumi would ask soon. And Yuji would make some awful noise when he realized. Might laugh first, then cry after, then ask, ‘Are you sure?’ Like Fushiguro Megumi hadn’t built his whole life around being sure of very few things, and selfishly choosing Itadori Yuji every day wasn’t always going to be top of them.

Megumi hooked his thumb in Yuji’s belt loop, keeping him close. “Besides,” he said, lower now, eyes dropping to Yuji’s mouth, “it’s easier to appreciate you in the dark.”

Yuji’s smile got warmer. “Oh.”

“Yeah,” Megumi muttered, having difficulty taking his eyes off Yuji’s lips. “Oh.”

Yuji’s gaze flicked once toward the firelight, then back to him. “You gonna use your technique, bro?”

“Don’t—” Megumi’s ears went red, but he knew to suppress his reaction because he knew that Yuji said dumb things when flustered or nervous or excited—pretty much all the time. “Don’t make it sound weird.”

“You’re the one who said it.”

“I meant so no one sees you panic every time someone walks past.”

Yuji’s smile softened at the edges.

“And yeah,” Megumi’s other thumb brushed against Yuji’s lips and his scar, and he added, quieter. “Only if you want.”

Yuji stared at his mouth and at the broader line of Megumi’s shoulders, where he crowded him against the tree without actually pinning him there. “Yeah,” it came easily, his breath catching around the word. “I—ah—want you to.”

The shadow at Megumi’s feet started to gather around them, darkening the space between the tree and the river until the campfire disappeared into a dark blur through the leaves.

Yuji let out a small, nervous laugh. “That’s kind of hot.”

Megumi closed his eyes and kissed him before Yuji could make the moment difficult by being sweet.

Yuji wrapped both arms around him because Yuji had never learned how to accept small things from Megumi without giving his whole body back.

---

Back by the river, you sat with your feet near the water, your lantern beside you. The paper plate on your lap held a slice of cake you had barely touched.

Nanami stopped beside you. “May I sit?”

“It’s your day.” You smiled up at him.

“I was told I’m allowed very little free will today.”

“That’s because you were trying to ditch your own birthday party.” You moved your plate, and he sat on the grass with a careful breath. His knee clicked. You reached into the bag beside you to hand him the small cushion you had packed.

He stared at it.

“For your knee,” you told him. “Take it before I throw it at you.”

He took it, and for a while, you both just watched the river pull silver lines around the stones.

“I heard Shoko,” he murmured.

“I figured.”

“I should have answered.”

You picked at the cake with your fork. “You don’t owe people an answer about me.”

“I owe you one.”

Your hand stilled for half a second before going back to picking at the cake.

Nanami looked down at his plate, keeping his scarred side half out of the lantern light.

“I wanted to spend today alone. That was the plan. A quiet mountain cabin. Sandwich from a shop. A book I would barely read.”

You nodded.

“Then you sent a list of food. A map. A reminder about sunscreen. Then seven messages about whether I could still eat spicy sauce.”

“You can’t.”

“I can. It just comes with regret.” His mouth curved a little.

Then he sighed. “I was annoyed. Then I looked forward to it all week.”

Your throat worked around a small laugh that came out thin. “You’re bad at gratitude.”

“I’m worse at friendship, apparently.”

You finally looked at him. He met your eyes, and this time he didn’t look away first. “You were there when I was hard to be near. Then I made it harder. I knew you would come back, so I let myself be careless with your feelings.”

Your fork dug into the cake because you didn’t know what to say to that. Some small part of you tried to make sense of it before you could hope. Pity, obligation, eight years of habit, his loneliness finding the nearest person who already knew where the medicine was kept.

Then Nanami reached into his jacket, pulled out a small box wrapped in brown paper and tied with kitchen string, and handed it to you. “I bought this months ago,” he whispered. “Just kept waiting for a dignified moment.”

You opened it.

A key sat inside, along with a tiny wooden tag carved with your name.

Your breath caught and you looked up at him. “Is this because you feel responsible for me?”

His answer came too fast to be polite. “No.”

Then he lowered his voice. “I would like you to come home.” His voice roughened at the edges. “As mine. In whatever order you can accept. Girlfriend first, if that is easier. Partner. Wife, someday, if you can forgive the delay. If you still want that after we learn how to stop pretending.”

Your palm pressed to your mouth.

He looked alarmed. “Was that too much?”

You laughed into your palm. “Kento, you gave me a house key as a birthday gift on your birthday.”

“It seemed practical.”

“You are so stupid.”

“Yes,” he smiled, softer now. “I am aware.”

You leaned over and kissed the scarred side of his mouth before he could brace for it, his skin warm against your lips.

Behind you, from across the camp, Gojo screamed, “PAY UP, SHOKO!”

You smiled against him.

He sighed, warm and beaten. “I should have invited you to the mountains.” His hand closed over yours, and he kept the key pressed between both your palms.

Gojo’s voice carried across the camp again, loud enough to make bats startle somewhere in the trees. “SHOKO, YOU CAN’T CHANGE THE TERMS AFTER THE KISS. MY SIX EYES CONFIRMED IT.”

“I can do whatever I want,” Shoko called back, flat and drunk. “Your first choice is dead.”

The camp went still for half a second.

Then Gojo shouted, “Take that back.”

“I meant I’m the only doctor you idiots have.”

“WE HAVE MY GOOD STUDENT YUTA NOW.”

Yuta immediately grabbed Inumaki’s sleeve and started dragging him farther downriver.

“I did surgery on him. And you. I’m superior.”

“YAGA, SHE’S BULLYING ME AGAIN.”

Nanami closed his eye. “Ignore them.”

You laughed softly, and the sound made his hand tighten around yours. You were still too close to him, leaving small pecks against the scarred side of his lips. The little wooden tag pressed into your palm, your name carved into it like a promise. “Kento.”

“Yes?” He hummed.

“I’d like to come home with you.”

He went still.

You looked down at your joined hands because saying it while looking at his face would have made your voice crack. “Not tonight. I mean, obviously, but I mean properly. I want to move in. I want to start dating. I want…”

Nanami’s face changed slowly, like watching the door open after standing outside with his hand raised for years. “Girlfriend first,” he added, quieter.

You nodded.

“Partner when you are ready.”

You looked up at him. “I’m not the only one who has to be ready.”

He lowered his gaze, thumb moving over your knuckles, careful around the key. “I have been ready in undignified ways for some time.”

Your smile broadened. “That might be the most romantic thing you’ve ever said to me.”

He gave you half a smile. “Hope it’s not the last. I intend to do better.”

“You’d better.”

He looked toward the river because smiling at you too openly still cost him.

You remembered his face before Shibuya only in fragments now: old photographs, mission reports.

This was the face you knew better. “I do need time,” you admitted. “For the move, I mean. I have things at my apartment, clothes, books, souvenirs, the kettle you said was a fire hazard.”

“It was a fire hazard.”

You smiled down at the key. “I’ll bring the kettle last.”

“I will dispose of it humanely.”

You slapped his arm lightly. “You will not.”

“I will hire someone.” He sounded like he was going to get someone from the dark web.

“Kento.”

His mouth curved, small so that nobody across the camp would have noticed. You did because you had always noticed him in the margins.

He glanced down at your plate. “You did not eat your cake.”

“I got proposed to by a man who doesn’t know if he asked me to be his girlfriend or his wife. I don’t care about the cake right now.”

His expression sharpened with immediate concern. “Do you want something else?”

“No. I’m teasing you.”

“I still need an answer.”

You loved him for that. In his dry insistence, he could be given a kiss, a key accepted, and a future placed in his hand and still worry about your blood sugar before his own feelings. “I’m okay,” you answered. “Just tired.”

That, he believed. Then he stood with effort, offered you his hand, and you let him pull you up. His knee bothered him. You knew the exact stiffness in his jaw that meant it had started to ache.

“You should go back. Before Gojo remembers he has lungs and yells again.”

“He never forgets.”

“No. He simply uses them irresponsibly.”

He walked you back through the camp slowly. The fire had sunk low. Shoko was laughing at something Gojo was saying too close to her ear, her cheeks flushed from beer, one hand resting on the back of his neck as if she’d put it there to keep him from running off into the dark. Yaga and Ijichi had already retreated to their tents on the far end of the site. Panda lay outside his father’s tent with one paw over his face, asleep under the stars with a plushy like a log and snoring as one.

You saw Nanami notice all of it.

Nobara and Maki had not come back. Neither had Megumi and Yuji. Inumaki and Yuta were still missing somewhere downriver with the lantern and the knife, which you chose not to examine too closely.

At your tent, Nanami stopped. The zipper was halfway open. Inside, your blanket had been kicked into a pile, your overnight bag still unlatched, clothes spilling out because Nobara had insisted she could style you for glamping and then abandoned the project the second Maki called her name.

“I’ll see you in the morning,” Nanami told you.

“You’re not going to make sure I’m zipped inside so a bear won't attack me at night?”

“There are no bears here.”

“You looked up bears before coming here?”

“I know you would have.”

“Touché,” you said, stepping into the tent. “Good night, boyfriend.”

The word sank in him for the first time.

He stood there for half a second longer than necessary, his expression caught inside something softer. Then he bowed his head once, because Nanami Kento had no available defense against being called yours except good manners.

“Good night,” he repeated, lower this time. Then he walked back to his tent with red ears.

You waited until his silhouette disappeared past the fire before you looked at the key again.

You did not sleep but lay on your back under the thin blanket, phone held above your face, the key box sitting on your stomach because you just couldn't put it away tonight.

Outside, the river moved, leaves shifted, someone’s tent zipper caught, and bamboo wind chimes knocked softly near the picnic shelter.

You opened your messages.

You: I should probably ask what your move-in requirements are before I accidentally bring the fire-hazard kettle.

His reply came so fast that your chest warmed.

Kento: The kettle is not entering my home.

You: Is it not mine?

There was a pause long enough for you to worry you had made it too much too fast, even though it had been eight years.

Then his typing bubble appeared.

Kento: Our home. The kettle is still not entering it.

You covered your mouth with your hand.

You: Cruel landlord.

Kento: Boyfriend. Possibly partner. Future husband, if I do not lose the position over fire safety.

You stared at the message until the letters blurred at the edges.

Outside, Gojo laughed somewhere, quieter than usual. Shoko told him to shut up in a voice that had no real conviction behind it.

You: You’re very confident about future husband.

Kento: I have been accused of waiting too long. I am correcting the record.

You: By proposing an entire life on your birthday.

Kento: It seemed practical. I deserved a gift, and you deserved something permanent for planning this day and everything before it.

You: I’m going to bite you.

Kento: That is not a logistical concern.

The squeal you made into your blanket was embarrassing and muffled. You rolled onto your side, holding the phone close to your face.

You: I keep thinking I’ll wake up and you’ll decide this was fever brain.

Kento: I am not feverish.

You: The key is beautiful, and my name carved into it looks good.

Kento: I had a professional do that. (It was Megumi.)

You realized he didn't want anyone to spoil it.

You: That makes it sweet, actually.

Kento: I am aware.

The next message came after a long moment of his typing bubble appearing and disappearing and reappearing.

Kento: I wanted you to have something that could not be mistaken.

Your throat tightened. All the noise outside seemed to move further away. Even the river sounded softer from inside the tent.

You: Kento.

Kento: You have had very little permanence since you came here.

You stopped breathing for a second.

Kento: No family records or household. No one to call if something went wrong who belonged to you before this world took you in. You have made a life anyway. I know that. I am proud of that. But I wanted you to have a door that opened because your name belonged there.

You pressed the phone to your chest and stared at the dark fabric of the tent roof.

Untethered.

You hated that word. It made drifting sound graceful.

Gojo and Ijichi had made you legal enough for payroll, rent, hospital forms, and mission reports, but none of it reached backward. There were still blank spaces where parents should have gone. No childhood address. No family name that meant anything here. No one who could say what you were like before this world took you in.

You had caught yourself envying the students for ugly things: clan fights, dead relatives, living relatives, inheritance arguments, grief with names attached. At least someone had known them before.

Jujutsu Tech gave you a file. Shoko gave you headache medicine before you asked. Gojo bought things you never requested and called it community support. The others made room for you without making speeches.

And Kento.

Kento with the second phone charger he pretended came in a pack of two. Kento whose apartment had become the only place your body slept properly. And now he was saying your name belonged on the door.

You typed and deleted six different replies.

You: I don’t know how to say what that means to me without sounding pathetic.

Kento: You have listened to me say “girlfriend first, partner, wife someday” beside a river. I no longer have grounds to judge anyone’s process.

You laughed, but it broke halfway into a few tears.

You: I didn’t think I’d get to be someone’s family officially here. I know that sounds stupid because people choose each other all the time, but I didn’t think it would happen to me. Especially not with someone who knows I drink coffee like it counts as water.

Kento: It does not.

You: I’m being vulnerable. You can be nice.

Kento: You are. I am keeping you grounded.

You: By attacking my coffee?

Kento: By reminding you that I know it.

You blinked hard, looking for the right emoji to express your distaste.

Kento: When you first appeared, I was suspicious of you.

You: Romantic.

Kento: You had no file, no verifiable history, and enough cursed energy to drag a half-dead man out of Mahito’s grasp. Suspicion seemed reasonable.

You: Still romantic.

Kento: I was also afraid you would disappear the same way you arrived.

You did not know what to say to that.

Kento: I expected someone to explain you eventually as a curse, technique, or a temporary consequence of some larger cruelty. I thought if I became too accustomed to you, the world would correct itself and take you back.

Your fingers hovered above the keyboard.

Kento: Then you stayed. Argued with my pharmacist, replaced the mirror I turned to the wall with one too small for me to avoid entirely. You even left soup at my door after I called you a nuisance. You became domestic before I was ready for you to be irreplaceable.

The tent blurred. You wiped at your face with the heel of your hand and nearly dropped the phone.

You: You can’t say things like this over text.

Kento: I can say them outside your tent if you would prefer.

Your whole body went warm.

You: Oh lord no.

Kento: Understood.

You: I mean yes? Or no. I mean I’m wearing an old shirt and crying.

Kento: I have seen worse.

You: You are so bad at this.

Kento: Noted. I will improve.

You smiled into the dark. Then his next message came.

Kento: If things become too dangerous again, I need you to understand something.

You sat up.

Kento: I will not let Jujutsu society decide what happens to you. I have given enough of my life to institutions that eat people and call it duty. If the choice is between staying and keeping you safe, I will take you and leave.

You reread that message, a mix of emotions swirling inside you and choking in your throat.

You: You mean that?

Kento: Yes.

You: But you love your work.

Kento: I love being able to help where I can. That is not the same thing.

You: And if I say I don’t want you giving everything up for me?

Kento: Then we will discuss it like adults. And I will still keep the car maintained.

It was just so like him, devotion inside an emergency plan.

You were still staring at the message when another sound came from outside.

At first, Nanami ignored it.

In his own tent, sitting upright with his back against a rolled sleeping bag because lying down had proved useless, he heard canvas shift from the direction of Gojo’s tent and assumed the man was awake.

Which was not unusual. Satoru rarely slept like other people. Three hours, sometimes less, then he would wander the halls of the school or appear in kitchens, bright-eyed and awake past reason, eating someone else’s food and pretending insomnia was a lifestyle choice.

Nanami typed another message, thumb moving carefully.

Kento: For clarity, I am not planning to take your choice away. I am saying you have one with me now. If something like Shibuya happens. If we need to leave, we leave together.

The shuffling continued. A soft thump. A rustle. Then something like a hand catching against tent fabric.

Nanami paused. Then resumed typing because whatever Gojo Satoru did at night was between him, God, and the nearest vending machine.

Kento: I should have told you earlier. Years ago.

A muffled laugh came from the other tent.

Shoko’s.

Nanami’s typing slowed. Another rustle followed, lower this time, rhythmic enough that his mind and his technique, traitorous and precise, started assembling possibilities he did not want.

No. Absolutely not.

Satoru would not.

Nanami stared at the wall of his tent.

Then a muffled sentence came through canvas and night air, Satoru’s voice far too pleased with itself to be mistaken for sleep talking.

Nanami closed his eye. And for several seconds, he sat very still.

Satoru wouldn't do that. Wouldn't traumatize his students like that, would he?

And there were students nearby.

Former students, yes. Grown adults now, all of them old enough to drink, vote, kill curses, and make bad decisions in forests. But still. They had been children once. Children Satoru had bequeathed and taught. Children Nanami had, against his will and better judgment, worried about.

Except Nobara and Maki had disappeared into the trees hours ago. Megumi and Yuji had walked off in opposite direction around the same time—even their cursed energies weren't within a detectable radius now. Inumaki and Yuta had not returned from whatever fishing ritual required one knife and an alarming amount of staring contest. Panda slept like a boulder on the other side of camp. Yaga slept like a dead man with a pension. Ijichi slept like a person who had spent fifteen years being emotionally waterboarded by Gojo Satoru and could sleep through artillery if it meant nobody needed him.

So Satoru was traumatizing no one he cared about except Nanami.

Oh, but wait… Ijichi.

Nanami’s eye opened. That was it, wasn't it?

Satoru had pointed out, years ago to Kento, the way Ijichi hovered around Shoko with the doomed attentiveness of a man bringing coffee to a woman miles out of his league. Had mocked him for it, interfered with it, sabotaged it, and once bought him a book on “assertive romantic communication” that Ijichi had accepted with both hands and visible despair. The book contained the worst possible advice, such as shaving your head made you more aerodynamic for dates.

That was not poor judgment.

It was Satoru declaring territory.

Nanami put on his headphones. Then his gaze dropped to his phone.

You were in the tent near his—awake, emotional, and his to care for. And you could probably hear this. His thumb moved before he had fully decided.

Kento: Pack your bag.

Your reply came quickly.

You: what

Kento: Quietly. Ten minutes. Meet me just outside the campsite entrance.

You: Kento what happened

He glanced toward the canvas wall as another sound reached him.

Kento: Satoru.

A momentary pause.

You: oh my god

Kento: Yes.

You: shoko?????

Kento: Unfortunately.

You: is everyone else asleep

Kento: Gone, asleep, or morally unreachable.

You: what does morally unreachable mean?

Kento: Panda.

You: Kento I can’t just flee a campsite because Gojo and Shoko are having sex

Kento: I can. Pack.

You were outside in eight minutes after having packed so quickly that even your bag was zipped wrong and your hair had come loose around your face.

Nanami was already waiting near the entrance sign with his overnight bag in one hand. His hair was mussed from where he had dragged his fingers through it, and his eyepatch strap sat a little crooked. He looked you over once, checking that you had your shoes, your bag, yourself, then said, “My car is nearby. There is a hotel ten minutes from here. We will return in the morning.”

You followed him to the car. He opened the passenger door for you, and you hid a smile because he had always done that, even before tonight, even when he could still pretend it was only manners. Now the same small gesture felt claimed. He shut the door once you were inside, walked around to the driver’s side, and started the engine.

Neither of you spoke for the first few minutes of the drive. The road out of the campsite was narrow and dark, trees pressing close on either side. Nanami drove with one hand on the wheel, his profile lit by the dashboard glow. The eyepatch hid one side of him. The scars caught in uneven lines. You watched his hand shift, steady on the gear, and remembered the way it had held yours around the key. Halfway to the hotel, his expression changed.

“What?” you asked.

He looked horrified. “Have you been drinking?”

You stared. “What?”

“At the camp. Shoko was giving everyone beer. Gojo had that terrible sweet alcohol. You were emotional. I should have asked before taking you anywhere.”

“I had half a canned peach thing four hours ago.”

His jaw tightened. “That is not an answer.”

“It was barely alcohol.”

“That is also not an answer.”

“Kento, I am not drunk.”

“You were crying.”

“Forgive a girl for being emotional after pining after a guy for eight years then suddenly being pulled out of the friend zone.”

He opened his mouth. “That was not—" Then he realized better and closed it. His grip eased slightly on the wheel, and he tried again. “That was not intended to impair judgment.”

“Well, it did.”

“Then I shouldn’t have sent the texts.”

“I didn’t say that.” You leaned your head against the window, smiling despite the ache in your chest. “I’m sober. Just feeling happy because you accidentally became my whole life and then asked me that we could stop pretending.”

He swallowed. The car stayed very quiet after that.

At the hotel, Nanami carried both bags, and you let him because arguing with him in the lobby would have turned him into stone.

The receptionist looked at the two of you—your rumpled clothes, his serious face, the bags, the hour—and made a decision behind her polite smile.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “We only have one room available.”

Part 2 [NSWF] - This week

Masterlist | Prequel

Taglist: @maplewood-valley @moruteloli

Your smile got bigger, and he pretended not to notice how easily that worked on him. Eight years, and he still acted as if your face had caught him off guard.

The first year after Shibuya had been the worst. You had arrived on the day he should have died with no past anyone could verify, both hands full of cursed energy and panic, and somehow dragged him to Shoko before death could finish making its case. He survived, but the burns still took his eye. Then you stayed through bandages and fever. From the first time he saw his face, he turned the mirror to the wall. Through every meal, he claimed he could cook for himself and then left it untouched—he had called you a nuisance. You still brought him soup the next mornings.

Now you handed him a plate before he even thought to ask, loaded with rice balls, grilled chicken, and orange slices without the white threads because he hated them. “You remembered,” he muttered as if it still somehow caught him by surprise after eight years.

You gave him a look. “I lived in your apartment for a year to care for you, Kento. I picked up things.”

Across the blanket, Gojo gasped. “He let you live with him? Kento, you slut.”

Nanami turned away. “I’m sitting with Yaga.”

“Yaga’s asleep,” Gojo grinned at Nanami, chucking the man his car keys back.

Nanami caught the car keys, muttered something passive-aggressive, and stomped away to check his tent.

“So,” Shoko turned back to you, red in the face from canned beer. “When are you two going to stop making the rest of us pretend this is friendship?”

Your hand stopped over the salad bowl, and Gojo’s grin went feral with interest. “Oh, this is good.”

“Shoko.”

“What?” Shoko tipped her can toward Nanami, who had come back for something and then gone still behind you. “You saved his life, fed him for a year, planned his every birthday since, and know he gets weird about orange pith. At some point, paperwork should get involved.”

You looked over your shoulder. Nanami glanced back. And for a second, the river was louder than everyone.

Then you turned to the salad and said, “The potatoes are burning.” They were not.

After that the late lunch passed in silence while you both avoided eye contact until Gojo called to take a group picture. “Everyone in,” he grinned, holding his phone too high. “Birthday boy in the middle before he starts pretending he has emails.”

“I do have emails,” Nanami grumbled.

“Your internet is working?” Maki asked.

Nanami did not answer, which was an answer. Then he already started creeping toward the edge of the group when you noticed his hand go to the strap of his eyepatch. You saw it before anyone else did—the way his mouth thinned where the scar tissue pulled from the old, ugly habit of remembering his face existed.

“I’ll take it,” you said, reaching for Gojo’s phone.

Gojo looked offended. “I have the longest arms.”

“You’ll make everyone look short.”

Shoko rubbed Gojo’s pant leg comfortingly because she was drunk enough to show emotions in public.

You ignored Gojo and waved everyone closer. Yuta ducked behind Panda. Yuji shoved Nobara’s elbow out of his ribs. Inumaki held up two rice balls like peace signs. Shoko stayed seated with her beer and lifted two fingers without moving. And the rest awkwardly gathered around. While Nanami tried to stand behind you.

You looked over your shoulder. “Kento.”

He stopped.

“Come here.”

His mouth shifted, almost not at all, but you knew that almost. You had known it in hospital rooms, in pharmacy aisles, and in his bathroom when he turned the mirror to face the wall and told you he did not need help shaving. But you never told him to smile or that he looked fine, nor did you tilt his face toward the unscarred side or pretend the scarred side was not there.

Nanami was too proud a man for those things.

He stepped closer, looking at you, maybe in a warning or a plea not to make a thing of it. So you didn’t and took the phone, herded everyone into place, and, when Nanami tried to stand at the edge, said, “Kento, hold this.” And handed him the paper plate with the two skewers on it.

He frowned. “Why?”

“Because if Gojo holds it, he’ll eat them.”

“I’m not a big back,” Gojo said, already chewing.

Nanami took the plate because it gave his hands somewhere to be and confused him enough to get distracted from his body.

“Fine, fine,” Gojo said, lifting the phone higher. “Everyone act like you like each other.”

“I don’t act,” Maki declared.

“That’s why we cherish you, Kiki-chan.”

Maki’s hand immediately lunged to yank Gojo’s hair back.

You only stepped beside Nanami when the others crowded in, your shoulder brushing his arm as it had in hospital corridors, Jujutsu Tech halls, his kitchen at three in the morning, and every quiet place where he had tried to become awful so you’d leave him alone but failed because you kept coming back with groceries. “Ready?”

Nanami looked down at you, and for one second, his face shifted again—less alone, maybe. “Yes,” he answered. Then he turned his head at the last second because you chuckled when Shoko pinched Gojo’s cheeks—your eyes bright, one hand caught at Nanami’s sleeve, like you had done it without thinking.

The shutter clicked.

The picture happened in the middle of everyone laughing, talking, or yelling.

When you lowered the phone, Gojo took it back, glanced at the screen, and said, much softer than usual, “Oh.”

Nanami reached for the phone thinking Gojo was about to make fun of him. But then he saw the picture and realized he was not looking at the camera at all. Not even facing it.

He was looking at you.

The angle had hidden most of the eyepatch from view. His face was turned far enough that the scarred side fell into shadow, but that was the first thing his mind usually reached for, out of habit since Shibuya.

Then he followed his gaze in the picture and saw you.

You were smiling like the whole noisy riverside had narrowed to the space between your hand on his sleeve and his shoulder beside yours without any careful softness meant to spare him. Instead it was happiness, plain and unguarded—caught before either of you could hide it.

Nanami stared too long, and Gojo, for once, did not ruin it.

You too leaned closer, looking at the screen. “Oh.”

Nanami’s thumb squeezed against the edge of the phone.

“I look ridiculous,” you said, staring at something else.

“No,” he answered, too quickly.

You looked up at him.

His ears were faintly red. “You look…” He stopped. Everyone was still close enough to hear, and dignity was a habit even when it no longer saved him.

Gojo’s grin started spreading menicingly.

Nanami locked the phone and handed it back. “Send that to me.”

Gojo’s eyebrows climbed. “Yeah?”

“Yes.”

“Interesting.”

Shoko slapped his arm. “Satoru.” And Nanami thought she would be the voice of reason, but he’d forgotten the woman was drunk. “Let him do the Fushiguro thing in peace.”

Megumi looked up from where Yuji was showing him the backup photo his phone had taken from where it was propped against the cooler. “What thing?”

Gojo’s grin changed targets with speed. “Oh, you don’t know?”

Nanami had never been happier for Gojo’s lack of attention span.

Yuji zoomed in the picture on his phone before Megumi. And low and behold, in the corner of the photo, Megumi was looking at Yuji.

It wasn’t near him or past him but directly at him, with a small smile he clearly had no memory of making.

Nobara leaned over Yuji’s shoulder and made a noise of pure disgusted delight. “Oh, that’s embarrassing.”

“It was an accident,” Megumi snapped, snatching the phone away.

“You do this in every picture,” Panda laughed.

“I do not.”

Inumaki, already scrolling, turned his own phone around to show an old photo from their trip to Osaka.

Megumi lunged for it too, but Gojo caught the back of his shirt without even looking.

Yuji smiled traitorously. “You stare at me?”

“I was checking your surroundings.”

“By staring at my sleeping face in a locked train compartment?”

Megumi went red to the ears and tried to get Inumaki again. “Give me the phone.”

Gojo, delighted, lifted it out of reach.

Yuji leaned into Megumi’s shoulder, warm and shameless. “That’s cute.”

Megumi flicked the back of his head. “It’s not.”

Yuji rubbed the back of his own head but continued to grin dumbly.

Megumi covered Yuji’s face with one hand. “I’m going to kill all of you.”

“I’m sending it,” Gojo said to Nanami, still grinning, but he did not say anything else about the way Nanami had looked at you.

Your phone buzzed first. Then Nanami’s.

---

After dinner and the cake—which had been cut badly by Gojo while he was trying to get the biggest piece for himself and fixed by Maki’s blade—was eaten, everyone spread out. Nobara and Maki vanished into the woods with one lantern and two blankets. Shoko drank by the fire, her feet in Gojo’s lap while he massaged them and argued with her about the terms of their bet. Ijichi snored in a chair. Panda and Yaga were talking over roasted marshmallows. Inumaki and Yuta were catching fish in the dark with too much confidence. Far down the river, Yuji walked with Megumi, their shoulders bumping.

“Sensei’s sitting alone again,” Yuji said, nodding toward you by the water.

Megumi followed his gaze. “Nanami-san will go.”

“You think?”

“He has been watching her for twenty minutes.”

Yuji grinned. “They’re so married for people who say, ‘we’re just friends.’”

Megumi shoved his hands in his pockets. “He looks at her a lot.”

“She knows how he takes his coffee and practically everything he likes and dislikes.”

“He keeps pain medicine in his office for her cramps. Asked me to fetch it last time.”

“You know she bought him that ugly beige camping mug.”

Megumi’s mouth twitched, but he didn’t look at Yuji when his arm slid around his waist casually. “He says it was a practical gift.”

Yuji laughed and leaned into Megumi’s side. “The man is down bad in business casual.”

“You would know,” Megumi mildly smirked.

Yuji’s grin widened. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing.”

“You’re holding my waist while saying that, so it’s not nothing.”

Megumi looked away toward the river, where the lantern light caught the scars cutting across his own face: one near his left temple and eye, the other paler on the opposite side, half-lost when he ducked his head. “You were walking too close to the water.”

Yuji looked delighted by this.

Megumi’s hand tightened once at his side before Yuji could start testing him. “Shut up.”

Farther downriver, Yuta lifted the lantern higher while Inumaki crouched near the bank, one sleeve pinned and empty where his other arm used to be. The light caught the stitches across Yuta’s forehead when he bent too close, watching Inumaki’s face again instead of the water.

“Salmon,” Inumaki warned without looking up.

Yuta straightened immediately. “Right. Sorry.”

Inumaki glanced back at him, eyes soft above his collar, then pointed at the river like Yuta had been the one scaring the tiny fish away.

Yuji followed Megumi’s gaze and smiled softer this time. “Everyone’s kind of obvious tonight.”

Megumi huffed a small laugh. “You’re one to talk.”

“Huh?”

“You were staring at me in the picture too.”

“I can admit that…" Yuji’s grin went soft around the scar cutting through his lip. “Maybe I like looking at you.”

Megumi looked away first, jaw working like he wanted to argue and couldn’t find anything worth saying. The distant lantern light caught the scars near his left temple and eye before he leaned in closer, his hand moving lower on Yuji’s waist. “Shut up,” he muttered, eyes dropping to Yuji’s mouth as he dragged him closer. “Come here.”

Yuji’s hands fisted in Megumi’s hoodie as he glanced back toward camp. “What if someone sees?”

“We’re not fifteen anymore,” Megumi whispered near his ear, moving Yuji’s face back toward him with a careful hand. “And everybody here has seen far worse things than grown adults kissing.”

Yuji laughed under his breath, his breath warm against Megumi’s mouth. “That’s true.”

Megumi pushed him back against the nearest tree to get them out of the path where the firelight could reach. His hand slipped under the hem of Yuji’s hoodie and settled burning at his waist.

Yuji stayed still for half a breath.

Megumi felt it because he’d trained himself to trace the tiny delay before Yuji remembered where he was. The way his body sometimes braced for bad things before his mind caught up, like some old part of him was still waiting for another voice in his head.

Megumi’s thumb tapped into his skin.

Yuji continued to stare at nothing.

Megumi rubbed his skin again, gentler, and Yuji’s shoulders loosened. “Sorry,” he murmured.

“Don’t be.”

Yuji looked at him.

“Don’t apologize for that,” Megumi said, with his eyes dropping briefly to the scar through Yuji’s lip before returning to his face. “Just stay here.”

Yuji’s smile came back. “Bossy.”

“Yeah.” His hand stayed where it was, and for a second, Megumi thought about the stupid unfairness of it. Nanami could give someone things and call it practical. Gojo could make a public nuisance of himself with Shoko and somehow still have the world bend around it. But what Megumi wanted with Yuji, something with same surnames, still had to be phrased around loopholes, paperwork, and whichever court felt generous enough to recognize it.

He would still ask anyway.

Just not tonight. Tonight was someone else's.

But Megumi would ask soon. And Yuji would make some awful noise when he realized. Might laugh first, then cry after, then ask, ‘Are you sure?’ Like Fushiguro Megumi hadn’t built his whole life around being sure of very few things, and selfishly choosing Itadori Yuji every day wasn’t always going to be top of them.

Megumi hooked his thumb in Yuji’s belt loop, keeping him close. “Besides,” he said, lower now, eyes dropping to Yuji’s mouth, “it’s easier to appreciate you in the dark.”

Yuji’s smile got warmer. “Oh.”

“Yeah,” Megumi muttered, having difficulty taking his eyes off Yuji’s lips. “Oh.”

Yuji’s gaze flicked once toward the firelight, then back to him. “You gonna use your technique, bro?”

“Don’t—” Megumi’s ears went red, but he knew to suppress his reaction because he knew that Yuji said dumb things when flustered or nervous or excited—pretty much all the time. “Don’t make it sound weird.”

“You’re the one who said it.”

“I meant so no one sees you panic every time someone walks past.”

Yuji’s smile softened at the edges.

“And yeah,” Megumi’s other thumb brushed against Yuji’s lips and his scar, and he added, quieter. “Only if you want.”

Yuji stared at his mouth and at the broader line of Megumi’s shoulders, where he crowded him against the tree without actually pinning him there. “Yeah,” it came easily, his breath catching around the word. “I—ah—want you to.”

The shadow at Megumi’s feet started to gather around them, darkening the space between the tree and the river until the campfire disappeared into a dark blur through the leaves.

Yuji let out a small, nervous laugh. “That’s kind of hot.”

Megumi closed his eyes and kissed him before Yuji could make the moment difficult by being sweet.

Yuji wrapped both arms around him because Yuji had never learned how to accept small things from Megumi without giving his whole body back.

---

Back by the river, you sat with your feet near the water, your lantern beside you. The paper plate on your lap held a slice of cake you had barely touched.

Nanami stopped beside you. “May I sit?”

“It’s your day.” You smiled up at him.

“I was told I’m allowed very little free will today.”

“That’s because you were trying to ditch your own birthday party.” You moved your plate, and he sat on the grass with a careful breath. His knee clicked. You reached into the bag beside you to hand him the small cushion you had packed.

He stared at it.

“For your knee,” you told him. “Take it before I throw it at you.”

He took it, and for a while, you both just watched the river pull silver lines around the stones.

“I heard Shoko,” he murmured.

“I figured.”

“I should have answered.”

You picked at the cake with your fork. “You don’t owe people an answer about me.”

“I owe you one.”

Your hand stilled for half a second before going back to picking at the cake.

Nanami looked down at his plate, keeping his scarred side half out of the lantern light.

“I wanted to spend today alone. That was the plan. A quiet mountain cabin. Sandwich from a shop. A book I would barely read.”

You nodded.

“Then you sent a list of food. A map. A reminder about sunscreen. Then seven messages about whether I could still eat spicy sauce.”

“You can’t.”

“I can. It just comes with regret.” His mouth curved a little.

Then he sighed. “I was annoyed. Then I looked forward to it all week.”

Your throat worked around a small laugh that came out thin. “You’re bad at gratitude.”

“I’m worse at friendship, apparently.”

You finally looked at him. He met your eyes, and this time he didn’t look away first. “You were there when I was hard to be near. Then I made it harder. I knew you would come back, so I let myself be careless with your feelings.”

Your fork dug into the cake because you didn’t know what to say to that. Some small part of you tried to make sense of it before you could hope. Pity, obligation, eight years of habit, his loneliness finding the nearest person who already knew where the medicine was kept.

Then Nanami reached into his jacket, pulled out a small box wrapped in brown paper and tied with kitchen string, and handed it to you. “I bought this months ago,” he whispered. “Just kept waiting for a dignified moment.”

You opened it.

A key sat inside, along with a tiny wooden tag carved with your name.

Your breath caught and you looked up at him. “Is this because you feel responsible for me?”

His answer came too fast to be polite. “No.”

Then he lowered his voice. “I would like you to come home.” His voice roughened at the edges. “As mine. In whatever order you can accept. Girlfriend first, if that is easier. Partner. Wife, someday, if you can forgive the delay. If you still want that after we learn how to stop pretending.”

Your palm pressed to your mouth.

He looked alarmed. “Was that too much?”

You laughed into your palm. “Kento, you gave me a house key as a birthday gift on your birthday.”

“It seemed practical.”

“You are so stupid.”

“Yes,” he smiled, softer now. “I am aware.”

You leaned over and kissed the scarred side of his mouth before he could brace for it, his skin warm against your lips.

Behind you, from across the camp, Gojo screamed, “PAY UP, SHOKO!”

You smiled against him.

He sighed, warm and beaten. “I should have invited you to the mountains.” His hand closed over yours, and he kept the key pressed between both your palms.

Gojo’s voice carried across the camp again, loud enough to make bats startle somewhere in the trees. “SHOKO, YOU CAN’T CHANGE THE TERMS AFTER THE KISS. MY SIX EYES CONFIRMED IT.”

“I can do whatever I want,” Shoko called back, flat and drunk. “Your first choice is dead.”

The camp went still for half a second.

Then Gojo shouted, “Take that back.”

“I meant I’m the only doctor you idiots have.”

“WE HAVE MY GOOD STUDENT YUTA NOW.”

Yuta immediately grabbed Inumaki’s sleeve and started dragging him farther downriver.

“I did surgery on him. And you. I’m superior.”

“YAGA, SHE’S BULLYING ME AGAIN.”

Nanami closed his eye. “Ignore them.”

You laughed softly, and the sound made his hand tighten around yours. You were still too close to him, leaving small pecks against the scarred side of his lips. The little wooden tag pressed into your palm, your name carved into it like a promise. “Kento.”

“Yes?” He hummed.

“I’d like to come home with you.”

He went still.

You looked down at your joined hands because saying it while looking at his face would have made your voice crack. “Not tonight. I mean, obviously, but I mean properly. I want to move in. I want to start dating. I want…”

Nanami’s face changed slowly, like watching the door open after standing outside with his hand raised for years. “Girlfriend first,” he added, quieter.

You nodded.

“Partner when you are ready.”

You looked up at him. “I’m not the only one who has to be ready.”

He lowered his gaze, thumb moving over your knuckles, careful around the key. “I have been ready in undignified ways for some time.”

Your smile broadened. “That might be the most romantic thing you’ve ever said to me.”

He gave you half a smile. “Hope it’s not the last. I intend to do better.”

“You’d better.”

He looked toward the river because smiling at you too openly still cost him.

You remembered his face before Shibuya only in fragments now: old photographs, mission reports.

This was the face you knew better. “I do need time,” you admitted. “For the move, I mean. I have things at my apartment, clothes, books, souvenirs, the kettle you said was a fire hazard.”

“It was a fire hazard.”

You smiled down at the key. “I’ll bring the kettle last.”

“I will dispose of it humanely.”

You slapped his arm lightly. “You will not.”

“I will hire someone.” He sounded like he was going to get someone from the dark web.

“Kento.”

His mouth curved, small so that nobody across the camp would have noticed. You did because you had always noticed him in the margins.

He glanced down at your plate. “You did not eat your cake.”

“I got proposed to by a man who doesn’t know if he asked me to be his girlfriend or his wife. I don’t care about the cake right now.”

His expression sharpened with immediate concern. “Do you want something else?”

“No. I’m teasing you.”

“I still need an answer.”

You loved him for that. In his dry insistence, he could be given a kiss, a key accepted, and a future placed in his hand and still worry about your blood sugar before his own feelings. “I’m okay,” you answered. “Just tired.”

That, he believed. Then he stood with effort, offered you his hand, and you let him pull you up. His knee bothered him. You knew the exact stiffness in his jaw that meant it had started to ache.

“You should go back. Before Gojo remembers he has lungs and yells again.”

“He never forgets.”

“No. He simply uses them irresponsibly.”

He walked you back through the camp slowly. The fire had sunk low. Shoko was laughing at something Gojo was saying too close to her ear, her cheeks flushed from beer, one hand resting on the back of his neck as if she’d put it there to keep him from running off into the dark. Yaga and Ijichi had already retreated to their tents on the far end of the site. Panda lay outside his father’s tent with one paw over his face, asleep under the stars with a plushy like a log and snoring as one.

You saw Nanami notice all of it.

Nobara and Maki had not come back. Neither had Megumi and Yuji. Inumaki and Yuta were still missing somewhere downriver with the lantern and the knife, which you chose not to examine too closely.

At your tent, Nanami stopped. The zipper was halfway open. Inside, your blanket had been kicked into a pile, your overnight bag still unlatched, clothes spilling out because Nobara had insisted she could style you for glamping and then abandoned the project the second Maki called her name.

“I’ll see you in the morning,” Nanami told you.

“You’re not going to make sure I’m zipped inside so a bear won't attack me at night?”

“There are no bears here.”

“You looked up bears before coming here?”

“I know you would have.”

“Touché,” you said, stepping into the tent. “Good night, boyfriend.”

The word sank in him for the first time.

He stood there for half a second longer than necessary, his expression caught inside something softer. Then he bowed his head once, because Nanami Kento had no available defense against being called yours except good manners.

“Good night,” he repeated, lower this time. Then he walked back to his tent with red ears.

You waited until his silhouette disappeared past the fire before you looked at the key again.

You did not sleep but lay on your back under the thin blanket, phone held above your face, the key box sitting on your stomach because you just couldn't put it away tonight.

Outside, the river moved, leaves shifted, someone’s tent zipper caught, and bamboo wind chimes knocked softly near the picnic shelter.

You opened your messages.

You: I should probably ask what your move-in requirements are before I accidentally bring the fire-hazard kettle.

His reply came so fast that your chest warmed.

Kento: The kettle is not entering my home.

You: Is it not mine?

There was a pause long enough for you to worry you had made it too much too fast, even though it had been eight years.

Then his typing bubble appeared.

Kento: Our home. The kettle is still not entering it.

You covered your mouth with your hand.

You: Cruel landlord.

Kento: Boyfriend. Possibly partner. Future husband, if I do not lose the position over fire safety.

You stared at the message until the letters blurred at the edges.

Outside, Gojo laughed somewhere, quieter than usual. Shoko told him to shut up in a voice that had no real conviction behind it.

You: You’re very confident about future husband.

Kento: I have been accused of waiting too long. I am correcting the record.

You: By proposing an entire life on your birthday.

Kento: It seemed practical. I deserved a gift, and you deserved something permanent for planning this day and everything before it.

You: I’m going to bite you.

Kento: That is not a logistical concern.

The squeal you made into your blanket was embarrassing and muffled. You rolled onto your side, holding the phone close to your face.

You: I keep thinking I’ll wake up and you’ll decide this was fever brain.

Kento: I am not feverish.

You: The key is beautiful, and my name carved into it looks good.

Kento: I had a professional do that. (It was Megumi.)

You realized he didn't want anyone to spoil it.

You: That makes it sweet, actually.

Kento: I am aware.

The next message came after a long moment of his typing bubble appearing and disappearing and reappearing.

Kento: I wanted you to have something that could not be mistaken.

Your throat tightened. All the noise outside seemed to move further away. Even the river sounded softer from inside the tent.

You: Kento.

Kento: You have had very little permanence since you came here.

You stopped breathing for a second.

Kento: No family records or household. No one to call if something went wrong who belonged to you before this world took you in. You have made a life anyway. I know that. I am proud of that. But I wanted you to have a door that opened because your name belonged there.

You pressed the phone to your chest and stared at the dark fabric of the tent roof.

Untethered.

You hated that word. It made drifting sound graceful.

Gojo and Ijichi had made you legal enough for payroll, rent, hospital forms, and mission reports, but none of it reached backward. There were still blank spaces where parents should have gone. No childhood address. No family name that meant anything here. No one who could say what you were like before this world took you in.

You had caught yourself envying the students for ugly things: clan fights, dead relatives, living relatives, inheritance arguments, grief with names attached. At least someone had known them before.

Jujutsu Tech gave you a file. Shoko gave you headache medicine before you asked. Gojo bought things you never requested and called it community support. The others made room for you without making speeches.

And Kento.

Kento with the second phone charger he pretended came in a pack of two. Kento whose apartment had become the only place your body slept properly. And now he was saying your name belonged on the door.

You typed and deleted six different replies.

You: I don’t know how to say what that means to me without sounding pathetic.

Kento: You have listened to me say “girlfriend first, partner, wife someday” beside a river. I no longer have grounds to judge anyone’s process.

You laughed, but it broke halfway into a few tears.

You: I didn’t think I’d get to be someone’s family officially here. I know that sounds stupid because people choose each other all the time, but I didn’t think it would happen to me. Especially not with someone who knows I drink coffee like it counts as water.

Kento: It does not.

You: I’m being vulnerable. You can be nice.

Kento: You are. I am keeping you grounded.

You: By attacking my coffee?

Kento: By reminding you that I know it.

You blinked hard, looking for the right emoji to express your distaste.

Kento: When you first appeared, I was suspicious of you.

You: Romantic.

Kento: You had no file, no verifiable history, and enough cursed energy to drag a half-dead man out of Mahito’s grasp. Suspicion seemed reasonable.

You: Still romantic.

Kento: I was also afraid you would disappear the same way you arrived.

You did not know what to say to that.

Kento: I expected someone to explain you eventually as a curse, technique, or a temporary consequence of some larger cruelty. I thought if I became too accustomed to you, the world would correct itself and take you back.

Your fingers hovered above the keyboard.

Kento: Then you stayed. Argued with my pharmacist, replaced the mirror I turned to the wall with one too small for me to avoid entirely. You even left soup at my door after I called you a nuisance. You became domestic before I was ready for you to be irreplaceable.

The tent blurred. You wiped at your face with the heel of your hand and nearly dropped the phone.

You: You can’t say things like this over text.

Kento: I can say them outside your tent if you would prefer.

Your whole body went warm.

You: Oh lord no.

Kento: Understood.

You: I mean yes? Or no. I mean I’m wearing an old shirt and crying.

Kento: I have seen worse.

You: You are so bad at this.

Kento: Noted. I will improve.

You smiled into the dark. Then his next message came.

Kento: If things become too dangerous again, I need you to understand something.

You sat up.

Kento: I will not let Jujutsu society decide what happens to you. I have given enough of my life to institutions that eat people and call it duty. If the choice is between staying and keeping you safe, I will take you and leave.

You reread that message, a mix of emotions swirling inside you and choking in your throat.

You: You mean that?

Kento: Yes.

You: But you love your work.

Kento: I love being able to help where I can. That is not the same thing.

You: And if I say I don’t want you giving everything up for me?

Kento: Then we will discuss it like adults. And I will still keep the car maintained.

It was just so like him, devotion inside an emergency plan.

You were still staring at the message when another sound came from outside.

At first, Nanami ignored it.

In his own tent, sitting upright with his back against a rolled sleeping bag because lying down had proved useless, he heard canvas shift from the direction of Gojo’s tent and assumed the man was awake.

Which was not unusual. Satoru rarely slept like other people. Three hours, sometimes less, then he would wander the halls of the school or appear in kitchens, bright-eyed and awake past reason, eating someone else’s food and pretending insomnia was a lifestyle choice.

Nanami typed another message, thumb moving carefully.

Kento: For clarity, I am not planning to take your choice away. I am saying you have one with me now. If something like Shibuya happens. If we need to leave, we leave together.

The shuffling continued. A soft thump. A rustle. Then something like a hand catching against tent fabric.

Nanami paused. Then resumed typing because whatever Gojo Satoru did at night was between him, God, and the nearest vending machine.

Kento: I should have told you earlier. Years ago.

A muffled laugh came from the other tent.

Shoko’s.

Nanami’s typing slowed. Another rustle followed, lower this time, rhythmic enough that his mind and his technique, traitorous and precise, started assembling possibilities he did not want.

No. Absolutely not.

Satoru would not.

Nanami stared at the wall of his tent.

Then a muffled sentence came through canvas and night air, Satoru’s voice far too pleased with itself to be mistaken for sleep talking.

Nanami closed his eye. And for several seconds, he sat very still.

Satoru wouldn't do that. Wouldn't traumatize his students like that, would he?

And there were students nearby.

Former students, yes. Grown adults now, all of them old enough to drink, vote, kill curses, and make bad decisions in forests. But still. They had been children once. Children Satoru had bequeathed and taught. Children Nanami had, against his will and better judgment, worried about.

Except Nobara and Maki had disappeared into the trees hours ago. Megumi and Yuji had walked off in opposite direction around the same time—even their cursed energies weren't within a detectable radius now. Inumaki and Yuta had not returned from whatever fishing ritual required one knife and an alarming amount of staring contest. Panda slept like a boulder on the other side of camp. Yaga slept like a dead man with a pension. Ijichi slept like a person who had spent fifteen years being emotionally waterboarded by Gojo Satoru and could sleep through artillery if it meant nobody needed him.

So Satoru was traumatizing no one he cared about except Nanami.

Oh, but wait… Ijichi.

Nanami’s eye opened. That was it, wasn't it?

Satoru had pointed out, years ago to Kento, the way Ijichi hovered around Shoko with the doomed attentiveness of a man bringing coffee to a woman miles out of his league. Had mocked him for it, interfered with it, sabotaged it, and once bought him a book on “assertive romantic communication” that Ijichi had accepted with both hands and visible despair. The book contained the worst possible advice, such as shaving your head made you more aerodynamic for dates.

That was not poor judgment.

It was Satoru declaring territory.

Nanami put on his headphones. Then his gaze dropped to his phone.

You were in the tent near his—awake, emotional, and his to care for. And you could probably hear this. His thumb moved before he had fully decided.

Kento: Pack your bag.

Your reply came quickly.

You: what

Kento: Quietly. Ten minutes. Meet me just outside the campsite entrance.

You: Kento what happened

He glanced toward the canvas wall as another sound reached him.

Kento: Satoru.

A momentary pause.

You: oh my god

Kento: Yes.

You: shoko?????

Kento: Unfortunately.

You: is everyone else asleep

Kento: Gone, asleep, or morally unreachable.

You: what does morally unreachable mean?

Kento: Panda.

You: Kento I can’t just flee a campsite because Gojo and Shoko are having sex

Kento: I can. Pack.

You were outside in eight minutes after having packed so quickly that even your bag was zipped wrong and your hair had come loose around your face.

Nanami was already waiting near the entrance sign with his overnight bag in one hand. His hair was mussed from where he had dragged his fingers through it, and his eyepatch strap sat a little crooked. He looked you over once, checking that you had your shoes, your bag, yourself, then said, “My car is nearby. There is a hotel ten minutes from here. We will return in the morning.”

You followed him to the car. He opened the passenger door for you, and you hid a smile because he had always done that, even before tonight, even when he could still pretend it was only manners. Now the same small gesture felt claimed. He shut the door once you were inside, walked around to the driver’s side, and started the engine.

Neither of you spoke for the first few minutes of the drive. The road out of the campsite was narrow and dark, trees pressing close on either side. Nanami drove with one hand on the wheel, his profile lit by the dashboard glow. The eyepatch hid one side of him. The scars caught in uneven lines. You watched his hand shift, steady on the gear, and remembered the way it had held yours around the key. Halfway to the hotel, his expression changed.

“What?” you asked.

He looked horrified. “Have you been drinking?”

You stared. “What?”

“At the camp. Shoko was giving everyone beer. Gojo had that terrible sweet alcohol. You were emotional. I should have asked before taking you anywhere.”

“I had half a canned peach thing four hours ago.”

His jaw tightened. “That is not an answer.”

“It was barely alcohol.”

“That is also not an answer.”

“Kento, I am not drunk.”

“You were crying.”

“Forgive a girl for being emotional after pining after a guy for eight years then suddenly being pulled out of the friend zone.”

He opened his mouth. “That was not—" Then he realized better and closed it. His grip eased slightly on the wheel, and he tried again. “That was not intended to impair judgment.”

“Well, it did.”

“Then I shouldn’t have sent the texts.”

“I didn’t say that.” You leaned your head against the window, smiling despite the ache in your chest. “I’m sober. Just feeling happy because you accidentally became my whole life and then asked me that we could stop pretending.”

He swallowed. The car stayed very quiet after that.

At the hotel, Nanami carried both bags, and you let him because arguing with him in the lobby would have turned him into stone.

The receptionist looked at the two of you—your rumpled clothes, his serious face, the bags, the hour—and made a decision behind her polite smile.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “We only have one room available.”

Part 2 [NSWF] - This week

Masterlist | Prequel

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