Steph

You're gonna die.

"Want me to grab the cold gel?" He teases, plump lips curling up, you almost ask him to spit on it, but you manage some sense.

"No, it's okay, I trust you," you shouldn't, not when he leans down and spits right on his fingers and watches his own spit move on puffy lips.

He can't do that he's a fucking doctor. How many pussies has he seen!? But the thrill of knowing it's on you had his cock throbbing underneath those purple scrubs, he covers it with his labcoat, watching the bubbles dissolve on your glistening cunt.

"How do you usually loosen up? Don't want to hurt you." You shut your eyes, spreading your thighs more for him.

"Like how do I..."

"You can feel comfortable with me, we need to find out what's making you cramp up too."

"I tense really bad before sex too, it doesn't feel the best."

"Oh..." Satoru eases a finger inside again, curving it up and watching you jerk. "When is the last time you had sex?"

"Like a year or two, I just use my rose - Oh my god!" You cover your face again, eyes rolling back when he crooks those fingers. "Mmh!"

"Don't be shy, masturbation is normal and healthy even. Orgasms are good for you," Dr. Gojo pulls his finger out to watch you drop down onto the thin paper you're laying on, exhaling against the sight. "Clitoral stimulation helps you?"

You nod, gasping when he slips a finger and finds it, the sounds of your wet cunt echoing in the room. "Yes, it does."

"Is it all right if I stimulate it to loosen you up? If not tell me."

You arch your hips, lashes fluttering, it takes a lot for Gojo not to yank off his gloves and fuck into you. "Yes um if you think it'll help?"

"It might," he runs a circle and watches that clit twitch against his thumb, more slick pouring from you. "You do respond well to it. Did your partners do this?"

"No they sucked," Satoru chuckles a bit, and the mood lightens, he acts perfectly professional while he's pressing on your clit, pleasure rushing through you. "That is relaxing."

"I want my patient comfortable," he murmurs, he shouldn't be allowed to look like that and sound like that. Your cunt is spasming when he slips his finger back in, the messy sounds so loud you bury your face. "It's a good thing, when your natural lubricant flows. It means your hormones are doing a good job."

"Oh," Satoru crooks his finger up, eyeing you under snowy lashes then, your breasts rising and falling, thighs trembling. "I do feel um... more... relaxed."

"That's good. You're doing such a good job for me," you're done for, his finger hitting that spot in slick walls, thumb still massaging your jumping clit. "Orgasms can help cramps too, even during your period."

"I can't um touch it during that," You're arching for more, thighs spread so wide, hands damn near ripping the paper underneath you, it tears just a bit and echoes in his impeccably clean office.

"That's understandable but your partner could," you laugh a little.

"None of them would have fucked me on my period - I mean!? Um, stimulated me."

"Some people are squeamish," he starts to ease two inside, you're trembling at the stretch. "It's natural, periods. And it's normal to get cramps, we just have to find a good way to help them."

"I see, ngh!" He pauses at your little moan, juices flowing down his fingers, tall body hunched just a bit over you. "Oh my god I'm so sorry."

"It’s too much for you, sweetheart? Two?"

You nod just a bit, and he sighs, pulling back his hand then.

"You're too tight, that could be why you don't find sex so enjoyable if you're not getting off first - I mean, having orgasms before intercourse."

"That could be um, I'll loosen up so you can do the exam," you hear his glove smack then.

"It may help if I don't wear a glove, are you okay with that? It may help your nerves."

Satoru needs to feel your gummy walls without a dumb fucking barrier. You're blinking at him, seeing him take one off, then the other.

"My hands are sterile," he tries to hide his feral grin, knowing he's fucking depraved for this, but his cock is just leaking too much. "I'll try and you tell me what you prefer."

"Yes, of course," Satoru's fingers brush down your slit into your hole, sinking in - slippery from you, buried to the knuckle suddenly. It feels so good you can't hold back your little whimper, hips bucking up. You feel every line and callous of his thick fingers, cunt gripping him like she's scared he'll leave. "Oh!"

Satoru's cock leaks at the sight of your pussy sucking his fingers in like that, the sight of it so greedy, stretched around his bare hand is too much. His fingers pull back and then insert again, and again, a messy squelch echoing in the room, gossamer swirls of your arousal coating his fingers.

Fuck he's going against every oath he took and looking for more to break.

Is eating out patients not a good method of exam? Surely your taste -

He can't do all that! He shouldn't even be fingering your messy cunt like this, pads of them curving up in that spot that makes you twitch and gush. Your cheeks are flush, eyes rolling back, hips just rolling when he runs a thumb over your clit once more.

"Eyes on me, sweetheart," you barely focus, stretched so full and stuffed more from him than you had been any man. Your lashes flutter at his command, he leans down just a bit as he works you. "There you go, you're loosening up for me. Does it feel good like this?"

Are you having a filthy daydream of the pretty blue eyed doctor, or is he talking you through an orgasm?

"I... um... y-yes," your whisper escapes your lips with a sigh, Doctor Gojo's expert fingers curling up with precision, feeling you spasm and tighten, slick and hot around his digits. You're pulsing already, making him have to palm himself to adjust, before darting his thumb back to your clit. "Mnh... Doctor Gojo, I..."

"Your muscles are responding so well," fuck is everything sexy from his mouth? You're trying not to cum, but failing spectacularly, a dripping wet mess soaking his bare hand, the sounds of his fingers and your needy cunt loud. "Your pussy- I mean, um!? Vagina/vulva ah it's very um... pretty - healthy!?"

Satoru Gojo's glasses fog up just a bit, sweat beading on his brow, he doesn't know what's come over him - but he knows he needs you to cum for him, and he's not stopping until you do. Do you squirt, do you drip, do you get creamy?

Fuck he must know - for scientific purposes, that's why he's a doctor, right? Love of science and medicine?

How many oaths would it break if he were to breed his patient?

"I'm... your fingers ngh they're thick and - I mean!? Thorough! They're so thorough," you're rolling your hips up for every filthy thrust, Satoru leans low and practically inhales you, you feel something wet slap your clit, his eyes feral and black then behind lenses. "F-fuck... I mean!?"

"S'okay, we're - hah - helping the cramps, r-right?" He's scissoring his long fucking fingers in and out of your now sloppy little cunt, your nails press into his forearms, just making him moan softly.

"Yes, helping them, mhm," your eyes roll back in your skull, nails digging in his pale skin and leaving cresenct marks, the sweet scent of your arousal filling his senses, overtaking the sterile alcohol in the room. God if he could bottle your pussy juice he would. "You're s-such an amazing um... d-doctor!"

"Thank you, I t-take my... career... so seriously," he's about to bust in his pants, damn near acting as if he's never seen a pussy before yours, but he's not ever been affected. You're pulsing and tightening down then, clamping his fingers and sucking them inside, teeth clenched. "Remember, eyes on me, sweetheart. For... medical reasons."

Your eyes focus on his, he crooks those fingers up one more time, a mess pouring as he does, and he watches his pretty patient cum on his fingers. You're so loud he has to pull up, slamming a big palm on your cute lips, muffling your desperate cries as he shoves them in fully, heel of his hand massaging your needy clit.

"Mmph!" You're blacking out nearly, hardly able to keep that eye contact, with the doctor whose glasses have slipped down the bridge of his nose, his lips spit slicked. You're gushing down his fingers, louder and louder as he eases them in and out slower, pushing you over the edge again.

"Fuck," he murmurs, cursing at his lack of professionality, leaning back to see just how you cum. "Creamy, fuck."

"H-huh?" Your voice is still muffled, he moans, looking and the milky ring formed at the bottom of his fingers, he almost sinks to his knees with you still in that fucking hospital gown, instead gently easing them out, watching your hole twitch as he spreads your lips.

"Your response to stimulation, it's scientific you see - creaming or squirting."

"Oh, it is?" He feels himself pressing hard against his boxers, leaking through and leaving a wet spot in his scrubs, blush furiously smattered on his cheeks. "Which is better?"

Anything you do.

"They're both healthy responses," he wants to suck his goddamn fingers so badly, but he has already crossed every fucking line known to man, so instead he hovers a moment, wanting to ask about you. who are you, are you single - it says yes on your chart sure, but still. What do you like? Do you play video games?

He's imagining a date right now - him, Doctor Gojo, a man who's all about his business can't stop getting flustered from your pretty little pussy that's leaking your cum still. He turns then, unsure of what to say, as your thighs tremble, your breath quickening.

You feel so embarrased! You're thinking he wanted you to cum, what if he was just... like helping? Examining? You've never even really been to a gyno before! You hastily put a sheet on, looking down nervously as he stands there, fingers still in your slick.

"I'm so sorry!"

"What!? Why? Did you um... enjoy the exam?" He asks, you nod shyly, he is so close to busting he has to do something. "I'll be right back with your uh... results, just hold on, okay?"

He rushes to the bathroom, leaning back and shutting the heavy door, sucking your juices off his fingers and moaning, using his other hand to free his aching cock. God it's hard, sticking to his boxers, he has to tug it free and slowly stroke it, moaning softly.

"Go ask her out," he whispers to himself, with every stroke of his hand, every glide around the thickness he almost stuffed inside you on that patient bed. He can't with himself, what is going on, he's never like this!?

God your taste.

"Maybe we could hah go to a movie?" He practices in the mirror, seeing his disheveled appearance, cock loud with every fwap as he jerks it quickly, trying to finish before he looks more suspicious. He whimpers your name and flutters his eyes shut, picturing your cunt grippin' his cock like a vice, moaning as he cums.

White spurts everywhere, all over his hands, all over the sink, he curses with a shaky breath, cleaning it frantically when he rushes back out, and you're all dressed, holding your purse. He falters, suddenly shy as you tuck your hair behind your ear, the taste of your cunt still coating his tongue.

"I ah... think your cramps could be a lot of tension," he manages to say softly. "And elevated hormones, just a bit too much estrogen, but not enough for concern."

"Thank you so much, um, what should I do for them?"

"Warm compress, a hot bath, ibuprofen," his dick, his mouth, his fingers, god use him. "All of that should help a long with..."

"Orgasms?"

"Y-yes, they can help," you rush off suddenly then, and Gojo curses, pacing back and forth in his office.

God why couldn't he ask you out!? After he sucked your cum off his fingers no less?

Suddenly, Satoru has quite an idea - his fucked out brain thinks so, at least. He sits at his little desk and pulls up his laptop, starting to type notes into your patient portal, smirking as he does. He's sure you're the type to check them, so he wonders if you'll get the code here.

***Patient comes in with an exceptionally tight set of muscles, and was having some trouble with cramping, as well as pain during sex. She was a good girl for me beautiful example of a patient, her responses were so good, she listened to all instructions from the doctor. Her cunt vagina was a pretty shape, color, and had a lovely taste consistency.***

Satoru grins, inserting his phone number throughout the message in little places, heart racing.

God he wonders if you like Digimon or Pokemon? He could handle either, if it meant being with you.

***The patient should come back for more visits to work on relaxing her stupidly tight vagina, she took well to treatment, she should cum come more often to make sure she's comfortable and resolves any cramps in the future. Patient should contact me with any questions are you free on friday? or concerns.***

He's sure you never saw the damn notes when a week goes by, when he gets a call, answering it in the middle of lunch. "Gojo speaking."

"Um... hi... it's..."

"Oh my god!? Hi!" He almost knocks his coffee over, so fucking excited he's grinning, he can't see your nervous blush on the other line, chewing your thumb and taking shaky breaths. "How are you?'

"I'm good, I am uh... maybe insane but, would you like to go out-"

"Yes."

You blink then. "Um, I didn't say where?"

"Anywhere." You giggle, and he throbs from that, sighing and shutting his eyes. "I'll take you anywhere."

"All right, Doctor Gojo I'll send you where to pick me up," you hang up shakily, and Gojo makes quite a loud shout that the entire office hears.

"Back to work, ahem." He says, stepping out, but he cannot keep the smile off his face.

Satoru Gojo has been down there for half an hour between your thighs, working your little hole and stretching it on his huge, thick fingers. He started slowly – with just one – and even that hit you so deep you were crying out, so deep just those almost hit your cervix. You’re spasming and drooling down his fingers, now he’s got two fingers slotted inside your slippery walls, curling them up.

He’s been stretching you and trying to work you so that he can fit inside, but every ten minutes when he presses his tip in again to test, it just doesn’t fit. He’s sweating, a little sheen of perspiration on his brow, lifting your thigh and resting it on his shoulder, thick pink tip just drooling white drips as he rubs it up and down your slit, trying tentatively again.

“Fuck,” he’s breathless, shaky on top of you, you’re soaked, your thighs trembling on either side of his narrow hips, he almost busts just getting into your tight ring of muscles, only to be blocked again. “Your pussy, she’s too fuckin’ small for it.”

“Me!? No, you’re too big for me!”

“I didn’t think I’d have this much trouble,” he mumbles, brows drawing together, you cry out and whine when he tries to press in, gripping him so tightly he has to pull it back out, watching your hole drool down, moaning in frustration. “Loosen up, pretty please?”

“Satoru, I am,” you’re exhaling, trying to relax your muscles, but every time he starts to stretch you out it burns, his cock is even thickening more. “Make it stop being so… it’s getting bigger!?”

“Well fuck you feel s’good,” he grumbles, flipping you on your knees now, you gasp as he presses your back down. “Let’s try this, I’ll make you cum again first.”

“It’ll never fit – ngh! S-Satoruuu!” He almost cums just hearing your muffled cries, pressing you down by your pretty face, hand entangled in the nape of your neck, fingers moving up and down, up and down, pressure building in your core.

“That’s it,” he feels her loosening again, your ass arching up, but he doesn’t try again yet, even as his cock is fucking aching, a sticky mess from dying to fill you and being unable to. He exhales, two fingers pressing up until you gush. “There you go, cum just f’me.”

“S-satoru,” your head falls to the side, his fingers slip to your clit and roll in little circles, moaning your name in your ear, tickling the sensitive skin as he blows little baby hairs around. “Mnh!”

“Let’s try this position, hmm?” You nod eagerly, and he’s able to at least get his tip in, the sound of a filthy suctioned pop echoing in Satoru’s room – as it pushes past your entrance.

Oh fuck…

Satoru is gonna cum.

He closes his eyes and tenses – how embarrassing!? He’s not inexperienced but the size difference from his cock to your tight cunt is too much, it’s grippin’ him too good, he tests it and pushes more though, and you tighten up again, gasping.

“Too much, too much!”

“I’m like not even two inches in,” he says, all breathy, pulling out and pushing in again, only fucking you with that pink tip and nothing else. “Fuck you’re doing too much, s-stop.”

“Me!?” You glare back at your boyfriend, pulling off and making him hiss, cock so sensitive. “Y-you’re too much!”

Satoru’s blue eyes flutter shut, a whimper escaping his mouth. “Stop trying to push him out, your pussy is mean.”

You giggle breathlessly, pushing him out again, gasping when you feel him pulse. “Mnh, I made it worse.”

“You did,” his hips jerk – pressing his cock experimentally inside your hole, moaning then. “You’re squeezin’ me too tight, my god.”

Satoru’s cheeks flush, resting his head as his huge, lanky body looms over yours, pulling you further back, hearing your little moan in his ears. He’s never felt something this good, the grip just begging for his cum, as if your cunt was milking him then and there.

“Stop trying to knock yourself up before I even get in,” he bites your shoulder and you giggle again, before crying out, feeling a half inch more in your walls. “I will not bust quick our first time.”

“It’ll never work though,” you’re moaning as he presses in again, deeper this time, stretching you open so much you feel like you’re split in half. “Oh god, you’re too deep, t-too much!”

Satoru looks down, leaning back – he’s got maybe two and a half inches in your puffy cunt. He sighs, gripping your ass cheeks, watching the slick mess run down his veiny length, dripping down balls so heavy that they’re tensing, tightening.

“Not even a quarter of me is in your cunt.”

“Seriously!?” He flips you over again, back on your back with your thighs up, slipping two fingers and spitting down on them, swirling the mess and making your cunt click with every little circle. “Mnh!”

“I’ll fit, I swear, no way I don’t get to feel her around me,” he murmurs, slipping a third finger impossibly, you tighten up, earning a smack with his free hand on your pussy. “Relax, sweetheart.”

“Can’t do three - ngh!” You’re spasming while he gently and easily inserts that third finger, holding your thighs up so you can’t clamp down. You’re gripping those rumpled sheets, body trembling, cunt making a mess. “Oh my god…”

“There you are,” he murmurs, praying that he can just get inside you, like a cruel joke to make you both so anatomically incompatible. “Look at us.”

He grips your chin, forcing you to look at his tip slipping in and out of your hole, teasing her with it then pulling back, a messy slippery trail falling out with the motion. He uses the pads of his thumbs to hold your swollen folds apart, eyeing the stretch. You suck in a breath, feeling the sting and tightening up as a cock too thick to even exist pushes inside you again.

“Breathe sweetheart,” he murmurs softly, feeling you relax around him and exhaling in relief as you do. Your hands slip up his chest, nails digging into his shoulders while his own fingers digging into your hips roughly, trying to keep himself together. “Eventually I’ll watch this tummy move with my cock.”

“Wha- ah!” You’re lost when Satoru pushes inward, you hear your own gasp, the slick squelch of your pussy as he moves, moaning and leaning back, watching another inch disappear impossibly.

His fingers slip down your trembling thigh, that thumb brushing your twitchy clit, already overstimulated, you’re tensing at the sensation, seeing the filthy sight of his cock pulsing, veins slick from you. You’re trying to tense at it – the thick invasion taking you over, not even half of Satoru – and you swear he’s breaking you.

"Shhh," he murmurs, circling slow, relentless pressure right where you needed it most. "Just focus on that, on your cute little clit."

You arch into his touch, the burn of your stretched cunt easing when you focus, eyes fluttering shut. You feel yourself getting wetter, that hot arousal tricking down him, thumb slipping off for a moment how wet you are. “Oh, mnh! Y-you’re so deep!”

“Yeah,” he’s half in, smirking now as he grips your thigh, glossy with your own messy slick. His cock throbs inside you when you grip him again, spasming this time. His lashes flutter shut, pulling out and still toying your clit. “Ah- ah, don’t tighten up, stop being a brat.”

“Brat?” You giggle, just making him pulse again, but you relax enough he can get a little more inside you, leaning over you now. You feel it – that fullness low in your belly, pressing against your gummy walls that are trying to suck him in. “Y-you’re distracting me…”

“Mhm,” he smirks, far too fucking attractive, pulling out almost completely with a filthy, messy sound, easing back in with his cock pressing easier, watching your tummy move and groaning, hands bruising on your hips. “And you said it wouldn’t work.”

You look down and blush furiously, watching the rise and fall as his cock fills you so full you can’t think, you see there’s still a few inches he can’t get in. Just that wrecks you, tip dragging against your spot. He loses it then, going fucking feral – his eyes are so bright with those shrunken pupils it’s hard to look into them. His lids get heavy, weight pressing over you, thigh shoved up.

“Feel s’fucking perfect,” he’s whispering, a hand cupping your face sinking deeper in your snug little hole. “Stretching her out, huh? Do you feel me?”

You can only nod, eyes rolling back for a moment as he drags that spot again, heavy swollen cockhead pressing until it’s against your cervix. “Ah!”

Satoru’s trying so hard not to slam his cock into you, bottom out and drag your ass to him – use you – but he knows you are just barely taking him in without those damn muscles pressing him right back out. He just can’t stop himself from it when he kisses you messy, when he spits in your open mouth and your tongue is out, thighs shaking.

He shoves them up and folds you in half, getting the best view of those puffy lips all glossy, your hole stretched beyond its means, groaning at the sight. “Look at your tiny cunt getting ruined by me.”

You see it, the moment Satoru gets pussy drunk, but you can’t focus when he slams his cock so deep it hurts, cock gliding in and out easier and easier with how messy you get. You’re gasping out, he’s just grinning, now those damn eyes are black, huge hands pressing your thighs until they smush against your breasts, weight pinning them down.

“Perfect, just look at her, she wants me to ruin her, wants my shape, only mine… fuck…”

“T-toru I… ah!” You can’t talk or form a thought when the sounds of skin smacking and your squelching, sloppy cunt fill the room – mixing with that ache in your core, body shaking as you take more and more. “Ngh!”

“Gonna fill you with s’much cum baby,” he’s chuckling, even buried deep, leaning over you, silky white hair falling over a brow. “That what you want, to drip me all day long?”

You gasp out at the filthy vision, a flush decorating your cheeks that makes him murmur – cute – fucking into you until he bottoms out, balls smacking your ass where the arousal is pooling. “Ah- ah- f-fuc- I… ngh, s’deep!” 

You’re too fucked out once that cock wrecks your insides, feeling him everywhere while folded into a mean mating press, your knees damn near on either side of your head, cunt sucking him so good. “Hah, look she can take me, she’s trying so hard, squeezing me – ah.”

Satoru doesn’t stop the babbling that spills from his mouth, a mix of praise, degradation and whimpers. 

‘Feel s’fuckin’ perfect baby’ – ‘Slutty hole, she’s so greedy’ – ‘You’re so pretty, god…’ –‘Mnh, does that feel good sweetheart? Hah, of course it does’

Satoru is completely psychotic, lost and on another plane of existence, your cunt is just milking him too good, your pretty eyes glimmering with tears as they try to roll back. Pussy drunk and lost in every sound, every movement.

“Gonna put so much cum inside you, hah…” he chuckles now, letting your thighs ease just a fraction so he can rest his forehead almost lovingly. “M’gonna make sure to fuck it back into you, then fill you up again, aw do you like that?”

You barely nod, he grins against your lips, cock pressing deep and just staying, rolling his hips to nudge his pretty drooly tip, the pressure unbearable. “Toru!”

“You can still talk?” You’re lost in it, as fucked out as he is when he cups your face with your thighs still shoved up, kissing you sloppy messy, cock grinding into your cervix when he finally bottoms out as much as he can. He swallows your gasps with his plump lips, his open mouth, you swallow his moans, struggling for a breath.

He’s dragging his cock head against your cervix over and over, torturous little fucking circles with so much pressure, your nails slip into the skin on his back, leaving little crescent moons. Satoru groans at that, laughing softly.

“Gonna mark me up?” Your nails dig in deeper, leaving their marks, almost drawing blood while that sharp pleasure hits, and you feel yourself about to fade, more intense than his fingers, his mouth even.

“M’gonna… mmnph,” you’re drooling as he slams his thick length in and out of your now sloppy little hole, pummelling it with every snap of his hips, making sure you feel him everywhere. You tighten up and he groans, brushing your hair back and easing up.

“So fuckin’ pretty like this, aww sweets you’re drooling.”

He taunts you, strokes getting slower, like he’s not letting you have it, your thighs pressing tightly then, his thumb swiping the dribbles from your chin. Your pupils are blown out, lips parted, cunt just fuckin’ spasming as if she’s ready for him to cum, but not just yet.

He slowly rolls his hips, fingers dimpling the flesh of your thighs, breath ghosting against your lips – swollen from his kisses. “Gonna cum, aren’t you baby?”

You nod in a jerky little motion, unsure how he expects you to even talk, but the nod is enough for his cocky grin, one more roll of his hips that drags on your spot, white hair tickling your exposed clit with how he has you split open. You cry out as the sharp pleasure builds so fast, thighs shaking uncontrollably against him, tears slipping out of your eyes.

“Toru, I’m – nghh, f-fuc- I’m-”

He leans up to get a perfect view of you, driving that fat cock into your stretched, abused little hole, mean with it now – pushing you over the edge. “That’s it, that’s my girl,” he whispers, words making his breath ghost against your skin. “Cum f’me, milk me dry, take all of me in your pretty little cunt.”

Satoru’s balls are coated in your slick, heavy and full, feeling you shatter for him, watching your pretty face with a well satisfied fucked out look on his face, exhaling, gripping you at your waist. He eases your legs to the sides of his hips as you scream out, eyes rolling back in your skull, fucking you through it slow and easy.

“There you go,” he murmurs, taking your fingers and slipping them between you both. You whine out, overstimulated. “Touch it, be good f’me, after she tried so hard not to let me in.”

“Already c-came,” you whimper out pathetically, but Satoru’s not quite done with you, leaning back you watch your fingers slip. “Too wet, mnh!”

“You can cum again,” he orders softly now, sadistic little undertone, his snowy lashes lowering in a movement that makes him look angelic and not the slutty freak he is. “Wanna feel it again, please sweetheart.”

Now he’s needy, desperately watching your movements, your hand stops moving when pleasure hits sharp again, but Satoru moves it for you, watching you fall apart, tacky walls clamping down. He fucks you through your aftershocks until you’re delirious, ready to pass out – drooling with your eyes fluttering shut, but he tilts your chin up with long fingers, making you gasp out.

“Look at me when I fill you up,” he orders, all soft and sweet like he’s not a filthy brat, sucking your little finger into his mouth and moaning around it, making your eyes try to open, but you’re twitching, a mess. “That’s it, such a good girl takin’ me like this, are you ready f’me to pump your cunt so full?”

You nod weakly, and he presses one more time before crying out in your ear – a mix of your name and a desperate little whimper from the six foot four man that’s splitting you apart. His cock throbs and impossibly thickens, heat floods you instantly, so much cum that it’s pouring, coating all of your walls with white.

“Oh f-fuck, take it,” he murmurs, voice breaking with how good your pussy feels just sucking him up. His fingers press into your hips, groaning desperately, lips slipping up your neck – hot, uneven little breaths as more pumps in.

You’re so full, hot warmth spreading with how much cum he’s pouring into you, and more spurts out, trickling down his sticky cock, still hard. “Oh m-my… I… you’re still…”

“I have so much for you, don’t worry,” he chuckles, pulling back and still buried deep, now you feel that pressure again, your cunt trying to clamp down, hips twitching as his cum and yours slips down in strands of white. “You think that’s all, no baby, you deserve all my cum inside you.”

Satoru kisses you slowly, lips pressing yours apart, letting you taste yourself on his tongue, saliva dripping as he moves just a bit, and you’re gasping out. “S-sensitive!”

“I know, sweetheart s’okay,” he pulls out and looks and the fucking filthy mix of both of you, more cum pumping white and milky when he strokes his slick cock. “Hah, slutty cunt is so beat up.”

You can’t tell if he’s sweet or evil.

You hiss as he rubs that shiny pink tip up and down your puffy folds, moaning out at the sight of you. Bruises forming from his fingertips, marks from where his teeth had slid into your skin, lips bitten and swollen. His fingers slide between your thighs, slick with cum traced through your folds, toying with the white creamy mixture and smirking while you twitch and jerk.

“Thought I couldn’t fit?” He raises one of those thin white brows, you manage to shake your head, he gathers his mess and holds up his fingers. “God, look at us together, finally.”

Satoru Gojo is a freak, you knew this when he begged to eat your pussy the moment he met you, and when he would make sure to finger you every chance he got – didn’t matter where. Yet the sight of the light catching those drips of both of you is obscene, and when he puts those thick long fingers in his mouth and sucks?

You don’t even know what sound you make. It’s pornographic, a desperate whine as your cunt tries to recover, and his cheeks hollow.

“Mmm,” he moans as if it’s the best tasting thing – his own cum. “Sweetheart you need to taste this.”

Satoru slips two fingers into your mouth ordering – suck – with a soft voice, those damn eyes just a ring of blue surrounded by the fringe of white. You do as he orders, tasting the salty tang on your tongue. Your eyelashes flutter, sucking him and holding his huge hand.

“Such a good girl, you did so well taking me,” he murmurs, pulling those fingers back, but suddenly his hands clamp onto your waist – lifting you like you’re fucking nothing.

“Mnh! What are you doing!?” You demand, when he’s got you flipped over on top of him, eyeing your tummy and measuring with his fingers. “Toru…”

“I think I’ll hit right here…” He murmurs, dragging you down on that huge cock you barely got to fit to begin with. He lifts you up, your knees sliding against the silk sheets that are embarrassingly wet from you.

“I can’t take you like this,” you grumble, earning his cute little blush on perfect cheekbones. “I can’t! Stop looking all cute like you’re not a deviant.”

“Baby please lemme watch you take me,” he lifts you high. “Put me there.”

“You’re ridiculous,” you huff, already a quivering mess, cunt drooling as you position him there, feeling your stretched out cunt aching. “Oh god…”

“You can take me now, I know it,” he’s literally your slutty cheerleader, batting those lashes with the cutest smile, silvery hair falling over his brow. “Come on, show me what you can do. You’re so good you know.”

“Suck up,” you mumble, but you start to take him, inch by inch, until he angles you so you fall on his cock, stuffing you full again, even more intense. Your nails dig into the perfect skin of his chest as this deviant just grins.

“See?” He touches your belly button, chuckling now.

“S-see what!? Mnh!” He just smiles, fucked out as your cunt drools his own cum down in rivulets of white, pooling on his abdomen and making that white happy trail slick.

“I hit here, I knew it,” he’s measuring something like a psycho, sighing and looking up at you lovingly, hands trailing down your hips until he grips your ass, dragging you down, making you boat moan. “Wonder if I can fit it all inside you like this.”

There’s more inches!?

Oh hell no.

Satoru is so sillyyy I love him hehe

the likes pour in before he’s even toweled off. comments that would make his grandmother clutch her pearls, fire emojis that could melt antarctica, marriage proposals in seven languages. satoru scrolls through them with the bored satisfaction of someone who’s never had to wonder if he’s attractive, clocking the trending status of his latest flex, watching the numbers climb.

after a few minutes of basking in the chaos he just unleashed—thousands of girls twisting in their sheets, thirsting themselves half to death—he flicks over to reels. it’s a casual, almost lazy motion, like a king turning away from the adoration of his court once he’s had his fill.

his reels are the usual rotation: endless loops of protein shake hacks, questionable “science-backed” mobility drills, and gym bros flexing in worse lighting than his bathroom mirror. sometimes a cooking video sneaks in—grilled chicken recipes that look like punishment meals, pre-workout snacks no sane person would enjoy, the occasional steak sizzling on cast iron just enough to hold his attention. mindless fuel, background noise for someone who already knows he looks better than half the influencers trying to sell him their macros.

but then, the algorithm, in its infinite, mysterious wisdom, does that thing where it thinks it knows him better than he knows himself, and suddenly his screen fills with something entirely different. no thirst, no desperation, no familiar symphony of validation.

just hands.

soft, capable hands dusted with flour, moving with the kind of precision that makes his chest do something weird and unfamiliar. the voice accompanying them flows like honey over warm bread, explaining the mysteries of chocolate tempering with the patience of someone who actually gives a damn about their craft.

“temperature control is everything,” you’re saying, and satoru finds himself leaning closer to his phone screen like an idiot. your hands work magic he doesn’t understand—folding, smoothing, creating something beautiful from nothing. there’s flour scattered across your black apron like stars, and he realizes he’s been holding his breath. “too hot and you’ll seize the chocolate. too cold and it won’t temper properly. you want that perfect balance.”

perfect balance. right. satoru gojo, who can bench twice his body weight and has never met a macronutrient he couldn’t calculate in his sleep, suddenly feels like he doesn’t understand balance at all.

he’s three videos deep before his brain catches up to his thumbs. your username—why.en_bakes—sits at the top of each video like a riddle he wants to solve. faceless content creator, obviously skilled, voice that could talk him through a panic attack or into one, depending on the circumstances.

his trainer would have an aneurysm if he knew satoru was mentally calculating the caloric content of buttercream roses at eleven pm.

his trainer doesn’t have to know.

meanwhile, you’re having your own crisis three hundred miles away, curled up in bed with your phone balanced precariously on your chest. you’ve been mindlessly scrolling through instagram, the kind of late-night brain rot that makes you question your life choices and wonder why you’re not asleep like a normal person.

the dm notification pops up from @squatoru—and there’s that little blue checkmark that makes your stomach drop because verified accounts usually mean one of two things: actual celebrities or influencers hunting for free stuff.

squatoru: hey, your hands are so steady, i’m pretty sure you could perform surgery. on my heart, maybe? kidding. mostly. anyway, the real question: do you take custom orders, or am i doomed to just drool over your perfect pastries through ig reels tutorials forever? my cardio needs a reward ;)

you frown, tapping on his profile with the kind of skepticism reserved for men who slide into dms and politicians. probably another influencer looking for free pastries in exchange for exposure. you’ve seen this song and dance before, and your content is specifically designed to avoid this—just your hands, your voice, and your pastries. no face, no personal details, no invitation for this kind of attention.

except his profile loads, and the image that fills your screen is so utterly, aggressively stunning that your breath hitches. your eyes go wide, wider than any pastry plate you’ve ever presented, and you feel a ridiculous, old-fashioned flush creep up your neck. like a victorian gentleman accidentally stumbling upon an exposed ankle, but instead of an ankle, it’s an eight-pack, a smirk, and eyes that could unravel your very soul.

you swallow, hard, your mind temporarily short-circuiting at the sheer, unapologetic perfection. the phone, balanced precariously on your chest, finally loses its grip as your hands instinctively clench in shock, and it falls. with a sickening thud, it smacks directly into your face, the impact rattling your teeth and, far worse, triggering an accidental double-tap right on his latest thirst trap. specifically, right on his absurdly defined abs.

because @squatoru isn’t just any influencer.

he’s all sharp angles and casual arrogance, the kind of beautiful that makes you question whether humans are supposed to look like that or if someone’s been editing reality behind your back. his hair defies every law of physics and good sense, standing up in ways that should look ridiculous but instead look like he’s been personally blessed by some very attractive gods. and his eyes—they’re not just blue, they’re the kind of blue that makes you forget other colors exist, like someone liquefied lightning and poured it into his irises just to see what would happen.

the worst part? he knows exactly what he looks like.

every photo is a carefully constructed masterpiece of casual perfection. gym selfies that belong in museums, mirror shots that probably crash servers, candid photos that are about as candid as a hollywood red carpet. he’s the kind of beautiful that makes normal people feel like potatoes, and he’s just casually sliding into your dms like it’s tuesday.

the little heart icon fills with red, mocking you. you immediately know you’ve made a mistake of astronomical proportions, a digital crime scene of embarrassment. you don’t even look at this kind of content. your algorithm is carefully curated chaos of baking tutorials, cat videos, and the occasional pottery reel.

you wouldn’t know a thirst trap if it personally introduced itself and asked for your number. but apparently, it just did, and you just liked it.

your phone buzzes almost instantly.

squatoru: oh, saw that 😉 figured you wouldn’t be able to resist. it’s okay, my content’s usually pretty captivating. consider yourself caught admiring the view.

you scramble upright, nearly launching your phone across the room in your panic. your heart is doing something between a tango and a cardiac episode, and you’re pretty sure you’re about to die of embarrassment in your own bed, which seems like a particularly pathetic way to go. you wince, rubbing your nose where the phone left a red mark.

why.en_bakes: it was an accident. my phone slipped. literally. it just smacked me.

the response comes back quicker than you’d like, quicker than gives you time to construct proper emotional barriers or remember how to breathe like a normal person.

squatoru: suuuure it did. 😉 a very convenient slip. but hey, thanks for the unintentional validation. speaking of irresistible things... i’ve actually been genuinely obsessed with your videos. that chocolate work? absolutely insane. like, i’m genuinely curious about trying your stuff in person. my cheat day budget just went up.

he’s been watching your videos. this man, human equivalent of a renaissance sculpture, is obsessed with your chocolate work? you, who usually only gets comments from sweet grandmas and fellow bakers, are suddenly being eyed by the thirst trap god himself. you stare at the message until the words blur together, trying to process this information like a computer that’s been asked to run software from the future.

why.en_bakes: well, the cafe info is on my profile if you’re actually serious. we’re open from 8-6 tuesday to saturday. no freebies.

because you’re not about to make this easy for him. you’ve built a whole business on not making things easy, on the radical concept that good pastries require effort and patience and maybe a little suffering. if this man wants to waltz into your world with his perfect face and his ridiculous hair, he can follow the same rules as everyone else.

squatoru: oh, trust me, cupcake. i’m serious about good desserts. and good conversation. and maybe a few other things. consider me booked. see you soon.

cupcake.

he called you cupcake, and something in your stomach does a little flip that has absolutely nothing to do with the leftover anxiety from accidentally liking his photo and everything to do with the way that familiar, sweet word, usually piped with buttercream and sold by the dozen, suddenly tasted personal, a secret, delicious indulgence meant just for you.

satoru, meanwhile, is having his own moment of amused contemplation in his ridiculously expensive apartment, a smirk playing on his lips as he stares at his phone. because here’s the thing that’s currently piquing his interest in a way almost nothing else does: you don’t know who he is.

not in the way everyone else does, anyway. you’re not sliding into his dms with marriage proposals or asking him to promote your skincare routine. you’re not breathless with excitement or falling over yourself to impress him. you claimed you liked his photo by accident—a blatant, adorable fib, if your mortified response was anything to go by. you immediately tried to take it back like it was a mistake, but satoru knew better. people didn’t accidentally double-tap his abs. they just got shy when they were caught.

when was the last time someone feigned indifference to his attention?

he can’t remember, and that bothers him more than it should. he’s so used to being wanted, expected, demanded, that your casual dismissal, even if it was just an act of shyness, feels like a puzzle he needs to solve. you’re talented and professional and seemingly unimpressed by the fact that he exists, and something about that makes him want to try harder than he’s tried at anything that didn’t involve weights or protein shakes.

plus, there’s your voice. that soft, warm tone that guided him through chocolate tempering like you were sharing secrets, like you actually cared whether he understood the difference between seeding and tabling methods.

that night, he replayed your videos more times than he’d admit to anyone, and each time he notices something new—the careful way you handle delicate pastry, the little satisfied hum when something turns out perfectly, the genuine enthusiasm when you explain why certain techniques matter.

which is how satoru gojo, influencer extraordinaire and professional beautiful person, finds himself googling the address of a bakery at midnight like some kind of carb-obsessed stalker.

your cafe isn’t far from his gym. isn’t that convenient.

he screenshots the address and adds it to his calendar with the kind of focus usually reserved for competition prep, already planning his route and calculating what time he’ll need to leave to avoid the morning rush but still catch you during business hours.

because apparently, satoru gojo has stumbled upon a new obsession—someone who makes croissants for a living and couldn’t care less about his follower count, pretending she didn't just like his gym selfie.

his trainer is definitely going to have that aneurysm.

he timed it perfectly—after the morning rush had thinned and the café’s cheerful hum had settled into something softer. strategic timing, really. fewer distractions meant more of your attention, and satoru gojo had never been one to settle for scraps when he could have the whole meal.

the bell above the door chimed, small and unassuming, almost absurdly inadequate for the entrance that followed. satoru filled the doorway like gravity had personally rearranged itself around him, a quality white tee draping effortlessly over shoulders that looked like they’d been carved by someone with a personal vendetta against moderation, hinting at the landscape of muscle beneath. well-cut dark cargo pants, practical yet stylish, hung casually on powerful legs that could probably crush watermelons, and his hair—that impossible mess of silver-white strands—caught the morning light like it was showing off.

he walked in with the kind of confidence that made people forget what they were saying mid-sentence. calculated but effortless, the way predators moved when they weren’t particularly hungry but enjoyed the hunt anyway.

you recognized him instantly, and the mortifying memory of that accidental double-tap crashed through your mind like a wrecking ball made of pure embarrassment. heat threatened to crawl up your neck, but you shoved it down with the kind of ruthless efficiency that came from years of dealing with difficult customers and even more difficult ovens.

“welcome to flour & sugar,” you said, voice carefully steady as you finished wiping down the espresso machine. your movements were precise, controlled, the kind of calm that came from having your hands busy while your brain short-circuited. he caught the swift dart of your eyes, the way they met his for a fraction of a second before skittering away, and a slow, knowing amusement bloomed in his chest. oh, you were definitely lying. “what can i get for you today?”

but satoru wasn’t listening to your carefully rehearsed greeting. he was too busy having what could only be described as a religious experience with your display case.

“jesus christ,” he breathed, and those storm-glass eyes went wide as they tracked across the pastries like he was cataloging treasures. his hands pressed against the cool glass, long fingers splaying as he leaned in closer. “is that—are those pain au chocolat actually laminated properly or are you just trying to make me cry?”

the croissants sat in perfect golden rows, their surfaces glossy and flaked to mathematical precision. next to them, danish pastries spiraled with fruit preserves that caught the light like stained glass windows. chocolate éclairs lined up like soldiers, their choux pastry shells piped so perfectly they looked machine-made, topped with ganache so mirror-smooth it reflected the café’s warm lighting.

“showing off, obviously,” you replied, corners of your mouth threatening to betray you with something dangerously close to a smile. your fingers found the edge of your flour-dusted black apron, smoothing it down in a gesture that was becoming embarrassingly predictable. “we just brush regular croissants with chocolate syrup and hope no one notices.”

that earned you a bark of laughter, bright and genuine and so unexpected it made something flutter in your chest like a bird trying to escape. his whole face transformed when he laughed—the careful perfection cracking open to reveal something warmer underneath.

“oh, you’re trouble,” he said, grinning as he straightened up from the display case. ran one hand through that gravity-defying hair, messing it up in a way that somehow made it look better. the motion caused the soft fabric of the white tee to subtly shift and stretch over his chest and shoulder, a brief, undeniable testament to the power beneath, and he noticed you noticed. his grin widened almost imperceptibly. yeah, you definitely hadn’t liked his photo by ‘accident’. “i can tell already. so what’s your best ‘i’m definitely going to regret this later but it’ll be worth every minute’ option today?”

“the chocolate tart is popular,” you said, gesturing toward where it sat in solitary splendor—a perfect circle of temptation with ganache so dark it looked like liquid sin. “our kouign-amann sells out by noon.” you pointed to the golden, layered pastries that looked like edible architecture. “and if you’re feeling particularly self-destructive, the salted caramel éclair has a cult following.”

“dangerous recommendations,” he mused, those impossible eyes still cataloging every curve and swirl of your handiwork. his gaze lingered on the fruit tarts, their pastry cream bases topped with berries arranged like tiny works of art, then moved to the cinnamon rolls that spiraled with mathematical precision, their surfaces glazed to perfection.

he was quiet for a moment, just looking, and something in his expression shifted. softer somehow, like he was seeing more than just pastries behind the glass.

“what about you?” he asked finally, those winter-storm eyes finding yours. “what would you eat if calories didn’t exist and your trainer wasn’t going to lecture you about macros tomorrow?”

the question caught you completely off guard. most customers just wanted their order taken, not actual conversation, not genuine curiosity about your preferences. your hands stilled on the apron, suddenly aware of how he was looking at you—really looking, like your answer mattered.

“oh, definitely the chocolate tart,” you said, and a sudden, unexpected spark lit up in your eyes. you leaned forward just a fraction, your voice gaining a soft, enthusiastic edge. “it’s not just chocolate, you know? we use a blend of valrhona guanaja for that deep, almost bitter cocoa base, but then there’s a hint of madagascar vanilla bean in the custard, just enough to bring out the sweetness without making it cloying. and the crust—it’s a sable breton, a really buttery, shortbread-like texture that just crumbles perfectly. it’s about the balance, the way the intensity of the chocolate plays with the richness of the butter and the delicate snap of the shell. it’s… everything.”

you finished with a quiet, almost breathless sigh, a small flush on your cheeks from the sheer passion of your explanation. you hadn’t even realized you were practically lecturing him until you saw the look on his face.

something flickered across his face then, a slow dawning of satisfaction mixed with a captivating curiosity. his eyes, usually so sharp and teasing, were softened, fixed entirely on you. he hadn’t understood half the technical terms, but he’d understood the passion, the genuine love that radiated from you when you talked about your craft. that, he realized, was even more intoxicating than the thought of the tart itself.

“sold,” he declared, his voice a low, pleased rumble. “one chocolate tart for me. and—” he paused, head tilting as he studied the menu board behind you. “matcha latte. extra sweet, if you don’t mind. gotta balance out all that virtue somehow.”

the way he said it, low and curious, made your pulse skip in a way that had nothing to do with caffeine. “mr. gojo—”

“just satoru,” he interrupted, and that easy smile turned softer somehow, more genuine. leaned against the counter on his forearms, bringing himself closer to your eye level. the sleeve of his white tee shifted, briefly revealing the impressive curve of his powerful biceps, practically begging for your gaze, and you felt that familiar, involuntary tightening in your throat again. he was far too aware of the space between you, of the way the air thrummed with unspoken things. “i’d prefer it if you called me satoru. ‘mr. gojo’ makes me sound like my father, and trust me, that’s not the vibe we’re going for here.”

heat crept up your neck despite every attempt at professional composure. he was close enough that you could smell his cologne—something clean and expensive that probably cost more than your monthly ingredient budget—mixed with the faintest hint of lingering workout endorphins.

“satoru, then,” you managed, fingers finding the register keys with muscle memory while your brain tried to process the way he smiled when you said his name. “find a seat anywhere you’d like. i’ll call you when it’s ready.”

he pushed back from the counter with fluid grace, all loose-limbed confidence and predatory satisfaction. chose the corner table by the window—of course he did—prime real estate for people-watching and and, more importantly, you-watching. settled into the chair like he owned not just the seat but the entire building, phone out but screen dark, attention fixed entirely on your workspace.

you tried to ignore the weight of his stare as you moved through your routine, but it was like trying to ignore sunlight streaming through windows. persistent, warm, impossible to escape. steamed milk for his matcha latte, the bright green powder swirling into pale foam like liquid jade, sweetened just enough to match his request for extra sugar.

selected his tart from the display case with the reverence it deserved, the chocolate ganache mirror-smooth and perfect, reflecting the café’s warm lighting like dark water.

“order for satoru,” you called, and watched him unfold from the chair with that fluid grace that made ordinary movements look choreographed.

“that was fast,” he said, accepting the small plate and cup. his fingers brushed yours for just a moment—warm, callused from whatever weights he threw around when he wasn’t terrorizing bakeries. “efficient.”

“i try not to keep people waiting.” the words came out steadier than you felt, professional smile firmly in place even as your skin tingled where he’d touched it.

“and here i was hoping you’d take your time,” he replied, that insufferable smirk back in full force. tilted his head just enough to catch your eye, silver hair falling across his forehead in a way that should’ve looked accidental but absolutely wasn’t. “guess i’ll just have to savor this extra slowly to make up for it.”

back at his table, satoru lifted the fork like he was about to perform delicate surgery. cut into the tart with surgical precision, watched the ganache yield to reveal the perfect custard beneath, dark chocolate giving way to pale cream in a contrast that made his mouth water before he’d even tasted it.

the first bite rewired something fundamental in his brain.

it wasn’t just the flavor—though that was devastating enough, rich and balanced and absolutely perfect. it was the memory that came with it, sudden and overwhelming. his grandmother’s kitchen on sunday mornings, flour handprints on her faded apron, the smell of butter and vanilla thick in the air like incense in a church dedicated to sugar and love.

he’d been a chubby kid back then, all round cheeks and soft edges before growth spurts and gym obsessions carved him into something else entirely. back when sweetness meant safety, when dessert wasn’t the enemy but the reward for scraped knees and hard days and just existing in a world that sometimes felt too big and too scary.

this tart tasted like coming home to a place he’d forgotten existed.

he tried to eat it slowly, really tried. wanted to analyze the flavor profile, identify the techniques, make it last. but his body had other plans entirely. each bite melted on his tongue like a prayer answered, and before he knew it the plate was empty and he was staring at the evidence of his complete lack of self-control.

worth every single burpee he’d have to do tomorrow. worth twice that many.

he pulled out his phone, angled it to catch the crumb-scattered plate in afternoon light. typed out “found heaven” with thumbs that were steadier than they had any right to be, tagged the location, posted it to his story without a second thought.

let his trainer try to explain that one.

when he looked up, you were watching him from behind the counter, expression carefully neutral but eyes curious. caught in the act of caring whether he’d enjoyed it, whether your work had lived up to whatever expectations he’d built in his head.

“verdict?” you called across the space between you, voice carrying just the tiniest hint of genuine interest beneath the professional politeness.

“devastating,” he called back, not bothering to hide his grin or the way he gestured to the empty plate like it was evidence in a criminal trial. “absolutely devastating. i’m going to have to come back tomorrow just to make sure it wasn’t a fluke.”

“tomorrow’s monday. we’re closed.” the correction came automatically, but there was something softer in your voice now, the professional mask slipping just enough to let real personality peek through.

“then tuesday,” he said without missing a beat, standing up with that fluid grace and reaching for his wallet. “and probably wednesday. thursday’s looking pretty likely too.”

you ducked your head, but not before he caught the small smile you were trying to hide. watched you wipe your hands on that flour-dusted apron in the nervous gesture he was already learning to catalog alongside all your other tells.

“same time tuesday, then,” you said, like you were discussing the weather instead of planning his return to the scene of his carbohydrate crime.

“wouldn’t miss it, cupcake,” he replied, dropping a twenty on the counter for a twelve-dollar order and heading for the door before you could argue about the change.

he walked out into afternoon sunshine already calculating how many extra miles he’d need to run to justify coming back in two days.

spoiler alert: he was coming back regardless, and you both knew it.

the cafe, which once felt like a carefully controlled universe of flour and sugar, now had a new gravitational pull. satoru gojo had become a regular. not just a customer, but a fixture, like the espresso machine or the perpetually overflowing tips jar.

except this fixture came with perfectly tousled hair and a smile that could probably power half the city.

tuesday morning, 10:47 am. the bell chimed and there he was, silver hair catching the morning light like he’d been personally blessed by some very aesthetic gods. today’s ensemble: a loose knit sweater that somehow managed to look both cozy and criminally expensive, draped across shoulders that belonged in a renaissance sculpture exhibit.

he approached the counter with that easy confidence, long fingers already drumming against the glass as those winter-storm eyes conducted some kind of pastry reconnaissance mission.

“just making sure the integrity of your laminated dough hasn’t... suffered since yesterday, cupcake,” he said, leaning against the counter like he’d been doing it his whole life. the casual way he invaded your space should have been annoying. instead, it made something flutter stupidly in your chest.

you barely suppressed an eye roll, busying yourself with restocking napkins because your hands needed something to do that wasn’t embarrassing. “my laminated dough is doing just fine, satoru.”

“is it though?” he tilted his head, hair falling across his forehead in a way that was definitely not accidental, studying a pain au chocolat like it held state secrets. “because that one right there looks criminally perfect. almost offensive, really. i might have to do something about it.”

the way he said it, all mock seriousness with those ridiculous blue eyes sparkling with mischief, made your lips twitch despite your best efforts. “such a hardship for you.”

“devastating,” he agreed, pressing a hand to his chest like he was physically wounded. then that grin broke through, the one that made him look less like a fitness god and more like a kid who’d found the cookie jar. “i’ll take two. and one of those.” he pointed to a lemon meringue tart, its peak of toasted meringue golden and proud. “for balance.”

you reached for the pastries, trying to ignore how he watched your every movement like he was memorizing the choreography. “balance?”

“very important nutritional concept. sweet, then tart, then back to sweet. it’s basically science.”

“that’s not how nutrition works.”

“says who? my trainer?” he waved a dismissive hand, the gesture fluid and careless. “he thinks protein powder counts as a food group. clearly not a reliable source.”

wednesday brought a different satoru—button-down with sleeves rolled just so, revealing forearms that should probably be illegal in most countries. he ordered three chocolate éclairs this time, each one a perfect torpedo of choux pastry and dark ganache.

“consistency test?” you repeated, watching him pull out that expensive wallet like he was performing surgery.

“scientific method, cupcake. very important.” he peeled off crisp hundreds with the casual air of someone who’d never met a price tag he couldn’t ignore. the bills looked fresh from the bank, and you briefly wondered if he requested new ones specifically for pastry purchases. “can’t make proper recommendations without thorough research.”

your fingers found the edge of your apron, smoothing down imaginary wrinkles. “recommendations to who?”

“my trainer, obviously. gotta give him fair warning about what’s destroying his careful work.” that laugh again, bright and completely unrepentant, the sound warming something deep in your chest. “speaking of which, what’s the caloric damage on these beauties?”

“you don’t want to know.”

“try me.” he leaned forward slightly, chin tilting in challenge, and you caught yourself staring at the way his collar bone disappeared beneath the cotton of his shirt.

“about three hundred each.”

he paused, éclair halfway to his mouth, and you watched something flicker across his face. not regret exactly, but the quick mental calculation of someone who’d spent years thinking in macros and meal plans. then he shrugged, a movement that somehow made his shoulders look even broader, and took a bite that was pure bliss.

his eyes actually fluttered closed for a second, and the small sound he made was borderline indecent. you busied yourself with the register before your brain could process the implications.

“worth every burpee,” he declared, and the conviction in his voice made something warm unfurl in your stomach. this wasn’t just politeness or customer service charm. he meant it.

thursday he showed up in a perfectly fitted black tee that left absolutely nothing to the imagination, and your professionalism took a brief vacation. the fabric clung to every angle and curve like it had been painted on, and you spent an embarrassing amount of time pretending to organize the already-organized pastry display.

he ordered what could only be described as half your case. two kouign-amann, a slice of blood orange tart, three of your dark chocolate cookies, and a danish that had been sitting there looking particularly photogenic.

“research again?” you asked, voice carefully light while your eyes decidedly did not linger on the way his shirt stretched when he reached for his wallet.

“training day,” he said, and there was that subtle flex again, the movement so casual it might have been accidental if not for the way his lips quirked slightly. he knew exactly what he was doing. “need the fuel.”

you handed him his order, fingers brushing his for just a moment. warm, slightly callused from whatever torture routine he put himself through daily. “for what, exactly?”

“deadlifts. squats. the usual punishment for having a sweet tooth the size of tokyo.” he examined the danish like he was conducting a forensic investigation, head tilted just so. “my trainer keeps threatening to fire me, but joke’s on him—i’d just find someone who appreciates the finer things in life.”

the mental image of satoru gojo interviewing personal trainers based on their pastry tolerance made you duck your head to hide a smile. “how much extra cardio are we talking here?”

“for this haul? probably an extra hour. maybe two.” he bit into the danish with the kind of focus usually reserved for important life decisions, and you watched his expression melt into something approaching reverence. “but look at this thing. the way you’ve layered that fruit, how the glaze catches the light... that’s art, cupcake. you can’t put a price on art.”

heat crept up your neck at the genuine appreciation in his voice. “apparently you can. it’s twelve dollars.”

“cheap for a masterpiece.”

the compliment hit different when it came wrapped in that soft tone, without any of his usual performative charm. just honest appreciation, and it made your chest feel tight in ways you didn’t want to examine.

by friday, you’d started doing something incredibly stupid. anticipating his visits with the kind of precision usually reserved for oven timers and proofing schedules. you knew his patterns now—tart first, then creamy, then something with crunch. complex flavors that demanded attention, just like everything else about him.

so when he walked in wearing a cream-colored sweater that made his hair look like spun moonlight, you’d already committed the crime of setting aside a perfect almond croissant and a slice of your new cardamom pear tart. just sitting there on a small plate behind the counter, waiting like evidence of your growing soft spot.

he stopped short when he saw them, and something shifted in his expression. softer somehow, like you’d surprised him in the best possible way. “you read my mind, cupcake.”

“just good service,” you mumbled, but your hands betrayed you, finding your apron and smoothing the flour-dusted fabric with nervous fingers.

“is it though?” he leaned forward, elbows finding the counter, bringing himself into your space in a way that made your pulse skip. up close, you could see the faint freckle near his left temple, the way his ridiculously long eyelashes cast shadows on his cheekbones. “because this feels suspiciously like you’ve been paying attention to my very sophisticated palate.”

the teasing lilt in his voice made your stomach do something acrobatic. “your very expensive palate, you mean.”

“that too.” those eyes were studying you now with the same intensity he usually reserved for pastries, curious and warm and entirely too perceptive. “so what made you choose these? professional instinct or...”

“or what?”

“or maybe you’re starting to like having me around.”

the question hung between you like sugar dust in afternoon light, sweet and impossible to ignore. your cheeks felt warm, but you kept your voice steady through sheer stubborn will. “you’re a good customer.”

“just good?” he tilted his head, hair falling across his forehead in that way that made your fingers itch to brush it back.

“you tip well.”

“ah.” he straightened up with fluid grace, grinning like he’d just solved a particularly entertaining puzzle. “so it is about the money.”

the lie sat bitter on your tongue, but you’d rather eat raw flour than admit the truth. that you looked forward to his visits. that you’d started timing your baking schedule around his usual arrival. that the ridiculous tips were just an excuse to let yourself enjoy his company without feeling guilty about it.

“everything’s about money, satoru.”

“everything?” that voice dropped lower, softer, and you felt it in places that had absolutely nothing to do with business. “what about the art? the passion? the pure, unadulterated joy of creation?”

your breath caught slightly at the way he said ‘passion,’ like the word meant something more than flour and butter and sugar. “rent doesn’t pay itself with passion.”

“fair point.” he took a bite of the almond croissant, and you watched his entire face transform. the careful composure melted away, replaced by something raw and genuine and absolutely devastating. “jesus. okay, this is... this is stupid good.”

pride bloomed warm in your chest, the kind that came from watching someone truly appreciate your work. “just stupid good?”

“life-changing. earth-shattering. the kind of good that makes me question every life choice that led to me discovering it this late.” he took another bite, slower this time, actually savoring it like it deserved. watching him eat something you’d made with such obvious pleasure did dangerous things to your equilibrium. “where did you learn to do this?”

the question caught you off guard. not his usual surface-level compliments, but genuine curiosity about you, about your story. you found yourself answering before you could think better of it.

“culinary school. then a few years working under other people before i saved enough to open this place.” you gestured around the café, at the warm lighting and carefully chosen décor that had taken months of planning and every penny you’d managed to scrape together.

“other people?”

“a french pastry chef who made gordon ramsay look like a teddy bear. learned more in six months with him than i did in two years of school.” the memory still made you wince slightly, even wrapped in gratitude for everything it had taught you.

satoru’s eyebrows rose, and something shifted in his expression. less playful, more attentive. “sounds intense.”

“he once made me remake the same batch of croissants seventeen times because the lamination wasn’t perfect.” the words came easier now, maybe because he was listening with such focused attention. “i cried in the walk-in cooler.”

“and the eighteenth time?”

“eighteenth time was perfect.” you surprised yourself with how much warmth crept into your voice. “finally understood what he meant about respecting the process. about not cutting corners just because you think you know better.”

“and now?”

“now i can make them in my sleep.” you gestured toward the display case where your croissants sat in golden, flaky perfection, evidence of countless hours and stubborn determination. “muscle memory and spite, mostly.”

that drew a laugh from him, rich and genuine. “deadly combination.”

he was looking at you differently now, those impossible eyes softer somehow. like he was seeing past the professional politeness to something more real. it should have been unsettling. instead, it made you want to keep talking, keep sharing pieces of yourself you usually kept locked away.

“so this chocolate work you do—the tempering, the ganache—that all came from drill sergeant pastry chef too?”

you found yourself actually wanting to explain it, to share the thing you loved most about your craft. “some of it. but chocolate is... different. more temperamental. you can’t bully it into submission like dough. you have to coax it, understand what it needs.”

he leaned closer, genuinely interested, and you caught a whiff of his cologne mixed with the lingering sweetness from the pastries. clean and expensive and entirely too distracting. “what does it need?”

“patience. the right temperature. respect for the process.” you pulled out your phone almost without thinking, scrolling to a video you’d posted last week. “see this? the way the chocolate looks when it’s properly tempered versus when it’s not?”

he moved around the counter—when had you said he could do that?—to look at your screen. close enough that you could feel the warmth radiating from his skin, see the way his hair curled slightly at the nape of his neck. “show me the difference.”

your fingers were definitely not steady as you pointed to the glossy, perfectly smooth chocolate in the video. “this one. snappy, shiny, stable. versus this.” another clip, chocolate that looked dull and streaky. “seized because someone got impatient and tried to rush the cooling process.”

“someone like me, you mean.”

the self-awareness in his voice made you look up, and suddenly you were much too close to those winter-storm eyes. “someone exactly like you.”

“ouch.” but he was smiling, that soft genuine smile that made your pulse forget its rhythm. “so you’re saying i need to learn patience.”

“i’m saying chocolate will teach you patience whether you want to learn or not.”

“and if i wanted to learn? hypothetically speaking.”

the question settled between you like powdered sugar, sweet and impossible to brush away. your heart did something complicated against your ribs. “hypothetically?”

“completely hypothetical. just curious about the... educational process.”

you studied his face, looking for the usual playful smirk, but found something more sincere instead. something that made your chest feel tight and warm and terrified. “it’s not easy. takes time. messy. lots of failures before you get it right.”

“i’m not afraid of messy.” his voice was softer now, and you realized you were still standing much too close, could see the faint gold flecks in his impossibly blue eyes.

“no,” you said quietly, taking in his perfectly styled hair, his carefully chosen outfit, the way he carried himself like problems were just puzzles waiting to be solved. “i don’t think you are.”

he stayed longer that day, nursing his matcha latte and working through the cardamom pear tart with the kind of focus usually reserved for meditation or very important life decisions. every so often he’d look up and catch you watching him, and instead of that cocky smirk you’d grown dangerously fond of, he’d give you something softer. more real.

when he finally left, he paused at the door, hand on the frame, looking back like he wanted to say something else.

“same time monday?”

“we’re closed mondays.”

“tuesday, then.” that smile again, the one that made your knees forget their primary function.

“tuesday works.”

he pushed through the door into afternoon sunshine, and you watched him pull out his phone to photograph the empty plate he’d left behind. the story that went up an hour later was just the image with no caption, but your café’s location tagged like a promise.

your phone buzzed, not with an explosion, but with another steady pulse in what had become a low, constant hum of new activity over the past few days. each time he’d posted and tagged you, a new wave of curious followers would wash over your small page—a few hundred more likes, a dozen more comments asking who you were. this post felt different, though. more potent.

it felt less like a ripple and more like the tide starting to turn. you stared at your phone screen, watching the new notifications roll in, a knot of anticipation tightening in your stomach. you realized you were in trouble. the kind of trouble that was only partly about the looming threat of viral fame, and everything to do with the way your heart had started keeping time to the rhythm of a certain someone’s visits.

the cafe visits had become routine, but so had something else entirely. late-night video binges. satoru, tucked into the ridiculously expensive italian leather couch in his penthouse, would scroll through your youtube channel like it was late-night cable, airpods in, the city lights a distant hum.

your voice, a warm honey he’d once only associated with chocolate tempering, now filled his ears, a constant, comforting presence. it was oddly intimate, an exclusive soundtrack to his solitary evenings. he’d watch you explain the subtle art of a perfectly proofed brioche, the meticulous fold of a puff pastry. and as he watched, as your gentle explanations filled the quiet of his apartment, he started associating sweetness with more than just taste.

it was in the warmth of your voice, the patient way you corrected a common baking mistake in a tutorial, the quiet dedication in your hands as they measured flour. sweetness became patience. sweetness became quiet strength. sweetness became you.

he’d drift off to sleep with the soft cadence of your voice in his ears, and that’s when the dreams started. not about gym glory or brand deals, but about pastries that didn’t exist yet. wild, impossible creations: a lavender-infused crème brûlée that shimmered like moonlight, a pistachio and rosewater financier that smelled like spring, a miso-caramel tart with a delicate sesame crust. he’d wake up, confused and disoriented, craving flavors you hadn’t invented yet, a strange, persistent ache in his chest.

and then, the texting began.

it started innocently enough, a playful jab after a particularly indulgent visit.

squatoru: seriously, that pain au chocolat today? should come with a warning label. my trainer cried.

why.en-bakes: glad to be of service 😃

but then, the messages started appearing at odd hours. 1 am, 2 am. sometimes a simple, nonsensical emoji. sometimes a flurry of half-baked ideas.

squatoru: what about a churro croissant? is that legal? asking for a friend. (the friend is my sweet tooth).

you’d wake up to the ping, groggy and annoyed, but then you’d read his absurd suggestions, and a small smile would tug at your lips. sometimes, inexplicably, they were good ideas. too good.

your fingers would hover over your phone, considering the absurdity, then find themselves scrolling through your pantry. a few days later, a churro croissant would appear as tomorrow’s special, flaky and cinnamon-sugared, a tangible reply to his late-night musings.

he’d walk in the next day, a triumphant grin on his face. “i knew it,” he’d say, leaning against the counter, eyes sparkling. “you’re secretly taking commissions from my dreams, aren’t you, cupcake?”

you’d just shrug, a faint flush on your cheeks. “just a good baker with good ideas, satoru.”

he began to wonder if this was what inspiration felt like, this constant buzz in his brain, these unexpected surges of creativity that always, always, revolved around you and your world. it was foreign, intoxicating.

the teasing messages started to shift, to soften. the playful jabs giving way to something more sincere, more vulnerable.

squatoru: that apple crumble changed my life, no joke. thought i peaked, then tasted that. turns out i can still be surprised.

a message like that would arrive late at night, catching you off guard. you’d be scrolling through a supplier catalog, exhausted, and then his words would bloom on the screen, a quiet warmth spreading through your chest.

squatoru: didn’t know honey could taste like that. your honey cake. it’s something else.

you’d stare at your phone screen, a strange mixture of fluster and genuine pleasure unfurling inside you. these weren't compliments about his abs or his follower count—they were about your work, your taste, your ability to create something beautiful. when you thought no one was looking, usually tucked under your covers or in the quiet pre-dawn hours of the cafe, you’d screenshot them. little digital keepsakes of his quiet adoration.

squatoru: you made winter feel kind today. the lemon tart. tasted like sunshine.

you didn't know what to do with messages like that. they weren't flirting, not exactly. they were… observations. gentle, heartfelt observations that chipped away at your professional armor, one sweet, unassuming word at a time.

back in the gleaming, sterile environment of his gym, satoru’s performance was, to put it mildly, suffering. his focus, once laser-sharp, now drifted like dandelion fluff on the wind.

he dropped weights mid-set, the heavy clatter echoing through the gym, startling the other lifters. he’d be thinking about the impossibly smooth texture of your lemon curd, the delicate balance of your custard. the way it melted on the tongue. the exact shade of the toasted meringue.

his trainer, a no-nonsense man named masaru who believed in pain and protein above all else, crossed his arms, a vein throbbing faintly in his temple. “satoru. you’ve dropped that sixty-kilo bell three times this week. you sleeping enough?”

satoru grunted, wiping sweat from his brow with a towel, his mind still halfway back in your cafe. “yeah, fine. just… distracted.”

“distracted by what? another brand deal?” masaru eyed him skeptically. “you’re hitting your protein, right? macros are still on point?”

“yeah, yeah. all fine.” satoru lied, easily, smoothly. he hadn’t logged his macros properly in days. he hadn’t done his usual post-workout cardio in favor of replaying your new almond croissant tutorial. he wasn’t fine. not in the way masaru meant.

he was falling. falling faster and harder than any deadlift he’d ever attempted. and the landing, he suspected, was going to be deliciously, terrifyingly sweet.

satoru’s multiple story posts tagging humble your café’s location, each one a testament to your baking prowess and his insatiable sweet tooth, had brought chaos. glorious, sugary chaos.

by the next morning, tuesday, there was a line winding around the block of flour & sugar—a serpent of eager customers stretching down the street, smartphones out, food bloggers scribbling furiously into notebooks, and a worrying number of local influencers trying (and failing) to recreate satoru’s “found heaven” aesthetic shots outside your unassuming facade.

you opened the doors at seven, expecting your usual tuesday hum. instead, you were hit with a tidal wave. your tiny cafe, usually a haven of quiet contemplation for pastry lovers, became a buzzing hive of anticipation.

by 9 am, the display case was utterly, tragically barren. empty shelves stared back at you, pristine and devoid of life. you were sold out, completely overwhelmed by the sudden, unprecedented influx of customers, all asking for “whatever satoru gojo ordered.”

you’d spent the last hour politely explaining that satoru gojo had a different order every day and, no, you couldn’t just whip up a fresh batch of everything right now. the exhaustion was real, but so was the faint, bewildered pride.

when he showed up at his usual, leisurely time, strolling in at 10:47 like he owned the sunshine outside, he stopped short. the bell above the door gave its usual chime, but for once, satoru’s fluid confidence faltered. his storm-glass eyes, usually so sharp and discerning, widened, then slowly swept across the utterly desolate display case.

the devastation on his face was almost comical—like someone had just told him christmas was cancelled, forever, and replaced it with a mandatory kale cleanse. his impossible silver hair seemed to droop slightly, mirroring the sudden collapse of his shoulders.

you, wiping down the already spotless counter, saw his expression crumble, the playful mischief in his eyes replaced by a profound, almost childlike grief. a genuine wave of apology washed over you.

“i’m so sorry,” you started, stepping closer to the counter, your voice softer than intended. his gaze flickered to you, briefly losing focus on the tragedy before him. “we… we sold out early today. there were just… a lot of new customers.” you gestured vaguely towards the lingering stragglers outside, still hopeful.

he ignored them. his eyes were fixed on the barren shelves, staring at the empty spaces where his beloved pain au chocolat and lemon meringue tarts usually sat in gleaming rows, like they had personally betrayed him. his perfect posture, usually so effortlessly arrogant, sagged just a fraction. “all of it?”

you nodded, a small, sympathetic frown creasing your brow. “all of it. the pain au chocolat, the kouign-amann, even the cinnamon rolls. everything.” you watched him process this profound tragedy, the quick flicker of shock, then disbelief, then a truly dramatic despair. a strange, soft tug pulled at your chest. it was ridiculous, of course, but also… kind of sweet.

you couldn’t help it. his absolute, unadulterated heartbreak over a lack of pastries was surprisingly endearing. “but… i could make you something?” you offered, the words tumbling out before you could fully censor them. “fresh? if you don’t mind waiting.”

his head snapped up, those storm-glass eyes widening again, now alight with a sudden, improbable hope. it was like you’d just offered him the moon, gift-wrapped and topped with ganache. “you’d do that?”

“well,” you said, trying to ignore how his entire face lit up, a blinding sunrise of relief and joy. you felt a blush creeping up your neck. “can’t have you wasting away to nothing, satoru. i imagine your trainer would send me a very strongly worded email.” you added, a small, wry smile touching your lips.

what you didn’t say: that you’d already set aside ingredients for his usual favorites—an almond croissant, a chocolate tart, a couple of those irresistible dark chocolate cookies—before the morning rush hit, carefully hidden in the back like a secret stash, just in case. just in case he showed up, heartbroken, and needed a little private magic.

he seemed to take this as a cue, a permission granted. a wide, relieved grin spread across his face, lighting up the entire cafe. “you’re a lifesaver, cupcake. a literal, delicious lifesaver.” he pushed off the counter, moving with renewed purpose towards his usual corner table, settling in with the patience of a cat waiting for milk. “anything you make will be perfect. take your time. i’m in no rush.”

you ducked your head, a smile finally escaping, feeling a warmth that had nothing to do with the espresso machine. the cafe was empty of customers, but suddenly, it felt very, very full.

you disappeared into the back, the familiar rhythm of your kitchen a welcome balm after the morning’s chaos. pulling out the pre-portioned ingredients, you began to work, your hands moving with skilled precision. you rolled the pastry for his almond croissant, its buttery layers promising flaky perfection, then assembled a miniature chocolate tart, ensuring the ganache was extra smooth, the sable crust extra crisp. the aroma of warm butter and dark chocolate began to waft through the now quiet cafe, a comforting, familiar scent that promised indulgence.

satoru, at his table, watched the kitchen door, an expectant, almost puppy-like eagerness in his posture. when you finally emerged, a small plate held carefully in your hands, he practically vibrated with anticipation.

“almond croissant and a chocolate tart, fresh out of the oven,” you announced, placing the plate gently before him. the croissant gleamed, its toasted almonds a fragrant crown, and the chocolate tart was a miniature masterpiece, its surface still faintly warm. “and a fresh matcha latte, extra sweet, just like you like it.”

he stared at the plate, then up at you, his impossible eyes wide with genuine awe. “you… you made this? just for me?”

you felt a blush spread across your cheeks. “it’s part of the job, satoru. making people happy with pastries.”

“you’re doing a very good job,” he said, his gaze lingering on your face for a beat longer than strictly necessary. he reached for the croissant first, breaking off a piece with careful precision. the warm, buttery scent filled the air around him. his eyes fluttered closed for a second, a soft, appreciative hum escaping him as he chewed slowly, savoring every flaky, almond-laced bite.

this wasn't just a pastry. this was a personalized act of kindness from the one person who seemed utterly immune to his usual charms. and it tasted like pure, unadulterated happiness.

he devoured the croissant, then moved to the chocolate tart, taking a huge, satisfying bite. the warmth of the chocolate, the sweetness of the ganache, the unexpected crunch of the crust—it was pure bliss. he ate it with the focus of a man who’d been starving for days, yet somehow also with a deliberate slowness, trying to make the moment last.

when he finished, the plates were impeccably clean, as if licked. he pulled out his wallet again, a mischievous glint in his eyes. “i’m going to need the damage report, cupcake. and i have a feeling this kind of bespoke service warrants… extra compensation.” he placed two crisp hundred-dollar bills on the counter, pushing them towards you. “for the trouble. and for the extra miles i’ll have to run tomorrow.”

you stared at the money, then at him, a genuine smile finally breaking through. “satoru, this is ridiculous. it’s twelve dollars. the ingredients were already here.”

“nonsense. that was a private showing of artisanal genius. worth every penny. consider it a down payment for future emergencies.” he grinned, then stood, stretching with a languid grace that drew your eyes to the way his t-shirt draped over his chest. “so. tuesday, then? same time?”

you watched him, a warmth spreading through you that had nothing to do with the oven. “tuesday. we’ll try to save some for you.”

“no need,” he said, a playful wink accompanying his words as he headed for the door. “i have a feeling you’ll make something special just for me.”

and as the bell chimed, marking his departure, you couldn’t help but smile, already thinking about what new creation you could conjure up for his next visit. he was right. you probably would.

the cafe had always run on rhythm. espresso machine hissing, ceramic clatter, quiet conversation hum. but lately, that rhythm had acquired a distinct satoru-shaped beat that threw off your entire carefully orchestrated world.

he’d been coming in daily now, not just tuesday through saturday, but every moment the doors were open. his excuses were increasingly transparent, delivered with charming smirks that you almost bought—would have bought, if you weren’t becoming dangerously familiar with the way his mouth curved when he was particularly pleased with himself.

“needed caffeine,” he’d declare one morning, striding through the bell’s familiar jingle with the kind of confidence that made gravity seem negotiable. never mind that his penthouse probably housed equipment worth more than your monthly rent. he’d stretch deliberately, quality fabric pulling across shoulders that belonged in renaissance sculptures, while storm-glass eyes swept the display case like he was conducting some kind of sacred inventory.

another day brought, “had a meeting nearby.” vague gesturing down the street with long fingers that moved like they were conducting invisible symphonies, as if his presence wasn’t the actual purpose. he’d unwrap an éclair before fully paying, chocolate scent momentarily masking cologne that probably cost more than your weekly flour budget.

then came the most audacious: “thought i smelled something burning.”

perfectly straight face, not even a twitch in those ridiculous cheekbones. dramatic air-sniffing that somehow made him look like a very expensive bloodhound. you’d given him your flattest look, the one usually reserved for customers who asked if your croissants were “really” made fresh daily.

there was, of course, no burning anything. just your patience, slowly crumbling like overbaked cookies.

today was thursday. he walked in wearing a dark long-sleeved shirt that committed actual crimes against your ability to concentrate and cargo pants that somehow looked effortlessly expensive on legs that went on for geological ages. ordered his usual—chocolate tart, almond croissant, extra-sweet matcha latte that matched his ridiculous sweet tooth—but bypassed his customary corner table.

instead, he chose a small two-person spot against the wall. direct, unobstructed view of your main workspace. the audacity was breathtaking, really.

you felt his attention immediately, warm weight settling between your shoulder blades like a cat claiming ownership. moved to the prep station where vanilla cupcakes waited for rosettes, your hands usually surgeon-steady despite the early morning rush. but under his unwavering focus, fingers felt clumsy, disconnected from your brain. delicate buttercream swirls wobbled slightly, and you bit back the urge to hum—your usual working soundtrack felt too intimate with him watching.

annoyance mixed with growing heat that had nothing to do with the ovens. furious blush threatened to betray every professional instinct you’d cultivated.

during a lull, you glanced up, and immediately regretted it. his table sat maybe six feet away but felt impossibly close, like he’d somehow bent space around himself. no pretense today—phone abandoned beside his matcha, screen dark as those winter-storm eyes. just watching. chin propped on palm, elbow on table, head tilted with languid grace that suggested he had all the time in the world to study your every movement.

his expression was soft, unguarded. usual playful glint replaced by something direct, seeing. it made your chest tighten strangely, breath catching like you’d forgotten how to process oxygen properly. awareness jolted through you like touching a live wire.

“you’re staring,” you called across the space, voice steadier than your pulse deserved. the words came out sharper than intended, defensive armor against the way he was looking at you like you were the most fascinating thing in his very curated world.

he smiled slowly, easy stretch reaching those impossible eyes. blue depths softened, losing glacial edge for warmth that made something flutter stupidly behind your ribs. lifted his matcha with deliberate grace, sipped without breaking eye contact. the movement was calculated casualness, performative in its confidence.

“just appreciating the artistry, cupcake.” his voice carried new weight today, rougher around the edges. more honest than his usual smooth control, like he’d forgotten to put on his public persona along with that perfectly fitted shirt.

“the artistry of cupcakes?” you countered, fingers tightening around the piping bag until plastic creaked in protest. forced attention back to swirling white frosting, but your mind kept circling back to how his gaze felt like warm spotlight, illuminating corners of yourself you usually kept professionally dim.

he chuckled, low and private, the sound meant for your ears alone despite the public space. head tilted again, silver hair falling across his forehead in a way that should have looked messy but instead made him look like some expensive magazine’s idea of casual perfection. storm-glass eyes held yours, reflective depth replacing sharp teasing.

“the artistry of you making them.” the words fell between you like powdered sugar, sweet and impossible to brush away.

this compliment rewired something fundamental in your chest. bypassed professional pride entirely, sailed straight past the fluster you’d been fighting, and landed somewhere dangerous. settled like comfortable weight against your ribs, warm and persistent. wasn’t about pastries anymore, or technical skill. about you.

the quiet passion, focused dedication you poured into everything you made. like he’d reached past counter, past flour-dusted apron, past practiced customer service smile, and seen something essential you rarely let anyone witness.

heat crept up your neck in a slow burn, spread across cheeks like spilled cinnamon. you ducked your head, suddenly exposed in ways that made your skin feel too tight. terrifying and exhilarating simultaneously, like standing at the edge of something vast and unnamed.

foolish joy blossomed behind your ribs anyway. he really sees it. sees you.

“well, thank you, satoru,” you managed, voice softer than intended, betraying the carefully constructed composure you wore like armor. squeezed the piping bag, and a perfect rosette bloomed—slightly lopsided but charming in its imperfection. “it takes a lot of practice. years, actually.”

your fingers trembled slightly as you set the cupcake aside, reached for another. started humming under your breath without thinking, a soft melody that always accompanied your work. caught yourself, stopped abruptly.

he made a thoughtful sound, those long fingers drumming against ceramic in a rhythm that somehow matched the song you’d been humming. like he’d been listening, filing away even your unconscious habits. “years, huh? that’s...” he paused, rolling the word around like he was tasting it. “dedication.”

something almost wistful colored his tone, like he was trying to imagine that kind of sustained commitment to anything that wasn’t maintaining his ridiculous physical perfection. his thumb traced the rim of his cup, absent gesture that drew your attention to hands that were probably softer than yours despite all his gym time.

“some people think it’s obsessive,” you admitted, surprising yourself with the honesty. smoothed your apron with nervous fingers, flour transferring to already-dusty fabric. you’d heard it before—friends who didn’t understand the 4am starts, the burned fingers, the endless pursuit of perfect crumb structure.

“obsessive?” he repeated, eyebrows rising toward that impossible hairline. familiar smirk tugged at lips that were unfairly well-defined, but gentler somehow. less performative. “coming from someone who’s memorized your operating schedule and has been conducting what could generously be called ‘pastry surveillance’ for months?”

the self-awareness in his voice, paired with that slight flush across sharp cheekbones, made something warm bubble up in your chest. despite yourself, you snorted. actual snorted. like an undignified, very unprofessional sound that would have mortified you with any other customer.

his grin widened into something brilliant, transforming his entire face. less magazine-perfect, more genuinely beautiful. the kind of smile that made you forget he was probably genetically engineered for maximum visual impact.

“touché,” you murmured, ducking your head to hide your answering smile. started humming again, softer this time, the melody weaving between words. “though i’d hardly call buying excessive amounts of baked goods ‘surveillance.’”

“excessive?” he pressed a hand to his chest in mock offense, the gesture making his shirt pull across torso that defied reasonable proportions. leaned back in his chair with fluid grace, all long lines and casual power. “i prefer ‘thorough research methodology.’”

“is that what we’re calling it?” the question came out teasing despite your best efforts, fingers moving in familiar patterns as buttercream spiraled into perfect peaks.

“absolutely. very scientific.” he took another sip of matcha, eyes sparkling with mischief that made him look younger, less untouchable. “can’t make proper assessments without comprehensive data collection.”

you paused in your piping, tilted your head in challenge. “and what exactly are you assessing?”

something shifted in his expression then, playful mask slipping slightly. “everything,” he said simply, voice dropping to something more intimate. “the way you move when you think no one’s watching. how you hum when you’re concentrating. the fact that you always check the oven timer twice, even though you could probably bake blindfolded by now.”

the observation sent warmth spiraling through your chest. he had been watching, really watching. not just appreciating the view but memorizing details, cataloging habits you thought were invisible.

“speaking of which,” he continued, leaning forward slightly, elbows finding the table. closer now, close enough that you could see the way his lashes cast shadows on those ridiculous cheekbones. “how does one even begin to learn something like this? hypothetically speaking.”

the question caught you off guard, made you pause with piping bag hovering over another cupcake. something in his tone had shifted—less flirtatious banter, more genuine curiosity. like he was actually interested in your answer rather than just enjoying the conversation.

“hypothetically?” you echoed carefully, studying his face for signs of his usual performative charm. found something more sincere instead, vulnerability creeping around the edges of his confidence.

“completely hypothetical,” he assured, but that flush across his cheekbones deepened slightly. fingers stilled against his cup, waiting for your response with the kind of focus he usually reserved for gym routines or camera angles.

you considered this, set down the piping bag to give him your full attention. “well, hypothetically... most people start with basics. measuring, following recipes exactly. learning to fail gracefully.”

“fail gracefully?” curiosity brightened those storm-glass eyes, head tilting like he was genuinely trying to understand a foreign concept.

“burned cookies, collapsed cakes, chocolate that seizes because you got impatient.” you shrugged, began humming again as you arranged finished cupcakes on a tiered stand. the melody helped organize your thoughts, made the explanation flow easier. “it’s part of the process. you mess up, figure out why, try again.”

he was quiet for a moment, processing this with the kind of intense focus that probably made his personal trainer weep with joy. thumb traced patterns against ceramic, unconscious gesture that somehow made him seem more human.

“sounds like it requires patience.” something rueful colored his voice, like he was recognizing his own shortcomings.

“tons of it. and thick skin. and the ability to get up at ungodly hours because bread waits for no one.” you glanced up, caught something almost vulnerable in his expression. like he was actually considering this impossible scenario, measuring himself against requirements he’d never had to meet.

“ungodly hours,” he repeated thoughtfully, hair falling across his forehead as he leaned closer. “like how ungodly are we talking?”

“four am, sometimes earlier during busy seasons.” you watched him wince dramatically, all sharp angles and exaggerated horror. the reaction was so genuine it made you laugh, soft sound that seemed to catch his attention like a hook. “different kind of brutal than your workout schedule.”

“definitely different,” he agreed, then found yourself adding, voice softer, “but worth it. when everything comes together perfectly, when you create something that makes people happy...” you trailed off, humming resuming as you lost yourself in the thought. “there’s nothing quite like it.”

the way you said it, gentle and genuine and completely unguarded, made something shift in his expression. that performative confidence melted away entirely, replaced by raw curiosity and something that looked dangerously like longing.

“you really love it,” he observed quietly. not a question, more like a realization. like he was seeing you—really seeing you—for the first time.

“yeah,” you admitted, suddenly shy under his intense focus. smoothed your apron again, nervous gesture that left more flour streaks across the fabric. “i really do.”

silence stretched between you, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. charged instead, humming with possibilities and the weight of his attention. you could feel something shifting in the space between counter and table, subtle but significant. like tectonic plates moving, rearranging the landscape of whatever this was becoming.

and maybe, just maybe, you were starting to see him too. past the perfect exterior and calculated charm, to something more genuine underneath. something worth the risk of letting your guard down.

“well,” he said finally, voice softer than usual, that vulnerability still threading through his tone. straightened in his chair but somehow seemed less distant. “hypothetically speaking, that sounds like something worth learning about.”

you met his gaze, heart doing complicated acrobatics against your ribs. started humming again, melody filling the space between words. “hypothetically.”

“of course.” that slow smile returned, different now. less performative, more real. like sunlight breaking through carefully constructed clouds. “purely theoretical interest.”

“naturally,” you agreed, trying to ignore how your pulse had shifted into overtime.

but as you watched him settle back in his chair, something had definitely changed. the air between you felt thicker, more charged with possibility. and for the first time since this whole thing started, you weren’t entirely sure who was in control of this particular game anymore.

not that you minded being a little lost, especially when the alternative was finding your way back to the safety of professional distance. some risks were worth taking, even if they came wrapped in designer clothing and impossible blue eyes.

two months in, satoru gojo’s meticulously structured life had quietly reorganized itself around flour & sugar’s operating hours. his calendar, once a rigid grid of training blocks and sponsorship meetings, now had soft, flexible pockets of time carved out for “research.”

his trainer, masaru, had progressed from exasperated sighs to leaving passive-aggressive notes about “dietary consistency” taped to his gym locker. one simply read: “carbs are not your friend, satoru.” satoru had crumpled it up with a grin.

his friends had progressed from gentle ribbing about his "carb phase" to outright intervention attempts.

“dude, you know there are other bakeries in the city, right?” his roommate had asked last tuesday, watching satoru check the time for the third time in ten minutes, a nervous energy thrumming under his skin. “ones that don’t require you to rearrange your entire geopolitical schedule?”

satoru had just shrugged, eyes fixed on the clock. “the lighting’s better at this one.”

but they didn’t understand. couldn’t understand. because somewhere between that first accidental like and now, somewhere in the quiet hum of your cafe and the warm scent of your pastries, this had stopped being about the pastries entirely.

wednesday morning found him arriving at his usual time—10:47 am, after the morning rush but before lunch prep fully consumed your attention.

he’d timed it perfectly over weeks of careful observation, memorizing the rhythm of your day like scripture. the bell announced his entrance with a familiar chime, and he felt that stupid, predictable flutter in his chest when you looked up from behind the counter, a small, knowing smile touching your lips.

you were piping something delicate onto petit fours, tiny, jewel-like cakes arranged in neat rows. your movements were precise, economical, each squeeze of the pastry bag adding perfect, miniature rosettes of buttercream. but it was the soft humming that got him—a barely audible, contented melody that seemed to flow from some deep, quiet place inside you. he’d started cataloging these details without meaning to.

“morning, cupcake,” he said, his voice a low, familiar rumble as he settled into his usual spot by the window. the endearment had become natural, automatic, though he wasn’t sure when that had happened. it just… fit.

“morning, satoru.” your voice carried a warmth that made something dangerous and hopeful bloom in his chest. you finished the petit four with a final, delicate flourish, set down the piping bag, and he watched you wipe your hands on your flour-dusted black apron—the same gesture he’d seen hundreds of times now, but it still made him want to memorize the movement. “the usual?”

the usual. like he was a regular fixture, a predictable part of your day, which he supposed he was. chocolate tart, almond croissant, matcha latte with extra sweetness because you’d noticed his ridiculous sweet tooth weeks ago and started accommodating it without him ever having to ask.

“you know me so well,” he said, and the words held more weight than he’d intended.

something flickered across your face—pleasure, maybe, or a quiet satisfaction at being seen as perceptive. you moved through the preparation with a practiced efficiency, but he caught the way you selected his chocolate tart from the back row, where you’d obviously set aside the most perfectly formed one. he noticed how you added just a touch more syrup to his matcha without measuring, your muscle memory perfectly calibrated to his preferences.

these small kindnesses shouldn't have meant so much. but they did. they felt like secrets, quiet acknowledgements of this strange, unspoken thing growing between you.

“here we go,” you said, setting his order down with a quiet care. your fingers brushed his as you handed over the matcha, a contact so brief it was barely there, but so electric it sent a jolt straight up his arm. “perfect timing, too—that tart just came out of the case.”

“perfect timing,” he agreed, his voice a little rough, though he was talking about more than pastries. every visit felt like perfect timing now, like the universe had conspired to place him in this specific seat at this specific moment, watching you create magic from flour and butter and impossible patience.

he settled in, but the cafe felt different today. quieter. the lull between rushes seemed to stretch longer, leaving just the two of you in the warm, sweet-scented space. he ate slowly, deliberately, making the experience last. he’d finish a bite of the rich, decadent tart, then take a sip of the sweet, earthy matcha, his eyes constantly drifting back to you as you worked.

you were arranging the petit fours now, a focused intensity in your movements. you felt his gaze on you, a familiar, warm weight. but it wasn't just observation anymore—it felt like a presence, a quiet companionship that filled the empty spaces in the cafe.

“those look almost too pretty to eat,” he called over, his voice a low, appreciative murmur.

you glanced up, a small, genuine smile touching your lips. “almost,” you agreed. “that’s the goal. make people hesitate for at least a full second before they destroy your hard work.”

he chuckled, a rich sound that made your chest feel warm. “a full second? that’s ambitious. for me, it’s more like half a second of quiet reverence, followed by total annihilation.” he gestured to his now-empty plate as evidence.

the conversation fell into a comfortable silence. he finished his latte, but he didn't move. he didn’t pull out his phone, didn’t start gathering his things. he just sat there, watching you, a soft, unguarded expression on his face. the hesitation was palpable, a quiet reluctance to break the spell of the morning. you felt your own heart beating a little faster. he was waiting. waiting for what, you weren't sure. maybe for you to tell him to leave.

but you didn’t want him to.

your hands stilled on the counter. you took a breath, a small, shaky thing. this was new territory, a step beyond the safety of your professional boundaries. “so,” you started, your voice a little softer than you intended. “i was, uh, working on something new this morning.”

his head tilted, a spark of genuine curiosity lighting up his storm-glass eyes. he leaned forward slightly, all his attention focused on you. “oh yeah? a new instrument of torture for my trainer?”

the familiar banter was a lifeline, and you grabbed it. “something like that,” you said, a real smile breaking through. you ducked into the kitchen for a moment, the hum in your throat picking up a nervous, excited tempo. when you returned, you were holding a small, pristine white plate. on it sat a single, perfect creation.

it was a small, dome-shaped mousse cake, glazed with a mirror finish so pale blue it was almost white, the exact shade of his eyes on a clear winter day. delicate, crystalline sugar work spun around its base like fractured ice, and on top, a single, perfect white chocolate feather rested, reminiscent of his impossible hair, dusted with the finest silver powder. it looked like him. it looked like a feeling you were terrified to name.

you placed it on the counter between you, a silent, trembling offering.

satoru stared at it, his usual playful smirk gone, replaced by an expression of genuine, stunned awe. his eyes, so often a similar shade of impossible blue, widened as he took in the delicate details. the color. the single white feather. the resemblance was subtle, artful, but undeniably there. he knew, instantly, what—or rather, who—he was looking at. “cupcake,” he breathed, the word soft, reverent, barely a whisper. “what is this?”

“i’m not sure what to call it yet,” you admitted, your fingers finding the familiar comfort of your apron, twisting the fabric. “it’s a white chocolate and blueberry mousse. with a yuzu curd center. i was trying to capture a feeling, more than just a flavor.” your eyes were fixed on the cake, unable to meet his.

he looked from the cake to you, his gaze intense, searching, his heart hammering against his ribs. he understood. oh, he understood completely. “what feeling?”

you felt a blush heat your cheeks, a slow, deep burn. you risked a glance up, and the raw vulnerability in his expression made your breath catch. “i don’t know… quiet. calm.” you gestured vaguely at the peaceful cafe around you, a weak attempt at deflection. “like… the feeling you get when you finally perfect something. that moment of peace.” your lie was thin as spun sugar.

he was silent for a long moment, just looking at you, a universe of unspoken understanding passing between your locked gazes. then, his eyes met yours, and there was a raw honesty in them you’d never seen before. “can i…?”

“i was hoping you would,” you said, your voice barely a whisper. “i need an honest opinion. from a professional researcher.”

that earned you a slow, breathtaking smile. it wasn't his usual cocky grin—it was softer, more genuine, and it reached all the way to his eyes, making them crinkle at the corners. “my services are at your disposal.”

he moved from his table to the counter, taking the seat opposite you. the shift was significant. he was no longer a customer in your space—he was a guest, an invited participant. he picked up the small fork you’d provided, his long, callused fingers surprisingly delicate.

he took the first bite with the focus of a bomb disposal expert. you watched, holding your breath, as his expression shifted. his eyes widened slightly, then fluttered closed for a brief, blissful moment. a soft, involuntary sigh escaped his lips.

he chewed slowly, thoughtfully. you saw the surprise as the bright, tart yuzu hit his palate, cutting through the creamy sweetness of the white chocolate and the subtle fruitiness of the blueberry.

when he opened his eyes, they were dark, intense. “cupcake,” he said again, his voice rough with emotion. “that’s… that’s not a pastry. that’s a poem.” he looked from the half-eaten cake back to you, a question in his eyes. a silent asking. is this for me?

pride, warm and overwhelming, bloomed in your chest. “so… it’s okay?” you asked, your voice trembling slightly.

he laughed, a real, incredulous sound. “okay? it’s… perfect.” he took another bite, slower this time, savoring it. “it tastes exactly like you said. like a quiet morning. like… peace.” he looked at you then, and the weight of his gaze was enough to make your knees feel weak. “like finding something you didn't even know you were looking for.”

“i try,” you whispered, your heart doing a wild, joyful dance against your ribs.

he finished the entire cake in a reverent silence. when he was done, he set the fork down gently, a thoughtful, almost sad expression on his face. “the only problem,” he said, looking at the empty plate, “is that it’s over.”

his gaze lifted to yours, and in that moment, in the quiet of the empty cafe, with the ghost of a perfect pastry between you, you both knew he wasn't just talking about the cake anymore.

he was in trouble. deep, irreversible trouble.

and as you looked back at him, a soft, shy smile touching your lips, you realized with a terrifying, exhilarating certainty… so were you.

thursday passed like a held breath.

you found yourself checking the clock obsessively—10:30, 10:45, 10:47. each minute that ticked by without the familiar chime of the entrance bell felt heavier than the last. by 11 am, you’d reorganized the display case twice. by noon, you’d deep-cleaned the espresso machine that was already spotless. by 2 pm, you were fighting the urge to text him, though you didn’t even have his number.

the rational part of your mind supplied perfectly reasonable explanations. content creation. gym sessions. life. but the irrational part—the part that had spent last night dreaming about storm-glass eyes and the way he’d said “perfect” like a prayer—whispered crueler possibilities.

maybe he’d finally realized how far he’d drifted from his carefully curated routine. maybe masaru had staged a successful intervention. maybe yesterday’s cake had been too much, too obvious, too vulnerable.

maybe he’d finally gotten tired of your little bakery.

the lunch rush came and went in a blur of mechanical smiles and automated responses. customers complimented your strawberry danish, your matcha cookies, your perfectly crafted lattes, but their praise felt muted, like hearing music through water. you caught yourself glancing toward his usual table—table three by the window—every few minutes, each time hoping to see white hair catching the afternoon light.

instead, you saw empty chairs and the golden dust motes dancing in the space he usually occupied.

masako, your part-time helper, noticed your distraction during the afternoon lull. “you seem off today,” she said, wiping down the counter with characteristic directness. at sixty-two, she had no patience for subtlety. “waiting for someone?”

“no,” you lied, your voice a little too bright. “just tired.”

she hummed, unconvinced, but left you to your melancholy. you spent the rest of the afternoon perfecting a new recipe for honey lavender madeleines, throwing yourself into the familiar comfort of precise measurements and careful timing. baking had always been your meditation, your way of quieting the noise in your head. but today, even the methodical ritual couldn’t quite drown out the disappointed whisper in your chest.

by 6 pm, you’d accepted the truth. he wasn’t coming.

you began your closing routine with a heavy heart, moving through the familiar motions on autopilot. wiping down tables, washing the last of the display cases, counting the till. the evening light slanted golden through your windows, painting everything in warm honey tones that should have felt cozy but instead felt lonely.

you were just reaching for the door lock, keys jingling softly against your wrist, when you heard it—the soft tap of knuckles against glass.

your heart performed some impossible acrobatics as you turned, and there he was. satoru gojo, looking uncharacteristically nervous in the fading daylight, one hand raised in a small wave, the other clutching something behind his back. his usual confident smirk was nowhere to be found; instead, his expression held a tentative quality that made your chest ache with sudden, overwhelming relief. even anxious, he was devastating—the way his white hair caught the golden hour light like spun silk, how his broad shoulders seemed to fill the doorframe despite the uncertain set to them.

you fumbled with the lock, your hands trembling slightly as you let him in. “satoru,” you breathed, his name carrying more emotion than you’d intended, your fingers still wrapped around the cool metal of your keys. “i thought—”

“i know,” he said quickly, stepping inside and bringing with him the familiar scent of clean soap and something indefinably him. his free hand found the back of his neck, rubbing in a gesture you’d never seen before, vulnerability written in the uncertain tilt of his mouth. “i’m sorry. i had… things to take care of.” a pause, where he seemed to gather courage from somewhere deep. “i was going to come this morning, but then i realized i needed to do this properly.”

“do what properly?” you asked, your pulse hammering against your throat. the question came out softer than intended, curiosity and hope threading through your voice as you unconsciously stepped closer.

instead of answering, he brought his hidden hand forward, revealing a small bouquet that made your breath snag. white camellias, maybe a dozen of them, their petals perfect and pristine as fresh snow. in japan, you knew their meaning: you’re adorable. my destiny. in love with you. the message was clear, vulnerable, impossibly sweet.

satoru’s cheeks flushed the faintest pink as he watched your expression shift, the color spreading across his sculpted features like watercolor on paper. “i spent three hours at five different flower shops,” he admitted, his voice carrying that rare uncertainty that made him seem younger, more human. “the florist at the last one had to explain the meanings because apparently i’m hopeless at this.” his storm-glass eyes met yours, earnest and a little scared, the usual playful glint replaced by something raw and real. “but these… these felt right. they reminded me of yesterday. of that cake. of the way you looked at me when i said it was perfect.”

you took the bouquet with reverent hands, your fingertips brushing his in the transfer—a contact so brief it barely registered but electric enough to send warmth spiraling up your arms. the delicate petals felt like silk against your skin as you brought them closer, breathing in their subtle fragrance. “satoru,” you whispered, and the name came out like a sigh, like gratitude made sound. “they’re beautiful.”

relief flooded his features like sunlight breaking through clouds, and a hint of his usual confidence crept back into the curve of his mouth. those impossibly long lashes fluttered as he blinked, and when he smiled—really smiled, not the practiced grin from his instagram posts—it transformed his entire face. “i was hoping you’d say that. because i have a question to ask you, and i figured flowers might help my case.”

you looked up at him expectantly, your heart doing that familiar flutter-dance, clutching the camellias like an anchor.

“would you…” he started, then stopped, that hand finding his hair again, fingers raking through the white strands and leaving them slightly mussed. you’d never seen him this flustered, and it was endearing beyond words, the way his carefully maintained composure cracked to reveal something beautifully nervous underneath. “god, why is this harder than my first brand partnership pitch?” he muttered to himself, making you laugh despite your nerves.

the sound seemed to center him. “satoru,” you said gently, setting the flowers carefully on the counter, your movements deliberate and soft. “just ask.”

he took a deep breath, his chest rising and falling beneath his fitted black sweater, shoulders squaring as he found his resolve. “would you like to have dinner with me? tonight? there’s this place…” his voice gained momentum, words tumbling out like he was afraid he’d lose his nerve. “it’s small, nothing fancy, but they make the best karaage in shibuya, and their ramen is…” he trailed off, shaking his head with a self-deprecating smile that made your stomach flip. “i’m selling this terribly. what i’m trying to say is, it’s my favorite place. where i go when i need to feel grounded. and i want to share it with you.”

the vulnerability in his voice, the way he was offering you a piece of his private world, made your chest feel too small for your heart. you pressed your palms against the counter for stability, the cool surface grounding you as you processed the magnitude of what he was asking. “i’d love to,” you said simply, and watched his entire body relax with relief, tension melting from his shoulders like snow in spring.

“yeah?” he asked, that devastating smile breaking across his face like sunrise, eyes crinkling at the corners in a way that made you want to memorize every detail.

“yeah,” you confirmed, grinning back at him, your own smile feeling bright enough to power the whole cafe. “just let me grab my things.”

you found a small ceramic vase in your supply closet and arranged the camellias carefully, their white petals catching the last of the evening light. they looked perfect on your counter, a promise of something beautiful beginning. after gathering your cardigan and bag, locking up the cafe with hands that trembled only slightly, you turned to find satoru watching you with soft eyes, his gaze following your movements like he was cataloguing them for later.

“ready?” he asked, offering you his arm like an old-fashioned gentleman, the gesture somehow both casual and reverent.

“ready,” you replied, slipping your hand through the crook of his elbow and trying not to think about how perfectly you fit against his side, how solid and warm he felt beneath the soft fabric of his sweater.

the walk to his favorite restaurant took fifteen minutes through the bustling streets of shibuya. he guided you away from the main tourist areas, down narrow side streets where locals hurried past small family-owned shops and the air smelled like yakitori and car exhaust and the particular energy of tokyo at dinnertime. his free hand occasionally gestured as he talked, painting pictures in the air, and you found yourself watching the elegant line of his wrists, the way his long fingers moved with unconscious grace.

“nervous?” he asked as you walked, and you realized you’d been quieter than usual, too busy cataloguing the way his presence beside you made the familiar streets feel brand new.

“a little,” you admitted, your fingers tightening slightly on his arm. “good nervous, though.”

“me too,” he confessed, and the honesty in his voice made you look up at him in surprise. up close, you could see the faint freckles scattered across his nose, barely visible unless you were really looking. “i haven’t done this in a while. the whole… proper date thing.”

“what do you usually do?” you asked, then immediately regretted the question, your cheeks warming. “sorry, that’s none of my business.”

“no, it’s okay,” he said, his thumb rubbing gentle circles against your arm where your hand rested, the touch absent and soothing. “honestly? usually nothing this meaningful. protein bars in my apartment while editing content isn’t exactly romantic dinner material.” his laugh carried a note of self-deprecation that made you want to argue with him about his worth.

you laughed, the sound bright in the evening air, and felt him relax beside you. “well, you’re setting the bar pretty low for yourself.”

“exactly,” he grinned, and there was that practiced charm again, but softer somehow, more genuine. “smart strategy. exceed expectations by actually trying.”

the restaurant he led you to was tucked between a small bookshop and a traditional tea house, so narrow you almost missed it. the wooden sign above the door was weathered and simple: “momiji.” no english, no tourist-friendly decorations, just the kind of place locals protected fiercely from guidebook discovery.

inside was warm and cramped in the best possible way. maybe ten tables total, most occupied by older couples and small groups of friends talking quietly over steaming bowls. the air was rich with the smell of soy and garlic and chicken fat, and your stomach rumbled appreciatively, the sound making satoru’s mouth quirk with amusement.

“gojo-kun!” called out an elderly woman from behind the counter, her face lighting up with genuine affection that transformed her weathered features into something beautiful.

“evening, chiyo-san,” satoru replied, bowing slightly, and you watched his whole demeanor shift into something warmer, more relaxed. the careful influencer polish melted away, replaced by genuine fondness. “i brought someone special tonight.”

the woman’s eyes immediately shifted to you, taking in your simple cream-colored dress with the tiny floral print and the way satoru’s hand had found the small of your back as he guided you inside, his palm warm even through the fabric. her smile grew knowing, delighted, the expression of someone who’d been waiting for this moment. “ah, i see. the usual table?”

“please,” he said, and she led you to a small booth in the back corner, quieter and more intimate than the rest of the dining room.

as you settled across from each other, the worn wooden bench soft beneath you, you realized how different this felt from your morning encounters at the cafe. there, you’d had the safety of routine, the professional distance of counter service. here, with nothing between you but a small wooden table scarred with years of use and the soft glow of paper lanterns, the connection felt immediate, electric.

“so,” you said, glancing around the cozy space, your fingers playing with the hem of your dress, “how did you find this place?”

his expression grew thoughtful, a little nostalgic, and he leaned back against the booth. even relaxed, there was something elegant about the way he occupied space, long limbs arranged with unconscious grace. “my first year trying to make it as a competitive swimmer, i was broke. like, eating convenience store onigiri for every meal broke.” his fingers drummed against the table, a nervous habit you’d never noticed before. “but i’d just started posting gym content online—mostly because i was bored and thought my workout routines were decent enough to share. turns out people really liked watching me lift heavy things.” his grin turned almost smug, and you could see a hint of that cocky influencer confidence bleeding through. “went from the chubby kid getting laughed at in middle school to having people leave fire emojis on everything i posted. not gonna lie, the ego boost was incredible.”

you nearly choked on your own spit. “you were chubby?” the question came out before you could stop it, eyes widening as you tried to reconcile this information with the man sitting across from you—all sharp angles and lean muscle and the kind of physique that probably broke instagram servers on a regular basis.

his laugh was rich, genuinely amused by your shock. “hard to believe, right? but yeah, i was this round little kid who lived on baa-chan’s pastries and had absolutely zero athletic ability. got picked on pretty relentlessly for it too.” his expression grew more serious for a moment. “kids can be brutal about that stuff.”

“i can’t even imagine,” you said, still staring at him like he’d just revealed he used to be a completely different person. “you’re so…” you gestured vaguely at all of him, “you know.”

“devastatingly handsome?” he supplied with a grin that was pure mischief.

you rolled your eyes, but you were smiling. “i was going to say fit, but your ego doesn’t need any more help.”

“my ego is perfectly calibrated, thank you very much,” he said, taking another bite with obvious satisfaction. “six million followers can’t be wrong.”

“six million?” you nearly choked on your tea, your eyes widening in genuine shock. you’d known he was popular—the blue checkmark, the sudden influx of customers at your cafe—but that number was astronomical. you hadn't even looked when you’d first clicked on his profile, too stunned by the… scenery.

a flicker of confusion crossed his features, quickly replaced by a slow, amused smirk. he leaned forward, propping his chin on his hand, those storm-glass eyes sparkling with pure mischief. “wait a minute,” he said, his voice dropping to a low, teasing drawl. “you’re telling me you stalked my entire profile, ‘accidentally’ liked my abs, and you didn’t even clock the follower count?” his eyebrows rose in mock disbelief. “cupcake, were you that mesmerized?”

heat flooded your cheeks, a furious, mortifying blush. “it was an accident!” you insisted, your voice a little too high. “my phone slipped! literally! it fell on my face!”

he just laughed, a rich, delighted sound that made chiyo-san glance over with a fond smile. “sure it did. a very convenient, gravity-induced slip right onto the like button of my most recent thirst trap.” he leaned back, looking incredibly pleased with himself. “it’s okay to admit it. my content is very… engaging.”

“it was an accident,” you repeated through gritted teeth, though the corner of your mouth was twitching with a smile you were desperately trying to suppress. “i barely even noticed.”

“you noticed enough to get flustered when i walked into your cafe the next day,” he countered, his grin widening. “don’t worry, your secret’s safe with me.” he winked, a quick, devastatingly charming gesture.

you sighed in dramatic, feigned defeat, shaking your head in amused disbelief. here he was, this successful influencer with millions of people thirsting over his content, sitting in a tiny restaurant getting excited about karaage and still finding the time to relentlessly tease you about a two-month-old instagram mishap.

he gestured around the small restaurant with obvious affection, his smile softening, the teasing glint in his eyes receding as he switched back to the more serious topic. “anyway… that first real brand deal came through when i had a lot fewer followers than i do now. i wandered around for hours after i got the email, just buzzing, until i smelled chiyo-san’s karaage and… followed my nose. she fed me for about half what anywhere else would have charged, and when i tried to tip her, she refused. said young athletes needed to save their money for important things.”

“like what?” you asked, charmed by the story, by the way his whole face animated as he spoke.

“protein powder, apparently,” he laughed, the sound rich and genuine. “she’s been trying to fatten me up ever since. every time i come in, she adds extra portions and pretends not to notice.” his expression shifted, became more thoughtful. “funny thing is, she reminds me of my grandmother. same stubborn kindness, same inability to let people leave hungry.”

something in his voice made you lean forward slightly, sensing a story. “your grandmother?”

“baa-chan,” he said, and the childhood nickname made him look younger somehow, vulnerability flickering across his features like candlelight. “she lived with us when i was little. made the most incredible pastries—mont blanc, cream puffs, these little butter cookies shaped like flowers.” his fingers moved as he spoke, sketching shapes in the air. “i was… well, let’s just say i was a chubby kid with zero self-control around her baking.”

the admission came with a self-conscious laugh, and you watched him duck his head slightly, white hair falling across his forehead in a way that made your fingers itch to brush it back. “i probably ate my weight in cream puffs every week. my parents were horrified—kept talking about discipline and proper nutrition—but baa-chan would just smile and make me another batch.”

“what happened?” you asked softly, sensing the weight beneath his words.

“she died when i was twelve,” he said simply, but you caught the way his jaw tightened slightly, the old grief still tender. “that’s actually when i got serious about swimming. needed something to prove, you know? the chubby kid who got picked on suddenly had abs and could out-swim anyone.” his laugh held a note of old satisfaction. “worked pretty well too, until my shoulder decided otherwise at nineteen.” he shrugged, and there was something almost casual about it, like he’d made peace with that disappointment long ago. “funny thing though—turns out all that discipline translated perfectly to social media. and honestly? after years of being called names, having people thirst over my workout videos was… pretty addictive.”

the parallel wasn’t lost on you—him finding your bakery, the way he’d gravitated toward your humming, your pastries, your quiet care. your throat felt tight with understanding. “she sounds wonderful,” you managed, your voice softer than intended.

“she would have loved you,” he said, and the certainty in his voice made warmth bloom in your chest. “would have probably tried to steal all your recipes and then pretend she’d invented them herself.”

a soft, watery laugh escaped you at the image, a sound thick with an emotion you couldn't quite name. you reached across the small table, your fingers gently covering his where they rested on the wood. his own smile softened in response, and he turned his hand over to tangle his fingers with yours, giving them a gentle squeeze. “i think i would have liked her too,” you said, your voice a little shaky. “even with the threat of culinary espionage.”

as if summoned by your shared laughter, chiyo-san appeared at your table with a pot of jasmine tea and a knowing smile, her approach breaking the tender moment. “the usual for you, gojo-kun?”

“the usual sounds perfect,” he confirmed, then turned to you with a slightly sheepish expression, running his hand through his hair in that nervous gesture. “i hope you don’t mind me ordering for both of us. she knows what i like, and trust me, you want what i’m having.”

“i trust you,” you said, and something in his eyes flickered with pleasure at the words, his whole posture straightening slightly.

chiyo-san bustled away, and you found yourselves alone again in the warm bubble of the corner booth. the awkwardness you’d expected on a first date was nowhere to be found—instead, conversation flowed as easily as it did in your cafe, maybe easier without the professional barriers.

“so,” he said, leaning forward slightly, his elbows on the table, “tell me something i don’t know about you.”

you considered this, idly tracing patterns on the wooden table with your finger, the surface smooth from years of use. “i didn’t always want to run a bakery,” you admitted, glancing up to find his attention completely focused on you, those storm-glass eyes intent and curious. “i went to university for literature. thought i’d be a translator, maybe work in publishing.”

“what changed your mind?” his question came with that particular quality of attention he gave you—like you were the only person in the world worth listening to.

“my grandmother,” you said, and your smile carried the warmth of a thousand memories. “she taught me to bake when i was little. not recipes from books, but the kind of knowledge that lives in your hands. how to tell when dough is ready by feel, how to adjust for humidity, all those little secrets that make the difference between good and extraordinary.”

you paused as chiyo-san returned with plates of food—golden karaage chicken that smelled like heaven, perfectly chewy ramen with rich, cloudy broth, gyoza with crispy bottoms and tender tops, and several small dishes you didn’t recognize but immediately wanted to try. the portions were generous enough to feed a small army.

“this looks incredible,” you breathed, the savory aroma making your mouth water.

“chiyo-san’s love language is overfeeding people,” satoru explained, already reaching for his chopsticks with the practiced ease of someone who’d done this countless times. “but finish your story. about your grandmother.”

you took a tentative bite of the karaage and nearly made an embarrassing sound of pleasure at the perfect balance of crispy exterior and juicy interior, your eyes fluttering closed for just a moment. “oh my god, this is amazing.”

“right?” his smile was proud, like he’d made it himself, and you caught the way he watched you taste everything, cataloguing your reactions with obvious satisfaction. “best in the city. now keep talking.”

“well,” you continued between bites, your chopsticks moving with less grace than his but no less enthusiasm, “when she got sick, i took leave from my job to take care of her. we spent months baking together, and she made me promise to keep her recipes alive. not just the techniques, but the feeling behind them. the idea that food can be comfort, celebration, love made tangible.”

your voice grew softer, more vulnerable, and you found yourself looking down at your bowl. “she died two weeks before i was supposed to start my master’s program. instead of going back to school for my master's, i realized what i really wanted. i used my savings for culinary school instead, and then opened flour & sugar. some days i think she’d be proud. other days i wonder if i gave up too easily on my original dreams.”

satoru’s chopsticks stilled in his bowl, and when you looked up, his expression was gentle, understanding written in the soft set of his features. “you didn’t give up,” he said quietly, and there was conviction in his voice that made your chest tight. “you just found a different way to tell stories. every pastry you make, every customer you welcome—that’s narrative too. connection. meaning.”

the simple validation made your throat tight with emotion, and you had to blink back the sudden threat of tears. “you think so?”

“i know so,” he said firmly, leaning forward slightly, his intensity focused entirely on you. “because i’ve been living that story for two months now. every morning at 10:47, getting to be part of whatever magic you create in that little space.”

you felt heat bloom in your cheeks, partly from his words and partly from a sudden realization that had been nagging at you all evening. “satoru,” you started hesitantly, your fingers tightening around your chopsticks, “can i ask you something?”

“anything,” he said, then caught your serious tone and set down his chopsticks entirely, giving you his complete attention.

“your routine,” you said carefully, worrying your lower lip between your teeth, “your content schedule, your training… am i messing that up for you? because if masaru is angry, or if coming to the cafe is interfering with your workouts…”

he was quiet for a long moment, considering his response, and you watched emotions flicker across his face—surprise, thoughtfulness, something that might have been relief. when he spoke, his voice was thoughtful, honest.

“yes,” he said simply, and your heart sank until he continued, his mouth quirking into a rueful smile. “you’ve completely destroyed my routine. i used to plan content three weeks in advance. i had optimal posting times calculated to the minute. i scheduled my life in fifteen-minute increments for maximum engagement.”

“satoru—” you started, distress clear in your voice.

“let me finish,” he said gently, and there was something in his expression that made you settle back, though worry still thrummed beneath your skin. “you’ve ruined all of that. and it’s the best thing that’s ever happened to me.”

you stared at him, confusion clear in your expression, your head tilting slightly in that way you had when you were trying to puzzle something out.

“for three years, since swimming didn’t work out, i’ve been pretty happy with what i built,” he continued, his hands gesturing as he spoke, and you found yourself watching the elegant movement of his fingers. “good content, solid following, enough brand deals to live comfortably. got to turn all that training discipline into something that actually pays the bills.” his smile was easy, confident. “and honestly? i was enjoying it. liked the routine, liked the control, liked seeing the numbers go up.”

he reached across the table, his fingers brushing against yours where they rested beside your ramen bowl, and the touch sent electricity racing up your arm. “but then i found your cafe, and suddenly i had something to look forward to that wasn’t about hitting my macros or optimal posting times. something that was just… nice. simple good. like that first bite of your chocolate tart, or the way you hum when you’re concentrating, or how you remember exactly how i like my matcha without me having to ask.”

his thumb traced across your knuckles, the touch feather-light but grounding, and you found yourself holding your breath. “masaru thinks i’ve gotten distracted, and he’s probably right. but honestly? i’m not complaining. life’s been pretty good to me, but this…” he gestured vaguely between you both, “this is something different. something better.”

the weight of his confession settled between you like a shared secret, and around you, the restaurant hummed with quiet conversation and clinking chopsticks, but you felt suspended in this moment, in the warm golden light and the earnestness in his eyes.

“so no,” he said, his voice dropping to something warm, genuine, meant only for you, “you’re not messing anything up. if anything, you’re making everything more interesting.”

you felt warmth bloom in your chest—relief, happiness, something sweet and uncomplicated swelling until you could barely contain your smile. “that’s either the nicest thing anyone’s ever said to me,” you managed, your voice slightly wobbly as you turned your hand palm-up beneath his, fingers intertwining, “or you’re really good at making excuses for carb addiction.”

he threw back his head and laughed, the sound rich and delighted and completely unguarded, and the momentary emotional intensity dissolved into warmth, comfort, the easy joy of sharing a meal with someone who understood the shape of your heart.

“probably both,” he admitted, grinning as he brought your joined hands to his lips, pressing a soft kiss to your knuckles that made your entire body feel warm. “masaru keeps leaving increasingly desperate notes in my gym locker. yesterday’s just said ‘vegetables exist, satoru.’”

“he’s not wrong,” you said, gesturing at the mountain of fried chicken between you with your free hand, though you made no move to let go of his. “this is not exactly influencer food.”

“which is why,” he said, reaching for another piece of karaage with his chopsticks, absolutely no shame in his expression, “we’re going to enjoy every single bite, and tomorrow i’ll do an extra workout. balance.”

you spent the next hour working through chiyo-san’s generous spread, talking about everything and nothing. he told you about growing up in a family that expected perfection, about the pressure of competition, about the crushing disappointment when his swimming career ended with a shoulder injury at nineteen. you shared stories about the early days of the cafe, the learning curve of small business ownership, the quiet satisfaction of creating something with your own hands.

the conversation flowed like you’d known each other for years instead of months, punctuated by his groans of appreciation for the food and your laughter at his increasingly dramatic descriptions of masaru’s passive-aggressive campaign to restore his “macro discipline.”

“he’s started leaving printed meal plans in my gym bag,” satoru confessed, twirling ramen noodles around his chopsticks with practiced ease, his expression one of amused exasperation. “like a nutrition-focused fairy, but more judgmental and with better organizational skills.”

“maybe you should introduce him to my neighbor,” you suggested, dabbing at a drop of broth on your chin with your napkin. “she leaves notes about proper composting technique on everyone’s door. they could bond over their shared love of unsolicited improvement projects.”

“god, can you imagine?” he grinned, his eyes crinkling with genuine mirth. “they’d have the most organized, health-conscious children in tokyo.”

by the time chiyo-san brought you perfectly ripe persimmons and more jasmine tea, the restaurant had begun to empty out. you’d somehow made it through most of the food—a feat that seemed impossible when the plates first arrived—and you felt full in the best possible way, warm and content and slightly drowsy from good food and better company.

“i should probably get you home,” satoru said eventually, though his tone suggested he’d rather do anything else, his thumb still tracing absent patterns across your knuckles. “it’s getting late, and you have to open tomorrow.”

“unfortunately,” you agreed, though you made no move to gather your things, reluctant to break the spell of the evening.

he signaled chiyo-san for the check, waving off your attempts to pay with a firm shake of his head that left no room for argument. “this was my idea,” he said, his voice carrying that quiet authority that probably served him well in business negotiations. “besides, you make me breakfast five days a week. it’s the least i can do.”

“that’s different,” you protested, your cheeks warming. “that’s business.”

“is it?” he asked, his eyes holding yours with an intensity that made your pulse skip, the question loaded with weeks of careful circling around each other. “because it hasn’t felt like business for a while now.”

heat bloomed in your cheeks, and you looked down at your hands, still tangled with his. “no,” you admitted quietly, the word barely above a whisper. “it hasn’t.”

he settled the bill with chiyo-san, who sent you off with a paper bag of extra gyoza “for tomorrow’s lunch” and promises that you were welcome back anytime, her knowing smile making it clear she approved of satoru’s choice. the night air was cool against your skin as you stepped outside, a pleasant contrast to the warm restaurant, and you pulled your cardigan closer around your shoulders.

“which direction?” satoru asked, offering his arm again, the gesture now familiar and comforting.

you pointed toward the quieter residential area a few blocks away, and he fell into step beside you, matching his longer stride to yours with the easy consideration that seemed to come naturally to him. the streets were less crowded now, mostly couples heading home from dinners and workers catching late trains.

“thank you,” you said as you walked, your hand warm in the crook of his elbow, feeling the solid strength of his arm beneath the soft fabric of his sweater. “for tonight. for the flowers. for… all of it.”

“thank you,” he replied, and there was something wondering in his voice, like he couldn’t quite believe his luck, “for saying yes. and for making that cake yesterday. i know it was for me.”

you felt a flutter of nervousness in your stomach, your steps faltering slightly. “was it that obvious?”

“the white chocolate feather was a dead giveaway,” he teased gently, his voice warm with affection, but then his expression grew more serious. “but even without that, i would have known. you put yourself into everything you create. it’s one of the things i…” he trailed off, suddenly uncertain.

“one of the things you what?” you prompted, though your heart was already beating faster, hope and fear warring in your chest.

just as he was about to answer, his phone buzzed sharply, shattering the quiet between you. he flinched, annoyance flashing across his face as he pulled it out. you caught masaru’s name before he silenced the call with a jab and shoved the phone back, sighing.

the fragile thread of his confession snapped. he looked away, jaw tight, then met your gaze again—this time not raw, but steadier, warmer, as though he’d chosen a safer honesty.

he stopped walking, turning to face you under the soft glow of a street lamp, the light casting golden highlights in his impossible hair. his hands found yours, warm and slightly callused and infinitely gentle, and the touch grounded you even as it sent your pulse racing. “

i had a really good time tonight,” he said quietly, his storm-glass eyes searching your face with an intensity that made your breath catch. “like, really good. better than good.”

the words hung in the air between you, warm and honest and making your heart do that familiar flutter-dance in your chest. you felt your breath catch, your entire world narrowing to this moment, this quiet confession, the way he was looking at you like you were something wonderful and unexpected.

“me too,” you whispered, your voice full of wonder and possibility.

he looked like he wanted to kiss you then. you could see it in the way his eyes dropped to your lips for a fraction of a second, the slight parting of his own. you wanted him to. you wanted it more than you’d wanted anything in a long time. but the moment stretched, suspended and fragile, and neither of you moved. the spell broke when a car passed, its headlights momentarily blinding you both, and the chance was gone.

he cleared his throat, a faint flush on his cheeks, and let go of one of your hands. “we should… get you home.”

the rest of the walk passed in a charged, comfortable silence. the unspoken moment from the streetlamp hung between you, electric and full of promise.

“this is me,” you said as you reached the small apartment building where you lived above a quiet bookshop, the familiar sight made new by his presence beside you. the white camellias waiting in your cafe felt like they were calling to you, a promise of sweet tomorrows.

he stopped at the entrance, his hands finding the pockets of his cargo pants. “well… goodnight, cupcake.” there was a touch of awkwardness in his posture, a reluctance to leave that was both sweet and agonizing.

“goodnight, satoru.”

he lingered for a beat longer, his storm-glass eyes holding yours. you knew if you didn’t do something now, the night would end on this note of sweet, unresolved tension. and that simply wouldn’t do.

before you could lose your nerve, you reached up, your fingers finding the soft collar of his sweater. he looked down at you, surprise widening his eyes. with a soft tug, you pulled his head down towards you. even then, with his six-foot-plus frame bent, you still had to rise up on your tiptoes, stretching to reach him.

it wasn’t his lips you found. it was his cheek. you pressed a soft, quick, deliberate kiss to the spot just beside his mouth, your own lips lingering for just a fraction of a second against his skin. it was warm, smooth, and felt impossibly intimate.

“bye,” you whispered against his cheek, then you pulled back, let go of his sweater, and practically fled—turning and rushing up the steps to your building’s entrance without a backward glance, your cheeks absolutely on fire.

satoru stood frozen on the sidewalk for a full minute after your door clicked shut, stunned into immobility. slowly, his fingers came up to touch the spot on his cheek where your lips had been. a slow, genuine, devastatingly happy smile spread across his face, unguarded and brilliant under the streetlight.

inside, you leaned your back against the cool wood of your apartment door, your heart hammering against your ribs. you brought a trembling hand up to your own lips, a disbelieving laugh bubbling up in your chest. a mix of pure terror and giddy exhilaration coursed through you. what did you just do?

a moment later, your phone buzzed in your bag with a familiar notification sound. you fumbled for it, your hands still shaking, and saw the instagram icon on your screen. it was him. a new message.

squatoru: you missed 😉 but thank you. see you tomorrow, cupcake.

you stared at the screen, a wide, foolish grin spreading across your face. the teasing emoji, the playful admonishment through the same app where this all started, the sweet promise of “tomorrow”—it was perfect. it was everything.

your heart did complicated acrobatics as you typed back a simple, breathless reply. tomorrow, you decided as you got ready for bed, still smiling at your reflection in the bathroom mirror, you were going to make him something even better than that cake. something that tasted like jasmine tea and stolen kisses and the beginning of something beautiful.

after all, you had a story to tell. and now you had someone who wanted to read every chapter, someone who understood that the best stories weren’t the ones you planned, but the ones that found you when you were busy making other, smaller plans. and you couldn't wait to see what happened in the next chapter.

the weeks following your first date settled into a new, delicious rhythm. satoru’s visits were no longer just a feature of your mornings—they were the anchor around which the day pivoted. his excuses grew bolder, more ridiculous, delivered with a playful glint in his eyes that dared you to call his bluff. “my coffee machine is staging a protest,” he’d declared one monday, looking deeply offended. “it refuses to respect my caffeine requirements.” another time, he’d claimed he was performing a “long-term atmospheric study” of the cafe.

the tentative space between you had warmed, filled with inside jokes murmured over the counter and a steady stream of late-night texts that ranged from his profound thoughts on protein-to-carb ratios to blurry photos of his cat sleeping on his face. yet, for all the new intimacy, an invisible line remained, drawn somewhere between a shared laugh and the memory of a soft, hesitant kiss on a quiet street corner. the air between you hummed with a constant, unspoken question.

which brought you to this thursday.

the afternoon had bled into soft golden-hour evening, the last loyal customers drifting out into cooling air, leaving behind lingering coffee scent and quiet refrigerator hum.

you were twenty minutes from closing, moving through your end-of-day routine with practiced, meditative rhythm. wiping down the gleaming stainless steel counters, the sharp sanitizer scent cutting through the day’s symphony of sugar and butter. humming a soft, unidentifiable tune that filled the empty space like invisible thread weaving through silence.

he was still there. satoru. at his usual table, fortress of one, half-empty matcha latte sweating onto a coaster. he was pretending to work on his sleek, expensive laptop that seemed alien in the cozy analog warmth of your café. but the screen had been dark for ten minutes, its black surface reflecting the warm, buttery pendant light glow.

he was just watching you. watching you move through your closing routine with the kind of quiet, unwavering attention usually reserved for things you never want to forget. his focus was a tangible weight between your shoulder blades.

“you know,” he says suddenly, his voice a low, unexpected rumble that cuts through the comfortable silence, startling you from your rhythmic wiping. those long fingers drummed a restless, silent rhythm against the closed laptop—a nervous tell you’d never seen from satoru gojo before. the man who moved through the world like he owned it was nervous. the realization sent a warm, unfamiliar jolt through you.

you paused, cloth in hand, leaning a hip against the counter. the setting sun slanted through the large front window, catching the silver strands of his hair, turning them to spun gold. “what’s that? wondering if i’m ever going to kick you out so i can finally go home?”

he smiled, a slow, easy stretch that didn’t quite reach his storm-glass eyes. there was something different there today, a depth you hadn’t seen before. “something like that,” he admitted, his voice softer. he closed the laptop with a quiet click, the sound definitive, final. “how long does it actually take to learn? to do what you do?”

this wasn’t his casual, playful curiosity from before. not banter about his “research methodology.” this was deeper. vulnerable. it made your breath catch in ways that had nothing to do with flour dust.

“depends what you want to learn,” you said carefully, your voice quiet in the empty café, sensing the delicate shift in the air between you. you placed the cleaning cloth on the counter, giving him your full attention.

“everything.” the word hung in the air, heavy with unspoken meaning. he stood, unfolding from his chair with fluid grace that was at odds with the tension in his shoulders. all that easy, performative confidence had been stripped away, replaced by something raw and honest. “i want to understand it all. the whole process. from scratch.”

you turned to look at him properly, taking in the way he watched you with those impossible eyes, the slight tension in his jaw like he was bracing for rejection. “from scratch?” you echoed, a faint disbelieving hum in your throat. “satoru, that’s... that would take a while. it’s not just following recipes. it’s feel. touch. intuition you build over years.”

“i know,” he said, his gaze unwavering. he took a step closer, then another, until he was leaning against the counter opposite you, the broad stainless steel expanse the only separation. the space felt charged, intimate. “i’ve been watching you. it’s different. the way you work. there’s patience to it. respect for the ingredients.” his voice dropped lower, more intimate. “i want to understand what it feels like to create something like you do. not just consume it.”

the confession, earnest and stripped of his usual charm, rewired something fundamental in your chest. he wasn’t just talking about baking. he was talking about meaning, purpose—things you never would have associated with the man who posted thirst traps for a living.

“that would take months, maybe longer,” you said, your voice barely a whisper.

“i’ve got time,” he said immediately, the words a quiet, fervent promise. he pushed off the counter, moving around it until he was standing in your workspace, in your world. he was close enough that you could smell the faint clean scent of his cologne, the subtle matcha sweetness on his breath. “we could start tonight. if you want. something simple.”

your heart hammered against your ribs, a frantic bird trapped in your chest. you realized what he was really asking for. not just lessons. not just a hobby. your time, your space, a piece of your world. he was asking for you.

“it’s almost closing time, satoru,” you managed, the words a weak protest against the overwhelming tide of his sincerity.

“i know.” another step closer. his storm-glass eyes were dark, intense, searching yours. “perfect timing, actually. no interruptions.”

you hesitated, suddenly acutely aware of how empty the café felt, how the golden late-afternoon light streaming through the windows made everything feel dreamlike and charged. you could hear the soft refrigerator hum, the quiet clock ticking, the frantic thumping of your own heart. he saw your pause, the flicker of uncertainty in your eyes, and something shifted in his expression—doubt maybe, disappointment that made your chest ache.

“unless you’re too tired,” he started, his voice suddenly losing its confident edge, “or you have plans, or this is a stupid idea, or—”

“no!” the word came out too enthusiastic, cutting him off. you felt a mortifying blush creep up your neck. you cleared your throat, trying to regain some composure. “i mean, yes. we could do that. tonight.”

the smile that spread across his face was different from any you’d seen before. not his usual cocky smirk, nor the playful teasing grin. this one was softer, more genuine, tinged with profound relief and something that looked dangerously like joy. it transformed his entire face, made him look younger, more vulnerable. utterly beautiful.

“yeah?” he breathed, the single word full of hopeful, boyish charm that completely undid you.

“yeah,” you confirmed, a real, unguarded smile finally breaking through your professional facade. “but you’re on dish duty.”

he laughed, a bright, relieved sound that echoed in the quiet café, and in that moment something fragile and beautiful and terrifying was born between you.

you settled on chocolate soufflé. it felt appropriate—impressive enough to justify the extended after-hours lesson, but delicate enough to require real technique and timing. a challenge worthy of his newfound sincerity.

you flipped the sign to ‘closed’, the soft lock click echoing in the silence. you dimmed the front lights, leaving just the warm, focused glow of the kitchen workspace, creating an intimate golden bubble just for the two of you.

“soufflé?” he raised an eyebrow as you pulled out ramekins, his voice a low, amused rumble. he was leaning against the prep counter, watching with an intensity that made your skin prickle. he’d shed his expensive long-sleeved shirt, revealing a plain black t-shirt that clung to every powerful line of his torso. no designer labels, no carefully tousled hair. he looked simpler. more real. and almost nervous, a faint tension in his broad shoulders that you found ridiculously endearing. “isn’t that supposed to be impossible? the final boss of desserts?”

“only if you don’t understand the science,” you said, gathering your hair with practiced efficiency, tying it back. you felt his eyes on the nape of your neck, a warm focused heat. you started humming under your breath, a soft melody that always accompanied your more delicate work. “it’s all about incorporating air properly, then not letting it collapse. it’s very... temperamental.”

the word hung suspended in the chocolate-scented air, heavy with obvious double meaning. his storm-glass eyes darkened slightly, a slow knowing smile touching his lips.

“first, we make the base,” you explained, your voice slightly breathy as you turned to face him. you showed him how to melt dark chocolate with butter in a double boiler, the rich intoxicating scent starting to fill the air. “low and slow. you can’t rush it, or everything seizes up. gets bitter.”

he stood beside you, closer than necessary, watching intently as you stirred the mixture with a wooden spoon, the chocolate melting into a glossy dark pool. when you handed the spoon over, his fingers brushed yours, a brief electric touch that sent a jolt up your arm.

“like this?” his voice was a low murmur as he mimicked your gentle circular motions. his focus was absolute, his usual playful energy replaced by quiet, earnest concentration that made something warm bloom in your chest.

“perfect. keep that rhythm.” when he started stirring just a little too fast, a little too aggressively, he moved behind you to adjust the motion. his broad chest pressed against your back as he covered your hand with his much larger one, and you went completely still. the solid wall of muscle behind you made thinking suddenly impossible. you could feel every shift of his torso, the way his breathing had gotten slightly unsteady, the heat radiating through his thin t-shirt. “feel how it’s getting smoother? the proteins are relaxing. you have to be gentle,” you managed, voice breathless and unsteady.

“sorry, cupcake,” he murmured against the top of your head, voice soft and slightly shaky. “i’m... not usually this nervous about stirring things.” there was wonder in his tone, like he couldn’t quite believe he was here, doing this with you.

his voice was a low, rough growl when he answered. “kind of hard to focus with you pressed against me like this, cupcake.”

but the real intimacy, the real danger, came with the egg whites. you separated them with practiced grace, the yolks and whites parting cleanly. when you handed him the large copper bowl and the whisk, he looked genuinely intimidated, like you’d just handed him a live grenade.

“this is the make-or-break moment,” you told him, your voice soft but firm. you showed him the copper bowl, the clear viscous whites shimmering within. “the whites need to be perfect—not under-whisked, not over-whisked. just right. perfect stiff peaks.”

he started whisking, and it was all wrong. too aggressive, too fast, his powerful shoulders putting way too much force into it. the whites started foaming unevenly, large sloppy bubbles forming instead of the fine consistent foam you needed.

“no, no,” you said, looking up at his technique with barely contained laughter. “gentle at first, then build up. like this. it’s not about strength—it’s about rhythm.”

he stepped behind you with obvious reluctance, like he wasn’t quite sure this was a good idea either. “show me,” he said, voice slightly strained. his much larger hands covered yours on the whisk handle, his chest pressed against your back as he leaned over your shoulder to watch the bowl. the solid wall of muscle behind you made your pulse stutter, and you could tell from his uneven breathing that he was just as affected. “this is... harder than it looks,” he murmured, clearly talking about more than whisking.

“slow circles first,” you managed, acutely aware of how he was bracketing you, the clean scent of his cologne mixing with lingering chocolate. you started the motion, and he followed your rhythm with careful precision, his hands slightly unsteady over yours. you felt him lean down, his breath warm against your ear, and you had to bite back a nervous giggle at how ridiculous this all was. “feel the resistance change? now we can go faster.”

“this is torture,” he said softly, but there was fondness in his voice, like he was amazed by his own predicament. when you sped up the whisking motion, his body moved with yours, and he let out a soft, almost helpless sound that made you want to turn around and kiss the dazed expression you knew was on his face.

“they’re getting stiff,” he said, his voice rough, strained.

“perfect stiff peaks,” you agreed, your own voice shaky, though you were definitely talking about more than egg whites now. the air was thick with unspoken things, with the scent of chocolate and the clean masculine smell of him. “now comes the tricky part.”

“but first,” you said, reaching for the small container of flour from a nearby shelf, “let me just...” you dipped your fingers into the white powder, then without warning, dabbed it across his cheek, leaving a pale streak across his sharp cheekbone.

he went completely still, his storm-glass eyes widening in surprise. “did you just—”

“oops,” you said innocently, but the smile tugging at your lips gave you away. “occupational hazard. flour gets everywhere in real kitchens.”

a slow, dangerous smile spread across his face. “is that so?” he reached for the flour container, dipped his own fingers. before you could react, he’d brushed powder across your nose, a gentle touch that made your breath catch. “seems like you’re right. very hazardous.”

what followed was gentle chaos. a playful flour fight that had you both laughing breathlessly, white powder dusting your hair and clothes and every surface within reach. he was careful not to be too aggressive, but his competitive streak showed when he managed to get a handful down the back of your apron.

“satoru!” you squeaked, arching away from the cold powder, which only pressed you closer against his chest. he was grinning down at you, flour in his silver hair making him look younger, more carefree than you’d ever seen him.

“what? you started it, cupcake.” his voice was warm with laughter, his hands settling on your waist to steady you. “just evening the playing field.”

“we’re supposed to be baking,” you protested weakly, but you were smiling too hard to sound stern. you hummed a soft laugh that made his eyes crinkle at the corners.

“we are baking,” he said solemnly, though his eyes sparkled with mischief. “this is... technique development. very important for proper soufflé preparation.”

“technique development,” you repeated skeptically.

“absolutely. building trust between chef and... sous chef.” his fingers tightened slightly on your waist. “can’t make good food without trust, right?”

something in his voice made you look up at him properly. you were both flour-streaked and disheveled, hair messed and clothes dusty, but his expression was soft, genuine. like he was asking about more than just cooking.

“right,” you agreed quietly. “trust is... essential.”

the moment stretched between you, charged with possibility, until the timer on your phone chimed a reminder about the chocolate base.

“folding is an art,” you told him after you’d both brushed off the worst of the flour, your voice a low murmur as you spooned a third of the whipped egg whites into the chocolate base. you started humming again, a soft tune that helped organize your movements. “too rough, and you’ll knock out all the air we just built up. too gentle, and it won’t incorporate properly.”

you demonstrated the motion—a gentle lift up from the bottom, a turn of the spoon, a clean cut down through the mixture. it was graceful, practiced, almost hypnotic. a quiet ballet of the hands.

“your turn,” you said, handing him the spoon, your eyes locking with his over the bowl. his were dark, almost black, pupils blown wide.

his first attempts were clumsy, awkward. he was trying to stir, not fold, and you could see the frustration building in the tense set of his shoulders.

“here,” you murmured, gesturing for him to step behind you again. “it’s easier if you can see the motion properly.” this time when he moved to stand behind you, his positioning was more natural but no less distracting—his height allowing him to look over your shoulder easily, though he seemed to be having trouble concentrating on anything but the way you fit against his chest.

you demonstrated the folding motion with him watching intently, his breath tickling your ear. “lift... turn... cut down,” you guided softly, trying to ignore how his hands trembled slightly when they covered yours. “it’s all about the wrist action. gentle but firm.”

the double entendre hung in the air, and you felt him go completely still behind you, then let out a quiet, slightly hysterical laugh. “you’re killing me here, cupcake,” he said, voice strained but fond. “i’m trying to be a gentleman.”

“like that?” he asked when you guided him through the motion, voice breathless and wondering, like he couldn’t quite believe he was here doing this with you.

“exactly like that,” you whispered back, your own voice soft with affection and barely contained laughter at how completely gone you both were. “you’re a natural.”

the confession, so simple and true, settled between you like flour in still air, impossible to take back. you didn’t step away this time. you couldn’t. instead, your hands tightened over his on the spoon, a silent mutual acknowledgment that this had stopped being about baking.

“satoru,” you whispered, his name a soft questioning sound against his skin.

he turned in your arms, the movement slow, deliberate, until you were pressed between his warm solid chest and the cool unyielding edge of the counter. the spoon was forgotten, clattering onto the prep surface as his hands, large and warm and sure, found your waist.