"Lelouch, do you know why snow is white?“

“Why are you both in here? This doesn't feel like a conversation that requires a town hall meeting,” Logan grumbles.

“Well, I don’t cook, so it can’t have been me. Must’ve been Tucker,” Dean says.

Tucker walks in then, as if on cue. “If you're spreading bullshit about me, Dean, I'm here to defend myself. For the record: yes, I did make bacon, and there's a plate downstairs. But I was not the one who poured grease down the drain, because I'm not a fool.”

They all look at Dean, who bobs his head. Logan really wishes he had a stack of pucks to chuck at them right now. 

“Yeah, I lied earlier,” Dean says. “It was me. I wanted to use the cup.”

Logan smiles flatly. “I already knew it was you, dumbass. You clog every drain in the house once a week. Vote time. Everyone in favor of kicking Dean out forever?”

The three of them say aye. Dean squawks like a big blond bird. 

“Nay! It's not my fault. How am I supposed to know what to do with bacon grease?”

“Yeah, how's the little prince supposed to know?” Tucker says, rolling his eyes. 

Then he bolts for the door, Dean on his heels. Logan sighs and lies back, staring up at the ceiling. He dreamt about you again. You were on the ice, skating with him, telling him how much you like Taco Bell. He kissed you. 

Then Dean clogged the drain and woke him up.

“Hey, don't forget that we still have that interview at the stadium today,” Garrett says, typing on his phone. No doubt texting Hannah. Logan is proud to say that he no longer has a crush on Hannah Wells, as fleeting as that was. No, he has a crush on her friend, who is smart and beautiful and who probably hasn't given him another thought since the party three weeks ago.

He missed you in class this week. He even stayed behind and pretended he had a question in order to scan the room to check if maybe he didn't see you the first time. But you were nowhere to be found. And it's not like he can text you. He scoured Instagram, Snapchat, and even Facebook for your account, until he felt like a fucking creep and stopped, the search fruitless. Hell, Logan would write you letters if it meant talking to you beyond the two sentences you exchange in class. 

You did wave at him last week. Usually, you pack up your things as fast as possible and run out of the lecture hall. So when you lingered long enough to smile at him… well, that was pretty fantastic. 

“Yeah, thanks,” Logan says. 

Garrett nods. “I'll see you there. Wellsy wants to study.”

Logan lets his head fall back against the pillow as Garrett leaves. He thinks what Garrett's doing with Hannah will probably end with one or both of them getting hurt, especially since they’re both so obviously such soft hearts. Logan saw Garrett listening to Hannah’s Instagram songs more than once. Garrett’s absolutely in denial about how much he likes her. But at least they talk to each other. 

“Fuck,” he says to himself, palms on his eyes. 

You lost your silica gel.

It's not terrible… no, it is. It's thrown off your whole week, actually. You've been on websites longer than usual, looking at fidget toys, sorely tempted. You're especially taken with a moldable squishy with beads inside. It's like the mother of silica gel, and your fingers itch with anticipation of how it would feel.

But you can't. It's eighteen dollars, which is certainly one reason why you shouldn't buy it, but it also would make noise. And even if you used it outside of class… what if someone found it or caught you using it? How do you explain that? 

And you hate feeling like you need a toy to keep you grounded. Your stomach hurt so badly that you skipped class on Monday, which sucked because you didn't see Logan. But you were thinking about having to see your mother during the break and your upcoming finals and nothing, not even listening to music, helped the resulting pain in your stomach. 

Your mother has always told you that it's psychological, and treats your anxiety like a moral failing on your part. If you would just try harder… but you don't know how to do that. You're already trying so hard. It's difficult enough to eat everyday, and go to class, and sleep enough, and not rot in your dorm. 

Your mother would be pleased if you told her you went to a party. She'd dismiss the fact that a guy harassed you. She wouldn't believe you if you told her about Logan and his pretty curls and mouth. No man is looking to just be friends with you.

She was the one who wanted you to go away for college. You didn't mind staying local, but she said you'd never “grow into yourself” if you didn't move away. 

Your nails have been bitten to stubs. You've been growing them for a month, and all your hard work is lost. The silica gel occupied your hands but now that it's gone, you've fallen back to nail biting. 

Hannah said she would meet you at the stadium after her class this morning. Two days ago, you told one of the editors of the Briar newspaper that you bought a new camera. You've taken pictures for them before, but never during an event. Stupidly, you revealed your new purchase, and the editor excitedly asked you to attend an interview that some of the Hawks players were giving today, and take pictures for the paper. 

If only you knew when to keep your mouth shut. Taking pictures of people is stressful. You hate it. They often want you to turn them into someone they're not through the camera lens. People can never just be themselves on camera. That's why you take pictures of birds or buildings or sunsets. They just are, and you can capture them in all their candidness. Most of the world doesn't perform for a camera—only people do. 

Hannah is the first one to greet you when you get inside the stadium. You walk to the bleachers together, where a video crew is setting up. 

“This is great,” Hannah says. “People are gonna see your pictures, as they should.”

You shrug. “I guess so. I didn't really want to do this.”

“Your photos are really good,” she says. “And getting them published in the school paper is huge. What are you worried about?”

You sigh. “I don't know. It's kind of scary when people see you through the camera.” Fourth wall breaks unnerve you for the same reason. “And what if the players hate the pictures?”

“Well, Garrett's doing the interview, and he wouldn't let anybody on the team say anything to you about your pictures. But it's only a few of them, I think. Do you want me to stand with you?”

You nod, the pit in your stomach loosening a little. Hannah always seems to know what to say. 

She beams. “Of course I'll stay.”

But as everyone finishes setting up, Coach Jensen approaches you. Hannah explains that she's Garrett's tutor, and Coach tells her that she can stay, but only in the bleachers. 

“I'm here to support my friend,” she says. “It’s her first time photographing for the team. Please?”

“Sorry. Only press and photographers can be here.”

She looks at you sympathetically. “I'll be right over there, okay? You'll be great.”

You watch Hannah go sit, wishing you had the silica gel.

Garrett is the first player interviewed. You take many pictures, so there are lots of options to choose from when you send them to the paper. He doesn't look at you once, which is splendid.

Next is Dean. He's fired up in his interview, swearing that Briar will crush the competition. Then it's Tucker, who seems a little nervous in front of the camera. You understand completely. 

You lower your camera as you see Logan approach the local reporter. He shakes her hand and says something you can’t hear. Then he looks in your direction. He pauses, then grins widely, waving at you. You wave back, face suddenly warm.

“So John,” begins the reporter. “How is the team preparing to win the next three games? You’ll need three wins to keep Briar’s ranking.”

“Yeah, you know, we work really well as a team, and Garrett’s a great captain, of course, so I have no doubt we’ll win. We’ve been putting in plenty of hours of practice.”

He glances in your direction. Click. You’re not supposed to snap pictures when people are looking at the camera, but you can’t help it. You won’t send that one to the paper.

“How are you personally feeling about the season?” the reporter asks.

You take more pictures. Logan keeps glancing in your direction, so much so that the reporter eventually holds her hand up.

“John, sorry, but we really need you to look at the camera,” she says. “Is there something distracting you? A light? A noise?”

“Nope,” Logan says, standing straighter, shaking his head. “All good.”

He answers a few more questions. The reporter thanks all of them for their time and then the crew packs up. You put the lens cap on your camera and pack it up in its case.

“Hey.”

You look up from your case. Logan’s in front of you. This close, you can really take in his appearance: his swoopy hair, his azure jacket with the Hawks emblem on the chest. He smells like apples, as always. 

“You’re here,” he says, before you can say hi back.

You nod, confused. “Um. Yes?”

“I didn’t know you were a photographer.” He’s smiling as hard as he does when the Hawks win a game. “I haven’t seen you photographing games.”

“I don’t. The paper’s editor asked me to take pictures for their article on the team.”

“Can I see?”

You hesitate. “I can’t retake pictures.”

“I know. I’m asking because I want to see your pictures, not ‘cause I care about how I look in them. You don’t even have to show me the pictures from today. Do you have more?”

“You want to see my other photos? They’re of birds and stuff like that.”

“I fucking love birds. And I mean that.”

You blink. “Oh. Okay. Me too.”

“I didn’t see you in class this week,” he says.

“I was sick.”

“That sucks, I’m sorry.”

You nod. You don’t tell him why you were sick. He doesn’t need to know. No one knows except Hannah. And speaking of, you can see her walking down the bleachers.

She stops next to you. “Hey! How was it?” She looks at Logan, and seems a little startled. “Hi, Logan. What’s up?”

“Hey, Wellsy,” he says. You try not to frown. It’s stupid to want Logan to have a nickname for you. Wellsy isn’t even his invention. 

“Logan wants to see my photos,” you say.

Hannah raises an eyebrow. “Oh, really? I didn’t know you liked photography, Logan.”

“Oh, big time,” he says, looking at you. 

Hannah widens her eyes at you. You have no idea why. She pats your back.

“You did great,” she says. “I’ll see you later?”

“I thought you wanted to get lunch together,” you say. 

“Uh…” She glances between you and Logan. “I’ll catch up with you. I have to tutor Garrett anyway. He canceled on me yesterday.” She rolls her eyes. “Hockey players.”

“Ouch,” Logan says, nudging her.

Hannah smiles sweetly. “You and Tucker are the best players, and you can quote me on that.”

“Garrett will definitely be hearing that.”

“Good.” She squeezes your arm. “I’ll see you later, okay? Have fun.”

You watch her go, feeling lost. “She said we were going to eat lunch together. Why did she change her mind?”

“Oh, um, I don’t think Hannah meant anything by it,” Logan says. He chews his lip for a second. “Garrett’s such a diva, honestly—he’d probably whine about not studying today even though he canceled on her yesterday.”

You do know how important the philosophy midterm is to Garrett, especially since he’s currently failing. And Hannah has complained about how stubborn he is. 

“I guess that makes sense,” you say. “I’ll go eat by myself then. It’s one o’clock, so it’s lunchtime.”

“I could come with you.” Logan clears his throat. “Uh, if you want, I mean. No pressure. You can say no.”

“Oh. No, I’d like that.” You smile. “And I can show you my photos, right?”

“Yeah,” he says, sounding breathless. “Please do.”

Logan has three chicken thighs on his plate.

“Hockey season,” he explains as he sits. He bought your food with one of his meal swipes. You told him he didn’t have to; he said he wanted to.

You sit opposite him with your own food. Nothing had seemed appetizing, but you have a headache, which is your body’s way of telling you that you really need to eat. Sometimes you don’t feel hungry, but logically you have to eat at least three meals, so you try to time eating around the same time, so you don’t have to rely on faulty signals that never arrive.

And when Hannah eats with you, it helps, because then you aren’t distracted by other things, like listening to music or watching a show. You can’t do those things in front of another person, because it’s rude. When you eat alone, you frequently forget you’re supposed to be eating. And by the time you remember, the texture or temperature of the food has changed, and it’s no longer appetizing. 

“Eating that much chicken doesn’t make you feel sick?” The thought of eating that much meat in one sitting makes you want to vomit. Not to mention the chicken ick. Chicken is an extremely unsafe food—if you detect a hint of tendon or fat, you can’t eat it.

Logan shakes his head. “Nah, I’m hungry. Dean can easily tear up, like, five of these.”

He starts eating, scooping the chicken with the gravy, peas, and potatoes in one forkful. You watch, fascinated. Eating probably wouldn’t be such a chore if you could eat like that. 

You were going to try and convince Hannah to go to Taco Bell with you today because that’s the only thing that sounds edible today, but since you’re with Logan, you can’t do that. Probably you can’t go to Taco Bell every time you see him… still, you’re tempted. Maybe you can just sit here until Logan’s done eating, and then you can go get what you want. 

You take a deep breath. No, you should eat. You should eat like a normal person. You want your headache to go away—it’s too hard to talk to people when you have a headache, and you really want to talk to Logan.

You unwrap the foil your turkey burger is in. You take it out and remove the whole wheat repulsive bread, then put the meat on your plate. You cut it into small triangles with your knife and fork. 

“Not a fan of the bun?”

You look up at Logan, hunched over the plate. You eye him suspiciously. 

“This bread tastes like cardboard,” you say slowly, watching him for judgment. “I like fluffy white rolls only.”

“That’s my favorite too. Garrett’s always on me to eat more whole grains.”

“Maybe another brand would taste good. School food tastes like slop sometimes.”

Logan laughs. “Seriously. I think I’m spoiled by Tucker’s cooking. He’s a master chef.”

You squeeze a packet of mayo, then hot sauce, then mustard. This is your trick for when you don’t want to eat: you overdo it with sauces you like, to mask whatever you’re eating. At least you don’t have to taste the turkey burger, though that doesn’t dismiss the possibility of a bad texture. 

You chew, staring at your plate. You forget you’re not alone until Logan taps your shoulder. You jump.

“Sorry,” he says. “Again. Seems like I’m always doing that.”

“I zoned out.”

“Yeah, you’re really focused on your food there.”

“I have to be, or I won’t finish it,” you say. “Nothing’s appetizing right now, so I have to make myself eat.”

You quickly finish the burger, which isn’t the worst, to be fair, but you’re not happy to eat like you were yesterday with the tater tot casserole the cafeteria served. They serve that once every two weeks, and it’s your favorite day on campus. 

“Okay,” you say. “Now I can talk to you.”

Logan smiles. “Awesome. Can you show me your pictures?”

“Oh, right. Yes, I can.”

You get out your camera and move to sit next to Logan. He leans in to look at your camera’s screen, but he doesn’t touch you. You kind of wish he would. You bet he’s warm and solid.

“Wait, go back,” he says.

You were skipping through the pictures from today’s interview. You press the left arrow to go back.

“There! Oh my God, that’s so funny. Please use that picture for the paper,” Logan says, snickering. 

It’s a picture of Garrett, mid-yawn. His face is scrunched, mouth wide open. 

“That was a mistake,” you say, but you’re smiling too. You can’t avoid Logan’s infectious giggles. 

“No, that was a gift from above,” Logan says, still laughing. “God, that’s perfect. If you don’t send it to the paper, please at least send it to me.”

“How?”

“Do you have Instagram?”

“No,” you say. “I deleted it. It made me feel bad about myself.”

“Honestly? Good for you. I’m not on it that much either.” 

“The only people who I want to talk to have my number anyway,” you say. “So it doesn’t really matter. I don’t care about random students’ lives.”

“You rock,” Logan says. “Seriously. You’re my hero.”

You can’t take it when he says things like that. All you can do is look away, your face heating up.

“Well, uh,” he continues. “This might be presumptuous of me, but… d’you wanna exchange numbers?”

“It’s not presumptuous,” you say. “I like talking to you.”

He lights up. “Same here.”

You type your number into his phone. 

Hi :) says the message on your phone.

Hi, you text back. You change his contact to Logan 🏒. 

“I’ll send the picture when I upload them tonight,” you say.

“I’m gonna terrorize him with it in the group chat. Show me more pictures? You said you saw some birds.”

“I did.” You shuffle through the photos until you find one of a hawk flying low. It’s one of your favorites; you were so proud to capture it. It’s only a little blurry too.

“That is so fucking cool, whoa.” Logan scoots closer to look, his arm touching yours. You don’t move away. “You’re amazing at this. What else did you capture?”

You show him pictures of the nearby lake, sunsets, a deer, the Boston skyline. Logan loves them all, and tells you many times how good of a photographer you are.

“You could do this professionally, seriously,” he says. “Like, you should photograph our games. You could get paid for it.”

You shrug bashfully. “I don’t know. It’s not even my major. It’s just a hobby.”

“So what? You’re really good.”

You gnaw the inside of your cheek. “Maybe.”

“Yeah, think about it. I could talk to Coach, see what’s open.”

You and Logan are pretty much curled up next to each other by now. Your arm and thigh are pressed against his. He is indeed warm, and you can feel his muscles shift against you. You think of him in the gray sleeveless shirt at the party. You couldn’t stop staring at his biceps. You want to hold them, trace the veins on his forearms. 

And when he turns to talk to you, he’s so close. Close enough to—

“Yo, Logan, you started without us?”

Raucous laughter breaks the moment. As soon as you see Logan’s teammates, you put a foot of distance between you two, shifting to the next chair over. 

“Hey, man,” Garrett says, tapping Logan's shoulder. “I thought you said you were gonna hit the gym.”

“Plans changed,” Logan says. He doesn’t look very happy to see them. You’re puzzled. 

“Hi,” Tucker says, waving at you, saying your name. You wave back.

And then Garrett and Dean seem to notice you. Dean grins, looking between you.

“Ah,” he says. “Plans changed. Got it.”

You don’t like the tone of his voice. You don’t like the way he and Garrett are smiling at each other. 

“How do you know Logan?” Dean asks. “You a hockey fan?” He winks.

“I’ve only been to one game. Logan and I are in developmental psychology together.”

“You guys study together?” Garrett asks, glancing at Logan. The table shakes, and Garrett winces. “Ow! What the fuck, man? Why’d you kick me?”

“Because you’re both asking idiotic fucking questions,” Logan says. “Lay off. She’s not a suspect.”

Your skin itches. You don’t like being watched. And they’re watching you, you can tell. They’re studying you. Figuring you out. 

“Actually, I should go,” you say, getting up. You try not to eye the others as you say it. 

“Are you sure?” Logan asks, getting up with you.

“Yes, I have finals to work on.” You gather your things, putting your backpack over your shoulders. “Thank you for the meal swipe.”

“Yeah, anytime,” Logan says. “I’ll see you in class on Monday?”

You nod. “You will. I’ve taken two unexcused absences and the syllabus said that Dr. Jenkins will demote us by a letter grade for any more than that.”

“‘S not a real threat,” Garrett says around a mouthful of rice. “They have to put that on the syllabus, but a lot of professors don’t care. Dean was absent eight times in that class.”

“And I still got a B minus,” Dean says, fist-bumping Garrett. 

Tucker shakes his head. “Yeah, and you failed the subsequent course because you missed so much of the semester, dude.”

“A win is a win.”

“So Dr. Jenkins lied?” you ask, brows furrowing.

Garrett shrugs, digging his knife into his chicken. “Kinda. More like a bluff.”

You squeeze your backpack straps, your chest feeling tight. “Why does everyone know the secret rules but me?”

All week you’ve been anxious about potentially missing a third class because of your stomach. You were prepared to chug as much Pepto Bismol to avoid that as you needed to. Has everyone else been living without a care in the world, not forcing themselves to go to class when they feel sick? You’ve gone when you were sure you’d throw up. You went to class in the throes of the worst gallbladder pain you’ve ever felt, right before you got it removed. 

Garrett stops chewing, looking at you. In fact, they’re all staring at you. Fuck. 

“Whaddya mean, secret rules?” Dean asks.

Fuck, fuck. You’re being weird. Stop it. Stop. 

“Hey,” Logan says gently, drawing your attention to him. He moves so he’s the only person you can see, blocking out the rest of the cafeteria. “If you don’t feel well, you should skip, but you aren’t, like, losing out on some grand life experience if you miss half the semester. That’s what college is for. You’re doing the right thing. It’s not a secret rule, it’s just a loophole that some assholes like to exploit.”

Dean scoffs. “Excuse me?”

Logan ignores him. “So I hope you come on Monday, but if you feel sick, rest up, okay? Tucker’ll make you soup and I’ll bring it over.”

Tucker leans around so you can see him and gives you a thumbs-up in confirmation. Your breathing gets a little easier; your shoulders soften. 

“Okay,” you murmur. You drift towards him, and Logan brushes your fingers. You aren’t brave enough to take his hand, so you touch and step back. 

“Can’t wait to see your pictures in the paper,” Logan says.

You smile. “They’re of you.”

“Yeah, but you took ‘em. Who cares what they’re of?”

You duck your head, feeling shy again. It’s a residual shyness, but sometimes you get so aware of how nice and handsome Logan is, and the fact that he goes out of his way to talk to you. Not that you’ve ever cared much about the college social hierarchy, but you aren’t immune to the charms of a hockey boy who sings praises about your photography. You’ve been trying to shake this aching want for more ever since the party. You can’t.

“Well, um, bye. I’ll drop off your wings soon,” you say.

“Stop by anytime.”

“See ya around,” says Tucker.

“Yeah, see you,” Garrett says. Dean nods. 

You mumble a short goodbye to them, still feeling flustered. You hope Logan won’t hold it against you. 

Once outside, you take out your camera outside and flip through some of the shots of Logan. You’re not sure what he likes so much about your photos, but now you’re a little glad that the editor asked you to take pictures.

“Hey, wait up!”

You turn around. Logan’s jogging toward you. 

“What are you doing?” you ask as he stops in front of you.

“Uh.” He puts his hands on his hips, breathing hard. “Um. Hm. Good question. I don’t know, actually. I just feel like we ended on a weird note in there.”

You frown, nodding. “I know. I’m sorry I was weird and freaked out in front of your friends.”

“What? You didn’t—”

“I did, Logan. I know I did. I saw Dean and Garrett’s faces. They thought I was weird. And I was, to be fair. I reacted too strongly to the absence thing. Sometimes I do that, and I don’t realize until someone’s really obvious with their face that I, you know, emoted wrong.”

“You did not emote wrong,” Logan says, shaking his head in disbelief. “You didn’t, okay? I promise that Garrett and Dean didn’t think that. They were probably just confused. You and Hannah are, you know…”

“Nerds?” you finish.

“Smart, studious, all that. And I know we keep it hidden, but we’re actually not winning any Nobel prizes in between practice. They’re not used to knowing people who worry about attendance. That’s all it was, I promise.”

You purse your lips, trying to figure out if he’s telling the truth. You can’t, so you just ask. “Do you mean it?”

“Yes,” Logan says. “I mean it.”

“It’s okay if you don’t. I wouldn’t hold it against you. Lots of people have thought I’m weird. Lots of boys. Lots of athletes. I was terrible at kickball in middle school, and people hated me for it. I would sit out early so they wouldn’t purposely kick the ball at me.”

His eyes get sad. That’s an expression you recognize on Hannah too.

“That’s fucking awful,” Logan says. “We aren’t all like that. I’m not, anyway, and the guys I hang out with aren’t either. Even if you are weird, it’s not a bad thing. Not at all.”

No one’s ever told you it’s okay to be weird. They’ve only ever denied that you are, even though you’re pretty sure you are. You can’t help it either. But Logan doesn’t mind. You’re still good. He still likes you. No one is going to kick a ball at you. 

“Okay. Can you tell me how to get to the Hawks house? I’m going to drop off your wings before Monday.”

“Sure, so you’re gonna walk down this little path here, Cooper Avenue. Then you’re gonna turn left, onto Montgomery. Then you’ll walk all the way down till you get to Pickett Lane. It’s like a dirt path. And you’ll turn right onto that. We’re the first house on the left.”

You nod, even though you’ve already forgotten all that. You’re terrible with street names. “I’ll be there.”

“I look forward to it,” Logan says, grinning. 

You start to walk away, then you turn around and return. “I actually don’t remember anything you’ve just said. I’m bad with streets and directions. Can you tell me in terms of landmarks?”

“I can absolutely do that,” Logan says softly. “Okay, you know the statue of the guy on the horse?”

“Yes, the famous horse wrangler who carried children on horseback to Briar’s first schoolhouse in 1846.”

He tilts his head. “How do you know that?”

“It’s on the plaque.”

“Huh. Embarrassingly, I’ve never stopped to read one of those plaques. I should do that.”

“He brought children to school for eighteen years. One of them ended up founding Briar University.”

“Shit, wow. That’s cool.”

“History is cool.”

Logan hums. “You’re cool. And that mentality is why Dean’s the loser for missing half the semester and you aren’t.”

You smile. “I guess so.”

“Okay, so, horse wrangler. Turn left when you get to him. Then you’re gonna walk past that student vegetable garden you photographed. Keep walking until you see that giant oak tree with the knots in the trunk. The one that students make out under. Or, uh… study?”

“Attempt to study, anyway.” You know the struggle well.

“There’s a path there, and you’ll walk until you see our house on the left.”

“Got it,” you say. “For real, this time.”

“Good. Then I’ll see you at some point, before class. If you want to stop by.”

You look at the cafeteria. “They won’t mind?”

“Nah, we always have people come over, don’t worry. Hey.” Logan bumps your arm gently. “They won’t bother you. And if you want, text me, so you’ll know I’ll be home.”

The sun is in his eyes. Speckled tree bark. Rich, black tea. You want to kiss him so badly.

“I really do like talking to you,” you say.

“Me too.” Logan steps closer. Your heart is in your throat.

“Okay, well, see you!” And you’re gone.

She’s not happy about it. Something you like about being friends with Hannah Wells is that she wears almost every emotion on her face. Once you deciphered her expressions, it was easy enough to figure out from there what she’s feeling. It makes everything much simpler. You wish everyone were as easy to read as Hannah.

She lets you go with one last affectionate goodbye. You start walking, not sure where you’re supposed to go to find the shuttle from the stadium. Part of you doesn’t really care as much about that. Mostly, you want to get away from the noise. Tonight was just a cacophony of buzzers and slammed pucks and chants and shouts. Players getting shoved against the glass was the worst. You jumped every time.

You pull out your phone. It feels like you’ve gone in a circle. The stadium is a maze.

“Hi.”

You look up. John Logan—everyone calls him Logan, which throws you off—is about ten feet away, and he’s coming closer. He’s still in uniform, even his skates. You’re always impressed when you see players walk on skates. His hair is damp with sweat and at its curliest. Usually, it’s in fluffy waves.  

“Hey, are you coming to the party?” he asks, coming to a stop in front of you.

“I wasn’t invited,” you say.

He tilts his head, eyebrows scrunching. You focus, trying to figure his face out. A look like that usually means you’ve said something that doesn’t make sense, but you can’t imagine what that would be. You don’t even talk much with Logan, so how can he already be confused by you?

“You’re friends with Hannah, right?” he asks. “And Hannah’s bringing her friend Allie?”

You nod. “Yes, they were invited.”

“It’s a campus-wide invite,” Logan says. “No one got invited specifically—Dean and Beau posted the details expecting the entire student body to show up.”

“Oh. That’s confusing.”

He shrugs. “It’s usually the same group of people who go to the parties, so I guess people don’t think about it. But uh, you know, if Hannah and Allie are going, it’s safe to say that you can go too.”

People don’t think about a lot of things. They tell you even less, which makes you feel stupid and lonely sometimes. But you don’t say any of this, because your mother would say those are inside thoughts. Instead, you shove your hand in your pocket and play with a silica gel packet that came in your new camera box.

You like to roll the beads inside the packet, and you’ve discovered that if someone asks what you’re fiddling with, it’s acceptable if you show them the silica gel. You used to fiddle with a ball of plastic wrap, but that made too much noise in class.

“Okay, well, congratulations on your game,” you say when Logan says nothing else. “Bye.” You turn to leave the stadium.

“Wait!” Logan jogs around to face you again. “Uh, wait. Did Hannah not invite you?”

“She asked me to go, but I declined because I have a paper due next week, and because I wasn’t invited. It’s rude to go to parties you aren’t invited to.”

That’s a rule that took a few times to learn in middle school, but you’re very proud that you know it now. Except apparently it doesn’t apply in college. Rules are always changing, and sometimes it makes you so frustrated, you could spit.

“Well, what if I asked you to go? Invited you officially. I live with Dean, and I helped set up the party. Is that enough of an authority?”

“I don’t really know what constitutes an authority to invite people to parties,” you say. “Why do you want me to go?”

“Uh, well…” Logan steps forward, bowing his head a little. One thick curl falls into his eyes. He has such beautiful hair. You wonder what conditioner he uses. A few times you’ve sat next to him in class, and he smells like apples. “I feel like we’re kinda friends now.”

“We are?”

He winces. “I mean, kinda? Is that okay for me to say? We’re in class together, and you stop by with Hannah.”

“I stopped by once because she left her bag. I didn’t come inside.”

“True, fair enough. You can come in though, you know? Like that’s totally okay. Just for the future.”

You doubt you’ll stop by the Hawks House again. You have no reason to. But you nod anyway.

“Plus we compared notes that one time,” Logan says, snapping his fingers. “That’s a friend thing to do, right?”

You let his words wash over you. John Logan says you’re kinda friends. You like Logan. He’s nice to you, and to Hannah. You haven’t spoken much, but he lent you a pencil a few weeks ago in your developmental psychology class. And he always waits and holds the door for you, even if you’re a few people behind him. He doesn’t scare you like athletes often do. He isn’t loud, and he doesn’t say rude things about women, or make fun of how clumsy you are. When you tripped on a step in class, he didn’t snicker like other students—he reached out to catch you, and asked if you were okay.

Then again, you’ve hardly hung out together. There’s always time for him to change his mind, show a different side. Plenty of people have done that.

But you like making friends. You’re not good at it. You want to be. 

“Okay,” you say. “We can be friends.”

Logan grins. “Awesome.”

“You have nice teeth.”

He grins wider. “Thanks. I think that’s the first time anyone’s complimented my teeth.”

“That surprises me,” you say. “I don’t have a costume. Can I still enter the party, or will I be banned for life?”

Logan laughs. You squint. What’s funny?

“Normally, you’d get banned, but as an official party planner, I can get an exception made.”

Your eyes widen. “Oh…”

“I’m kidding,” he says gently, nudging your shoulder. It’s a soft nudge because of his padding. “You don’t need to wear a costume, but if you want, I have an extra pair of wings. You can be a bird with me. Tuck’s a bee.”

You’ve never been a part of a group costume. “I thought it was supposed to be costumes for two people.”

“We make our own rules. I’ll drive you there, okay? I don’t think you’ll wanna be on the party bus. It gets loud.”

You’re relieved. “Yes. Thank you.”

“No sweat. I’ll be out in a sec.”

You watch him disappear into the men’s locker room. You sit on a nearby bench. People are still filing out of the stadium. You put your headphones on, lean your head against the wall, and close your eyes. 

Seven minutes later, a hand on your elbow makes you jump, eyes flying open. You tear off your headphones.

“Sorry,” is the first thing Logan says. He’s in a gray sleeveless shirt and dark jeans. Water drips from his hair onto his shoulders. “Didn’t mean to scare you.”

“It’s okay.” 

People don’t really touch you, mostly because you don’t care for it. Hannah and Allie like hugs, and sometimes you give them one, especially if they’re sad, because that’s what you do for sad friends. But mostly, you avoid it. People hug too hard, or too long, or they’re sweaty or smell funny. Logan doesn’t smell bad—he smells like orange Dial soap and his apple shampoo or conditioner, and you realize he must’ve showered. 

“Tuck is waiting for us in the car,” he says. “The wings are in the trunk.”

You follow him outside, into the mild night. His curls are even curlier when wet. You want to reach out and tug one, watch it spring back into place, but that’s definitely not an appropriate thing to do. You shove your hands in your pocket and squeeze the silica.

“What were you listening to?” he asks.

“Brown noise.”

“Is that a band or a song or…”

“No, it’s like white noise, but softer.”

He nods slowly, eyebrows knitting. “Oh. Huh.”

“There’s also pink noise and black noise, which I listen to at night to sleep. White noise feels like needles in my ears.”

“So you don’t listen to music?”

“I love music,” you say. “But sometimes it’s too much. The arena was loud, and sometimes I need something quiet to reset my brain, you know?”

“I definitely get that. I’m gonna check those out.”

“Will you really?”

Logan looks surprised. “Yeah, I will.”

You meditate on that, trying to figure out how that makes you feel, Logan meaning what he says.

Tucker greets you happily, and says that more’s the merrier when you tell him about Logan’s idea to join their costume. He has a girl named Kayla with him, and they sit in the backseat on the ride over, kissing and giggling. So you sit in the front with Logan, who keeps the radio turned low.

“If you wanna wear your headphones, I don’t mind,” he says.

You don’t, but the offer makes you beam at him.

Before you go inside, Logan gives you a pair of glossy black bird wings to wear. He steps back, smoothing the feathers, and looks at you.

“You look good. Those really suit you,” he says, and you wonder if he means that too. You’re not brave enough to ask.

The party is already in full swing by the time you arrive, which astounds you, considering the game officially ended less than an hour ago. Dean and Beau are at the center of the party, doing shots. Everyone cheers when they finish. Tucker and Kayla go to greet Dean, but Logan hangs back with you. He leans in to talk in your ear.

“Do you want a drink?” he asks.

You shake your head. “I don’t like drinking.”

“That’s cool. I’m gonna get a beer. Do you want to come with me?”

You eye the swell of people in the kitchen and grimace. “No, that’s okay. I’ll be here.”

He smiles, dark eyes warm. Your stomach flips. “Okay. Be right back.”

As he goes, you scour the room for food. If you’d known you were going to the party, you would’ve eaten before the game. But you find an untouched plate of pizza rolls, which is probably the most exciting thing that’s happened tonight, besides Logan telling you that you’re friends.

You put three on a napkin and stand to the side, watching people dance. Allie’s in a beautiful green dress, and you see Dean dance with her. Jealousy strikes you—not because you want Dean, but because you wish you were adept at all of this. Dancing, talking, making friends. Making a boyfriend. Going to college. Living. Hannah understands your struggle a little, but even you can see how well she and Garrett are hitting it off, fake relationship or not.

You finish your pizza rolls and fold the napkin, bouncing your head in time to the music. You don’t like parties, but this isn’t so bad, you suppose. It’s certainly reasonable enough to withstand in the name of friendship, and that’s why you’re here, isn’t it?

“Can I refresh that for you?”

You squint at your now empty napkin, where your pizza roll crumbs now lie. Then you look at the guy who asked. He might be a hockey player, you’re not sure. You pretty much only know Logan and Garrett, because Hannah’s your friend. You know Tucker, you suppose, since you’ve now ridden in a car with him. You know of Dean, because it’s impossible to go to Briar U without learning Dean Di Laurentis’ name and seeing his bleach blond head of hair on campus. But you couldn’t pick any other player out of a lineup. 

“It's a napkin,” you say. “It had food, not a drink.”

He holds up his hands and laughs. “Yeah, duh. It was an opener. I wasn’t being literal.”

Opener to what? You don't ask. He keeps talking, evidently not needing you to participate in the conversation.

“I’m Ben Pembroke. I just tried out for the team, but I’m pretty much a shoo-in. My dad played for Briar. Do you come to a lot of games?”

“No,” you say. “I came to this one because Logan asked me to.”

Ben frowns. “Are you together?”

“He drove me here in his car.”

He rolls his eyes. “I mean, are you dating?”

“No,” you say. “I'm not dating anybody.”

His smile returns. It looks wrong on his face. He has nice teeth too, but they don’t look as nice as Logan’s. “Good.”

“Why is that good?”

“Because.” Ben suddenly creeps a hand up your back. “It means you're available tonight. You're cute.”

You push his hand off. “Don't touch me. I don't like strangers touching me.”

Ben scoffs. “C'mon, enough with the ‘hard to get' act. I get it, you're ‘not like them.’ You're a nice girl. Whatever.”

“I don't know what you're talking about, but whatever it is, I want no part of it. Leave me alone.”

Ben gets closer to you. You flinch. He's tall and he's angry. You think so, anyway. 

“The fuck? You were sending me signals. You want me.”

Definitely angry. You ball up your empty napkin in your fist. You hate arguing. You usually have to get loud to make people take you seriously, and shouting gives you a headache.

“I was not sending you signals,” you say, voice rising. “I don't want anything to do with you. You came over here.”

Ben smiles again, full of ice. “Look, babe, it's cool, okay? None of your nerdy little friends will know we were together.”

“Together for what? Sex?”

Ben winks. You make a noise of irritation. 

“I did not send you sex signals, you creep. I don't like you! Go away!”

Ben reaches for you again. You yell, throwing your napkin on the ground. 

“Get away from me!” People start to look at you. You scream without words, so angry you feel like you might die. “Go away, go away!”

“Fuckin’ weirdo,” Ben snaps, but you ignore him. You don’t care what he calls you as long as he leaves.

“Hey.”

Logan’s wings are suddenly in front of you. He glances at you. 

“You okay?” he asks, holding out his hand behind him. He doesn’t touch you—you think his hand might be an offer, if you need it.

You chew the inside of your cheek. You don't feel okay, but you don't know if this is one of those times when you should lie. Sometimes lying makes things easier, but you never know when that is. 

Logan turns back to Ben after you take his hand. “What the fuck, Pembroke? You're harassing women?”

“Man, she wanted me, I swear—”

“I did not send you sex signals,” you shout. “I don't like you!”

Ben's face spasms. Logan puts a hand on Ben's chest. 

“Take it somewhere else. She's not interested.”

Ben flings a finger at you. “But she—”

“Get. The fuck. Out.” Logan's hand curls in Ben's shirt. A warning. Jules said that in one of their videos about Briar’s games. When John Logan touches people and gets in their faces, he “means business.”

Ben scowls at you. Logan steps back so he can block you from Ben's face. 

“Fine. Fucking whatever.”

He stomps away. You squeeze the silica gel so hard, the beads dig into your palm. You fear the packet might burst. Your brain aches with the fight and the anger and anxiety that accompanied it. You promised yourself you wouldn't make a scene like you always do. It's why you can't keep friends, and you brace yourself for Logan to tell you something similar. 

He leans in so you can hear him over the music. “Let's go outside. It's too loud here.”

Relief softens your body, even if Logan’s only taking you somewhere quieter so he can tell you off. “Okay.”

You pick up your napkin and throw it away. Then you follow him to the backyard. It's big too, and you're glad everything is well-lit and marked. It'd be too easy to get lost in this house. Logan takes you to two chairs on the deck where there's less people. Most of the guests are inside since Beau didn't fill the pool.

You sit. People hate it more when you defend yourself, but Logan has to know that you really did try not to make a scene. You care about things that your friends like, and you want to keep Logan as a friend. You like him, especially after tonight. 

“I tried to tell him I wasn't interested in my quiet voice,” you say. “So many times. I didn't want sex. I swear I didn't send him signals, Logan, I didn't even approach him firs—”

“Whoa, hey.” He pushes his hair back, leaning in. “Hey, hey. I know you don't like Pembroke, and you don't have to try to convince me that he started it. He was a total jerk.”

You’re miserable. “People don't like when I use my loud voice, but sometimes they just won't listen to me. I had to.”

“Is it okay if I take your hand?” Logan asks softly. 

You nod. Logan takes your hand in both of his, resting them on his knee. He’s quiet for a moment. 

“You didn't do anything wrong,” he finally says. “When someone is harassing you, you have the right to be as loud as you want. It fucking sucks, and I’m sorry he did that. I’m gonna tell the guys and make sure he doesn’t make the team next year. He’s a shit player anyway.”

You fiddle with the silica gel again. “I wanted to be good at the party. You like parties, and a video I watched about making friends in college said that I should do things that other people like to become their friend.”

“Oh,” he says gently, rubbing your knuckles. “We’re already friends. You don't have to go to any parties to be my friend. Parties are fine, yeah, but they aren't the only thing I like. I'm not Dean.” He rolls his eyes and laughs. 

You smile, pleased to catch onto his joke. “He was dancing with Allie.”

“Yeah, I think we may have witnessed a historical event: Dean Di Laurentis not getting what he wants.”

“Because she didn't kiss him?”

Logan snorts. “Exactly. Look, do you wanna ditch this party and do something else? There's a guest house on the property if you just wanna chill. I would drive you home, but I’m still a little tipsy.”

He's still holding your hand. You like it. You like how rough his palms are, his cool skin against your warmth. You link your fingers with Logan's. He looks down, then looks back up at you.

“I'm hungry, actually,” you say. 

He hums. “Good.”

“How is that good?”

“No, I mean, it's good you're being honest with me and telling me what you want. Don't force yourself to go to any more parties, okay?”

“Okay, Logan. Is there a Taco Bell nearby?”

“You’re a genius,” Logan says, his mouth full of Crunchwrap. He chews, then swallows before speaking again. “Taco Bell should be a post-game tradition. Garrett’s a health nut, but I think I could convince him.”

The Taco Bell is only a few blocks away from the house, so you and Logan walked here. He paid for your food even though you have money. He said it was to make up for the shitty party. You told him he didn’t need to do that. He said he wanted to.

“It’s my favorite fast food,” you say, working on your potatoes. You stick a fork into one, then carefully dip one corner in sour cream and the other in the nacho cheese.

“I thought they put the sauces on top,” he says.

“Normally they do, but I ask for them on the side because otherwise all the potatoes don’t get an equal distribution of sauce.”

It’s quiet, and you find Logan staring at you as you chew. You swallow, frowning.

“What?”

He shakes his head, grinning. He does that a lot. “Nothing, just… you’re different.”

“Oh.” You pull your food closer to you, shoulders curling in.

“Not in a bad way! I like it. You know what you want.”

“Not really.” You suddenly remember Allie and Dean dancing. “Or if I do, I don’t know how to get it.”

“I think that’s pretty common,” Logan says, resting his chin in his hand. “I’ve been in that situation plenty of times.”

“What did you do?”

“Hmm.” He takes a long sip from his coke. “Depends on what I wanted. For the most part, I just went for it. No one else is gonna give it to you, you know?”

“I guess so.”

“What do you want?”

It strikes you now that Logan’s eyes are not just brown; they’re speckled gold, like spattered sunlight on tree bark. They’re lovely even in the harsh fluorescent light. He’s like some kind of fantasy novel angel with the wings and his swoopy curls. His lashes are long and thick. He licks his lips, and now you can’t stop staring at his mouth. Your heart starts to pound, the longer he looks at you.

Oh no, you think. Oh no. I don’t want to be his friend. 

Yet another thing you’ve misunderstood. 

“I don’t know,” you say hoarsely. You clear your throat. “I really don’t know.”

“Well,” Logan says. “I’m sure you’ll figure it out. And whatever it is, it’ll be there for you.”

You can hardly speak. You twirl the silica gel between your fingers. You do that the whole car ride home. Logan leaves the radio on low again. He gets out and opens your door after he pulls up to your dorm. Again, he offers his hand, and again, you take it.

“You look really pretty in those wings,” he says, like he’s telling you a secret, even though he already told you that earlier. He must really mean it. 

It’s just you two here; campus is pretty much dead because almost everyone else is at the party.

“So do you.”

He laughs, and you think you’d really like it if he gave you a hug right now. But you’re not a hugger. You don’t know how to ask for such a thing from John Logan.

“You played really well,” you say.

Logan hums. “Thanks. I’m really glad you came.”

He’s still holding your hand. He squeezes it. 

“Well, um, bye,” you say, letting go.

“Goodnight,” he says after you.

The five-minute drive to the corner store didn’t eat up much time, and Eren spent the first half of the hour trying to figure out how to kill the next. He stalled for as long as he could, running down a mental checklist of household essentials and uselessly debating between soda brands. But after a while, he started to feel like a weirdo for stalking every aisle twice over. 

Eren didn’t like being at the apartment when your boyfriend was there. It wasn’t anything personal—okay, maybe it was a little personal, he could admit. Eren had told you before that he was a major douchebag, but hey, at least he was honest. 

Anyway, it wasn’t like anyone wanted to be around when their roommate was getting laid, but Eren had nowhere else to be and a gas tank bordering on empty. He couldn’t even take the long way home.

Somewhere in his gut, Eren hoped you’d be there to greet him when he returned instead of just your boyfriend’s shoes. Not for any special reason; he was just bored. What was the point of having a roommate if they always stayed locked away in their bedroom?

Of course, you’d only been ‘locked away’ for a handful of hours, but that felt more like an eternity to Eren—always one for dramatics. It was an ordinary Tuesday night, with nothing to see or do except wait until he was tired enough for bed. He couldn’t even enjoy the show he’d been watching because you scolded him for putting on an episode while you were out. ‘I can’t believe you watched our show without me!’ Eren wasn’t sure when the ‘our show’ thing started, because it didn’t even seem like you’d been paying attention. 

Unfortunately for him, when Eren stepped through the front door, you weren’t curled in your usual nook on the couch. Your boyfriend’s shoes were still annoyingly kicked to the side, and not a single thing had changed since he left. The apartment wasn’t spacious, which made the silence even more eerie as Eren slipped off his shoes. Even the metallic clang of his keys on the table felt out of place. Something was off. 

Before he could put his finger on it—before he could even crack open his bottle of soda—the first sign of life in the apartment showed itself in the form of shouting. Eren couldn’t tell if it was coming from you or your boyfriend. Probably both.

Your bedroom door swung open; Eren didn’t see it but heard the swoosh of it, the rickety wood shrieking on its hinges. Your boyfriend stormed down the hallway, shoulders tensed and hands drawn into tight fists at his sides.

What did Eren say about him being a douchebag again?

He shot Eren this downright nasty glare for no good reason, flagrantly huffing and puffing his way to snatch his jacket. He was rough with it, leaving the chair wobbly but still upright. 

Prickly and mere seconds away from acting on it, Eren’s disgust curled at his lip to return the sneer. But the asshole had slammed the door behind him before Eren could ask what the hell his problem was. 

The apartment went dead quiet once more. Though your boyfriend was gone, the strangely thick, suffocating air lingered on. Eren didn’t know what to make of it. He couldn’t move, feet planted like they had taken root in the center of the living room. He didn’t want to know what just happened, lest he wished to get wrapped up in your relationship drama, but he carried this dreaded feeling he was about to learn, regardless. Especially once the sniffling began, faint but spilling from your room and into the hall. 

Your bedroom door was still open. Eren grazed his knuckles against it, carefully trying to catch your attention. You only saw his head at first, tentatively poking around the corner. Only after he decided the coast was clear did he make himself known, leaning against the doorframe like he always did when he had something to tell you.

Your initial instinct was to hide your face, to swat away the tears with the sleeve of your sweatshirt. It was your best attempt at collecting yourself, but it was worthless because Eren had already glimpsed the puffy-eyed look on your face. 

You straightened out, uncrumpling your legs and letting them dangle from the edge of your bed. You started fumbling over snot-coated words. “God, sorry. I probably look like a mess.”

Eren didn’t know why you were apologizing, and immediately he felt a pang of sympathy. Despite how it struck him iron-hot in his chest, he didn’t know what to do with the feeling. His body stiffened. 

Thinking (hoping) you’d laugh, or at the very least chuckle, he didn’t disagree. Instead, he pitched you a boyish yet well-meant, “What’s new?” 

You pulled a face but otherwise ignored the comment, reaching toward the box of tissues sat on your nightstand. Eren was surprised there were any left, considering what appeared to be dozens surrounding you. Balled up and scattered across your bed, the floor, and even one on your lap. He didn’t want to, but he took a cautious step into your room. Then another, squeamishly watching as you loudly blew your nose. 

He should say something, shouldn’t he?

“So,” Eren started, rocking back on his heels once. “What happened?” 

You glanced over at him, still looking pretty rough. Streaks of mascara had smeared across the crests of your cheeks, even up to your temples, tinging them like soot. You sucked in a breath and answered, “We broke up.” Between the words, your bottom lip quivered. “He broke up with me.”

Eren’s stomach seized up as he fought off his primal urge to back away slowly and retreat into his bedroom. Say what you want about Eren—label him a cynic or accuse him of being heartless—but he didn’t particularly enjoy dealing with others’ emotions. To put it bluntly, he felt repulsed by them. Most especially, the waterworks that typically accompanied them. 

He averted his eyes like you were some tragic spectacle. He hated seeing you like this. It was such a bummer, no different from spotting a kitten forgotten in a rainstorm. He wished he could console you, find an umbrella and run to your rescue, but that was much more complicated than it sounded. 

If he had known about the breakup earlier (if you had responded to his text message), he would have brought you something back from the store. Ice cream or red wine—the stuff he’d seen in movies—he didn’t know. 

Ugh.

Eren remembered his bottle of soda, still sealed with its condensation cooling his hand. He extended it to you, offering, “Here. You can take this, if you want.” 

Hidden behind your face as you swiped away tears, you grimaced.

“What? No, I don’t want that right now,” you grumbled. Eren could be such an idiot sometimes. 

Your voice was sour enough to sting, as if he had purposefully salted your brand-new wound. Eren’s face said enough—a resounding yikes—but he continued digging his own grave.

Eren tossed his head in the general direction of the front door. “You know, he probably hasn’t gotten too far. I could go kick his—”

“I think I just want to be left alone.”

“Well, what if we—”

“Seriously, Eren,” you snapped. “Go away.”

Tears collected in the corners of your eyes again, welling up like dew. Then, your bottom lip did that trembling thing again. It must have embarrassed you, and that was why you rushed to slam the door in Eren’s face. At least, that was what he told himself, rather than admit he was only making things worse—that maybe he was the last person you wanted to see right then. 

Honestly, Eren began thinking that was the case, and not just in that instance but over the coming days. 

It had been over a week since that night, a very strange eleven days in the cramped apartment you both called home. It wasn’t like you to keep to yourself. Even when Eren first moved in, when he was little more than a stranger to you, you liked his company. You even told him. ‘I just like having someone to talk to. That’s all.’ And you’d do just that, chatting to pass the time it’d take to wash the dishes or whatever other menial task you were up to. Eren never minded, but it did make adjusting to the newfound quietness that much more difficult. He could even admit he missed your unnecessary commentary while he watched TV.

He supposed it was naïve to hope you’d bounce back from a breakup after only a week, but were you really that hung up on this guy? 

No, Eren was sure you were giving him the cold shoulder for badgering you minutes after your boyfriend had stormed out on you. Not that it wasn’t deserved, but for the record, you still hadn’t apologized for slamming the door in his face. 

Neither of you wanted to lose this childish stand-off, nor were you above butting heads like a couple of rams, if given the right provocation. 

To outsiders, the two of you may seem like an unlikely pair. Eren wasn’t your original roommate; that was your friend Mikasa. After a few months of living together, she was offered a temporary position at her dream company a few hours south of here, well out of commuting range. That turned into an offer for a full-time job, just as her friend Eren’s sublease on her bedroom turned into a more permanent arrangement. The two of you have shared this apartment for well over a year now, for no other reason than that it just worked. Things were as simple as that. 

So, one could imagine why Eren had so much trouble wrapping his head around the situation. By now, it was customary, borderline a requirement of living together, for you to annoy each other. You’d poke and poke and poke, as roommates tend to, and no matter what, the other would come around, eventually. Eren always did. You always did. 

Except this time, even Eren’s bribes didn’t work on you. Not even a latte from your favorite cafe (conveniently located on his walk home from the gym) softened you. That was when he knew the situation was dire. Worse than when you discovered he’d been snitching from your expensive hair products in the shower. Things had become awkward, tense, and frankly, unbearable. 

It was Saturday night, probably creeping into Sunday morning. Eren’s eyes burned, looking a bit bloodshot the last time he saw himself in the bathroom mirror. He took it as a sign to shut off his computer. 

You still weren’t home. Eren didn’t know where you’d gone off to, but he didn’t care—though his rampant curiosity said otherwise. Throughout the night, he’d excuse himself from his video game, telling his friends he’d be back in a second, and on his way to ransack the kitchen for the umpteenth time, he’d check to see if your purse was in its rightful spot: draped over the back of the chair. For whatever reason, your absence irked him. 

You knew there was a chance Eren would still be awake when you returned home. You just didn’t expect to bump into him.

From the entryway, with your coat halfway down your arms and sagged around your elbows, you saw Eren emerge from his bedroom. He had a hand shielding his squinted eyes as they adjusted to the brash overhead light. 

His white t-shirt held the wrinkles of his bedsheets. By the look of it, it was an old shirt. Its collar drooped in the front, and its hemline appeared slightly threadbare against his sweatpants. He must have fallen asleep with his hair tied back, stray strands dreaming his cheekbones and curtained his lidded eyes. 

He blinked a few times, then let his hand slump to his side. He studied you with a judgmental once-over. “Did you just get home?” He sounded as groggy as he looked. 

“Yeah,” you replied. It was a dumb question, given your current state of toying with your strappy heels, balancing with a hand planted against the wall as you tried to slip them off. 

Eren retrieved his phone from his pocket. “It’s almost three in the morning.” He showed you the screen as if you requested proof.

“So?”

“What were you doing out that late?” 

You couldn’t decipher his tone, and for the life of you, you couldn’t read the expression on his face. For once, it was blank. Tired, but blank.

“It’s none of your business,” you snarked. 

“It is when you wake me up.”

You had difficulty believing you’d woken him up in the thirty seconds you’d been home. Regardless, you brushed him off with, “I was out with a friend.”

You were purposefully vague because it really was none of Eren’s business. But you let your attitude seethe to the forefront, and with it, an implication you didn’t intend. He gave you this look, stern and accusatory, but more than anything, he appeared absolutely baffled by you.

“You didn’t.”

He actually thought you went crawling back to your ex. 

You decided not to correct him.

“You can’t be serious? After what he did?” he said, referring to the nasty breakup. “After everything?” Referring to the rest. 

You were aware Eren had become an unlucky bystander to your relationship, frequently caught in the fallout of every nuclear fight.

He pinched the bridge of his nose, wiping the sleep from the corners of his eyes. “You could be with anyone you want. Why go back to him?”

You felt insulted that he’d think so lowly of you. To think you were in need of a fatherly lecture—and from him of all people. The audacity, you thought, not reading between the lines when you barked back, “So what if I did? Why do you even care so much?” 

Eren didn’t care. What possibly gave you the impression he cared? You were a big girl, you could date whoever you pleased. You were certainly doing whatever you pleased; the only reason he was talking to you—the only reason he was awake—was because of you. Loudly stumbling through the door in the middle of the night, completely unwilling to consider his perspective on the situation.

A situation you created, by the way. Not just tonight, but eleven days ago. A situation that didn’t need to exist in the first place. The drama, the theatrics—none of it. You must have forgotten Eren wasn’t the one who dumped you. So, in his mind, the better question was:

“Why are you being like this?”

You defensively folded your arms across your chest. “Like what?” 

Eren opened his mouth, raring to sling some smart-ass comment your way, but he merely stammered. He blamed it on the fact that he was torn from his bed and immediately thrown into the ring with you. But truth be told, he could have had eight hours of sleep and a shot of espresso, and he would still suck at this sort of thing. You know, emotions. 

Words failed him miserably. He gave up on them and waved a hand over you as if you were supposed to know what that meant. “Weird and stuff.”

“Weird and stuff,” you mocked with a scoff. “You’re going to have to be a little more specific than that.” 

“You’re never here anymore,” Eren said in exasperation. “And when you are, you’re ignoring—no, you’re actively avoiding me.”

You wanted to do exactly that: roll your eyes and stomp off to your bedroom. Eren knew that. He dared you to prove him right. 

In a way, ending a feud was much like defusing a bomb. Both had you backed into a corner, forcing you to decide on instinct alone. Clip a wire, red or blue, the choice was yours, and cross your fingers that it was over. You could deny, deny, deny. You could put it off for one more day, just to see if it actually explodes. Or you could end it. 

You gave a reluctant exhale. “I went out for drinks with Sasha. We went to her place after, got to talking, and I lost track of the time.” He sighed, too. You watched his shoulders sink. “The breakup was long overdue. I don’t think one night out would change anything between us.”

You told Eren the truth not because it was any of his business but because of the guilt pitting in your stomach. Yes, he was upset you woke him up, you understood that. But hearing him now, you realized his testiness ran much deeper than that. 

The tension in the room eased its grip on your throats. You sensed Eren was about to offer you some cliché, something about there being more fish in the sea. But if it were anything like his last attempt at cheering you up, you weren’t interested. 

You talked over him, confessing, “He dumped me because of you.”

The sentence fell to the floor with a blundering splat. You plopped this thing between you, then expected him to know what to do with it. 

Eren’s eyes narrowed, flickering over you from head to toe. He took in your words, scrutinized and dissected them. Before he could draw his own hasty conclusions, you explained, “That’s the reason he broke up with me—why I’ve been avoiding you.” 

He snorted derisively. “That’s a load of bullshit.”

“That’s what I said. But he told me I either had to move out—either find a place of my own or live with him, or it was over.” 

The mood shifted. Eren stared back at you apprehensively, waiting for you to go on as if you hadn’t already made up your mind and break your lease on the spot. He couldn’t fathom the obvious answer. 

“And?” 

You exaggerated it when you held your arms out at your sides. “I’m still here, aren’t I?”

You stared and stared at him, but for once, Eren had nothing to say. You finally disarmed him. He tucked his hands into his pockets in his own Eren-y way of surrender. 

“It sounds stupid, but I like what we have. I like this,” you said earnestly, even if you weren’t quite sure what this was: your living situation, your roommate-ship, your friendship with Eren. Whatever your set-up was, it was comfortable, and maybe it was just some lame proverb, but you couldn’t help but think: if it ain’t broke, don’t fix it. 

You shrugged. “And I’m definitely not about to ditch it for some jealous douchebag.”

Eren finally cracked. His lips bowed into a small smile. “At least you can finally admit it.”

Deep down, like way down in there, you recognized that none of what happened was Eren’s fault, but that didn’t lessen the blow. Rather than facing it, you thought it was easier to pretend as if Eren wasn’t there, just for a while. Irrational, yes, but it was your gut reaction. And by the time you realized how petulant you’d been acting, you were too ashamed to fess up to it. All you needed was a bit of cornering, it seemed. 

You and Eren were too close, apparently. That was what your ex-boyfriend believed for however long he chose to keep the thought to himself. He stewed on it, no more than a simmer at first, until the whole ordeal came to a seething boil, splattering you when you removed the lid and asked, ‘Why have you been so distant lately?’

Once the argument ensued, it was as though you no longer spoke the same language. Anything you said, any explanation you gave, wasn’t good enough. To him, you were irredeemable. He’d already set his mind on the ultimatum before he even spoke to you. 

You weren’t oblivious to the fact that some may find it strange that you live with one man while in a relationship with another, but was it truly that bizarre a concept? That was how the card fell, so you made the best of the hand you were dealt. Which really wasn’t all that difficult, to be honest. 

Once he started listing everything you’d done wrong over the months, you put together just how long your living arrangement with Eren had been bothering him. He even went as far as to count your crimes on his fingers. Looking back, you wish you’d stopped him there. No one needed to be dating that kind of person, anyway. 

Firstly, and what appeared to be your gravest sin, was that he despised it when you borrowed Eren’s hoodies—which, in your defense, never happened often. Eren left them thrown around the apartment, so you’d only grab them to empty the trash when it was raining or if you went to grab coffee on a chilly day. According to your ex, he was ‘always’ finding them in your room.

Okay, maybe you could appreciate his perspective on that one, but he should have mentioned it sooner. His second reason—and this was where they started sounding silly—was that he ‘always’ heard Eren in the background of your calls. You told him it was far-fetched to think Eren’s naturally loud demeanor was somehow your fault. 

Then he became more upset. He ridiculed you for, in his words, being all ‘Eren this, Eren that’ about everything. Another exaggeration. If you turned to Eren, it was only out of convenience because he was right across the hall. You never had a chance to explain this, he didn’t give you one, so you tuned out the rest of his reasons, more focused on trying to make sense of the tailspin he’d sent you in. 

Then, it hit you. Not like a smack across the face—it was stealthier than that. It prowled from behind in a low rumble, creeping down your spine before pouncing, taking you captive in one go.

“Eren?”

The mildness in your voice took you by surprise. You spoke his name in a quiet request, the same way you would if you needed a favor from him (you did). Immediately, he appeared suspicious, but he met your eye and acknowledged you with knitted brows.

Whenever you needed something, you turned to Eren. 

You had to choose your words carefully now, but there was no careful way to go about this, really. 

You bit down on your bottom lip, unwittingly wetting it. “Would you… kiss me?” 

What you needed now was to forget. To lose yourself in someone else, just for a night.

The softness in Eren’s voice contended with your own. “Why?”

He didn’t say no. His expression certainly didn’t say no, either. And he didn’t dare draw back when you neared him. 

Sasha spent the night encouraging you to find a hookup, telling you the only way to get over someone was to get under another. But meeting someone new was hard. 

“I don’t know,” you slowly said. “Just want to.”

Eren flinched when you laid the tips of your fingers on the back of his wrist. You grazed them higher along his arm, noting how the hairs stood up as you went.

“Don’t you,” you started, in an almost seductive way. “Don’t you want to give it a try? I mean, haven’t you ever thought about it?” 

Eren sucked in a breath and his lips went with it, pinched between his teeth. He didn’t know what to do. Thoughts juggled around in his head; he couldn’t hold onto one without losing another. It didn’t help that the sight of you was incredibly distracting, either. He shut his eyes tight because he was pretty certain he was about to kiss you.

This was a terrible idea. Downright awful. But even so, he couldn’t say it was all that bad once he felt your hand on his chest, even if it made his heartbeat hammer. 

Eren opened his eyes to your face and nothing else. He took you in, from the top of your head to the very tip of your chin. Your hair was a bit out of place, as expected for three in the morning, but your eyes were as bright as ever. Something about them was alluring, though Eren couldn’t pin it. They grew larger and larger until they were out of focus. Closing in, your noses brushed, and Eren’s ‘yes’ died on his lips as he placed them on yours—an answer to both your questions. 

Losing his words between your lips, even as he asked, “Should we be doing this?” he couldn’t stop kissing you. 

You inched back but remained close enough for your breath to warm him when you asked, “Why not?” 

Eren knew you didn’t need him to break it down for you. You were Mikasa’s friend and his roommate. Someone he needed to keep the peace with, even if you were making it difficult. 

“Wouldn’t it make things weird?”

“I thought I already made things weird. And stuff,” you teased. He shot you an unamused glare, which you’d anticipated. “Whatever. You already pop a boner when you see me after a shower. Do you really think this is what will make things weird?” 

Heat scorched the tips of Eren’s ears. There was no way you knew about that. Unless you were looking for it, he supposed, but thinking about that made him more nervous. 

It was that damn robe of yours. The one you only wore once in a blue moon; the telltale sign laundry day was overdue. Eren had only seen you in it a handful of times, incidentally, when you’d pass by one another, but he could picture it easily. The frail piece of fabric hardly counted as a robe, bordering on see-through, clinging to your body as you’d leave the steamy bathroom, into the cool hallway—

You lightly smacked his arm. “I’m just messing with you.”

Eren deflated in relief, but the feeling didn’t last long because you were still between his hands, resting dangerously low on your waist. His senses drizzled from him much like a leaky faucet: drop by drop, until he wasn’t sure there was even any left. 

You batted your eyelashes up at him. “C’mon, you’re really going to make me get off myself?”

Now he was positive that any and all sense had completely drained from him. 

Eren swallowed hard. “Will this help you get over him? Because I’d really like to never see him again if I don’t have to.”

Yeah, that worked. That was how he could justify it. He was only helping you out. Nothing more. Then the problem would be fixed, and everything would go back to normal. Better, even, because now he wouldn’t have to deal with your ex-boyfriend anymore. 

“Mhm,” you murmured. Desire had been buzzing low in your stomach for the better half of the evening, leaving you fuzzy enough to agree to anything he said. Anything to keep the fire in you alive and burning. 

You went to kiss him again, but Eren dodged you with a small tick of his head.

“You just told me you liked this,” he said. “But now you’re willing to risk it? What if you wake up tomorrow and realize this was a mistake?”

He still struggled to understand you. He always struggled to understand you, even after living together for over a year, but this was next level. You had him utterly dumbstruck.

Let there be no misunderstanding: Eren wanted this. He was human, after all, just another twenty-something-year-old guy. Of course he wanted this. It was just that he was also very aware of the consequences. 

You touched his mouth with the tips of your two fingers and pressed down on his lips to shush him. You didn’t want words; you wanted incoherency. Purposeless and meaningless sounds and syllables. Groans pulled from the back of your throats. 

“If it’s a mistake, then let’s make it together.”

You invited him in with a peck at first. A taste. Then he pulled you back in to devour you whole. 

Eren kissed the same way he lived: passionately, intensely, maddeningly. He was better than your ex, which you didn’t expect. The thought of what else he could do better made your stomach flip.

His palm warmed your cheek as slender fingers wrapped around the back of your head. Like an anchor, it kept your dizzy self tethered to him. He smelled of sleep, and he smelled like him. The heady scent coiled around you. You inhaled as you kissed him, and when his mouth dipped to taste the delicate skin behind your ear, you buried your nose in his hair. You imagined your face shoved in his sheets, how they’d smell the same. You’d inhale it then, too, through gasps and an open mouth. 

You smoothed your hands higher up his chest, over his shoulders. Your nails gently scratched at Eren’s back, and even through his t-shirt, you set his nerves ablaze. 

The nagging part of his brain demanding he pump the brakes finally shut down, his entire body thrilled by your touch. It was entirely physical, fueled by carnal desire. Eren acted solely on what he wanted, and that was for your lips to stay exactly where they were. Instead of placing his hands against your shoulders to create some distance, he molded them around your hips. 

You clasped your hands around his larger ones and guided him to your ass. You squeezed down on them, encouraging him to fondle and feel you, and he took to it as if he’d already thought long about everywhere he’d like to grab. 

Mistake or not, Eren knew if he ended it now, the palms of his hands would feel hollow the second you left them. To stop you now would feel like abandoning a hearth in the winter.

You didn’t bother debating between bedrooms and made the decision easy by heading for the couch. If you were being honest, you had considered fucking on this couch before—not with Eren, obviously. The cushions were deep-set, roomier than most. Though it was evident you and Mikasa didn’t spend a fortune on it, at least it was firm enough not to give out beneath you. You’d respected your roommates enough to never give it a spin before, but with Eren, everything was shared. You could do it wherever you wanted. 

Eren lay you back on the couch and positioned himself above you. You wriggled below, attempting to make the space for him to fit between your legs, but it was quite the task in your jeans. You mumbled a ‘hold on’ against his mouth as you reached a hand for the button. Eren was eager to assist. Once your jeans were undone, he pulled them past your knees, freeing one leg so you could kick them off with the other. 

Settling between your thighs, Eren began kissing you again, and you could practically taste the desire on his tongue. His sweatpants did little to hide how hard, and heavy, he was against your leg. You imagined that if you slipped a hand below his waistband, you would find he wasn’t wearing any boxers.

Bunching his shirt in your first, you tugged at the hem. You lifted it out of the way so you could greedily glide your hand beneath. Tracing between the divots of his abdominals, you felt how they tensed as you trailed along. Once it was established that his shirt was no longer wanted, he sat back on his calves to tear it over his head. Yours came next, but it was a bit more complicated than his cotton tee.

“What the fuck,” Eren muttered once he realized your shirt wasn’t coming off. He fiddled with the strings tied around your neck, more frantic to get under the fabric with his fingers and tongue than he was concerned with being chivalrous.  “How did you even get this thing on?”

“Sasha helped,” you said, sounding a tad breathless. “It’s hers. Don’t rip it.”

“Did she have to tie it so many times?”

You arched your back as Eren slipped his hands beneath you, blindly reaching for any of the knots. The straps had been digging into your shoulders all night, marking your skin with soft indentations. With every slackened string came a sense of relief until, eventually, Eren had the shirt bunched around your midsection, your tits out. That was what mattered to him; he could figure out the rest later. 

He cupped your breast in his hand and brought his mouth to you. Your skin was supple and smooth under his impatient lips, balmy and warm from being pressed against him. With a pointed tongue, he flicked over your nipple until it perked. He sucked lightly until your breathing turned fluttery, then pulled off to thumb at it, mouthing over to your other nipple. 

Eren’s touch was resolute, weighed down by hunger as his hand mapped its way down your side. The sensation both unnerved and ignited you—the titillating vulnerability that was being with someone new; how he caressed you for the purpose of exploring, learning for himself what you liked best. 

Heat pooled in your stomach.  Lapped at you like the tides, though far less tranquil. Summery waters lured you in, kept you still and contented beneath Eren, kissing him, letting him kiss you everywhere. From your neck to the dip in the center of your collarbone, focusing the most on your breasts. He made his way down to your hipbones, where it tickled the most. He must have liked the sound you made, something of a giggle, because he grazed his teeth there, pulling the noise from you again. 

But as was certain, the tides would ebb. Tepid waves turned into sea swells. Deep in your stomach, that dull yet glowy ache begged you to do something about it, and fast. Your hips kneaded into him, inviting him to tear off your underwear and fuck you already, please. 

Eren hooked the band of your underwear with his finger, toyingly sliding it along your stomach. You twitched, frustratingly helpless to him. You bit back a strangled murmur urging him to get on with it. 

He sat back, eyes transfixed on where you wanted him most. And he knew just how badly the damp stain left on your underwear.

Eren pressed the pad of his thumb to it, his other fingers resting against your belly. He made soft circles against you, slow and testing. He observed every flick and flinch in your expression, his mouth slightly slackened in a smile that widened with each of your whimpers.

When he finally decided to take off your underwear, it revealed just how wet you were for him—your roommate. The back of your neck fevered when you noticed the lewd string connecting you to the soaked fabric. Eren snapped it with his thumb, and your eyes widened when you watched him bring it to his mouth.

He didn’t anticipate going down on you. You only wanted to get off, and so did he, and a quick fuck would achieve that. But as he played with your clit, your tiny moans had him craving to hear how you sounded when you were wrecked and sobbing out for more. And with the way you were spread and dripping below him—well, he didn’t want any of it to go to waste. Not with how sweet you tasted.

So without hesitation, Eren dove between your thighs, gripping you by the hips and pulling you against the heat of his mouth.

You threw your head back, and it smacked the armrest with a thud loud enough to catch Eren’s attention. He glanced up to check on you, and you found the sight of him inexplicably striking. You didn’t know why, but it was as if his piercing eyes had you pinned to the spot for him, like he had control despite being down between your legs. You went blind to anything but him and his eyes, dazzlingly green against the flush tinting his cheeks.

Once he realized you were (more than) all right, Eren pressed a kiss against your clit before swiping his tongue through you. You shivered as he licked you with broad, lazy strokes of his tongue, savoring you, the button tip of his nose nudging your clit.

“Oh, god,” you breathed sharply. Chin tucked to your chest, you let out a series of heavenly moans that were anything but holy. 

Eren parted you with two fingers. He added more pressure with his tongue as he swirled around your clit. You screwed your lips together rather than allow another cry to spill from you and let the neighbors learn how debauched you sounded when Eren made you come. When he closed his lips around your clit, sucking gently, you had no choice but to bite your knuckles. 

Admittedly, you had wondered before if he was actually talented at this, or if the girls on the other side of his bedroom wall were only trying to boost his ego. He’d answered that for you tonight, by delving his tongue inside you and fucking you with it. 

“Don’t stop,” you rushed to choke out. Your back curved up from the couch cushions. “I’m almost there.”

Closer. You needed him closer. 

You flung your hand to his head, raking your fingers through his hair. The useless tie slipped out as you further disheveled his bedhead. You pushed back the pieces that hid him from you, tugging as you angled him to the spot that made your thighs quiver. 

“Do that again,” Eren breathed, fanning the command over you. 

You did. He groaned. You felt the couch shift as he rutted into it.

Your stomach contracted, that last gasp hitching in your lungs. Whatever glorious thing he did with his tongue felt like fire licking up your spine. He brought you to the very brink of becoming undone until you felt like you were teetering it. 

Eren’s mouth slipped the more you wiggled and writhed. It didn’t matter how he held you, how deep his fingers dug into your thighs, he couldn’t keep you still. At this rate, you’d fall off the couch and undoubtedly take him along with you. 

Eren wrapped his hands around the backs of your knees, pinning them to your chest as a reminder to hold them out of his way. You held them there for him, whining when you felt his fingers on you in tandem with his tongue. He dragged them in and out of you, increasing his pace until he discovered the tempo that had you pulsing around him. He curled his knuckles just right, aiding his tongue in driving you to your release. 

“I’m coming—Fuck, I’m coming,” you whispered, ragged and hardly audible at the end. 

Eren sounded equally muffled, groaning as you started rolling your hips over his mouth. You heard him mumbling something about how fucking hot it was; you couldn’t make him out exactly, not with the way your heart thrummed loudly in your ears.

Unable to hold them up any longer, your legs fell to their sides, jittering ever so as you rode out the final pulses of your orgasm. 

As you worked to find your breath, Eren planted kisses against you, trailing up from your inner thighs until the two of you were face-to-face once more. 

“How was that?” he asked cheekily, grinning and everything.

You playfully pushed his face away from yours, but he continued acting smug about it as he went to kiss your neck. Out of the corner of your eye, you saw him go for the band of his sweatpants. You stopped him with a hand against his arm. 

“Condom. Right.” Eren thought for a moment. “Open the side table drawer behind you.”

You frowned but reached a hand back to do so. Eren leaned over you uncomfortably, and you grumbled about it as he searched the drawer. After a second, you both fumbled around until you were sitting side by side. Him with a condom in hand, you wriggling to get your top off. 

As you threw the damn thing on the floor, you complained to Eren, “Please tell me you haven’t fucked someone on our couch before.”

He looked up from fiddling with the condom and gave a weary, “No.” You clearly didn’t believe him. He tutted his tongue. “Whatever. Like you haven’t.”

“I haven’t,” you insisted. 

“Well, you won’t be able to say that any longer.”

In one quick motion, he was above you once more, his hand supporting your lower back as he laid you down on the couch. You looped your arms around his neck and pulled yourself to him for a kiss. 

The intensity with which Eren wanted this, wanted you, surprised him. He’d spent the better half of his night feeling bitter toward you, grumbling about how you had barely spoken in eleven days. Hours ago, he was positive you didn’t want anything to do with him. Now, it was as if you never wanted to leave his arms, and he wasn’t sure he’d let you. 

The kiss was desperate, sucking tongues, skimming your teeth along them, tasting the desire on each other’s breaths. Only when he could no longer go another second without being inside you did Eren stop to catch your face. Between breaths, he asked, “Are you sure you want to do this?”

Cheeks pinched between his fingers, your voice sounded squished and needy as you answered, “Yes.”

Eren’s jaw clenched at the pathetic syllable. He reached a hand down between your legs and touched you. He could play with you all night if you’d let him. So warm and wet and soft around his fingers—how much better you would feel around his cock. 

He rutted against your leg in a helpless search for friction.

“Then tell me what you want.”

Eren angled your jaw higher, brought his lips against your pulse point before kissing, sucking, and nipping at it. 

“Fuck,” you cursed on a delicious hiss. 

“Obviously.” Eren gave a breathy laugh. “Look at me.” You tried your best with his hand still cupping your face. “How do you want me to fuck you?”

You shook free of his hand, panting, “I want it rough.” You grabbed him by the shoulders and tugged him in close. Smoothing back his hair, you took his face between your hands. You wanted to see the look in his eyes when you told him, “Let me feel it.”

You spoke as if you had thought about this before. Eren couldn’t help but wonder if your ex did, in fact, have a reason to worry. But that was a problem for tomorrow. Tonight, the only obstacle in his way was his sweatpants, which was quickly resolved by you both pawing to take them off. 

You found the half-opened condom, prepping it as Eren licked his palm once and fisted his cock a few times. A sight you’d call crass if it didn’t turn you on so much. Unbothered by your staring, he took the condom from your hand and rolled it on. 

Eren had you on your back, head laid on the armrest. You hitched one leg around his waist while the other dangled off the couch, giving Eren just enough room to nestle between.

He was hard against the crease of your thigh. With a hand wrapped around his base, he lined his cock up with you. The tip threatened to push inside, but he only glided between your folds in one slow, encompassing stroke. And just as slowly, an overwhelming warmth trickled down your spine. 

Eren continued toying with your clit. The condom’s lube paired with your wetness made it too easy for the head of his cock to slip between you, dipping inside, teasing you. Teeming with anticipation, you were already clenching around him so nicely, and he hadn’t even put more than the tip in. 

But he was just as eager, teasing himself just as much as he teased you. When Eren felt your feel dig into his lower back, wordlessly pleading with him to fuck you already, he succumbed. Not with a gentle tilt of his hips, but a plunge. 

Your wilted gasp became lost somewhere in your throat. You had to swallow it down before you could choke.

Caged between Eren’s arms, you were close enough to catch the slight tremble in his biceps once he was flush against you. His eyes squeezed shut, his lips parted in a shaky and, dare you say, beautiful sigh.

Eren stalled to adjust to you. You were sensitive, squeezing around the thick of him. Of course, you felt fucking amazing, but so much tighter when he split you with his cock and not just his fingers. He took his sweet time pulling out of you, losing himself little by little as he went, just to bury inside you generously again. 

He fucked you with smooth rolls of his hips. And god, it was absolutely effortless, sliding into you over and over, thanks to how wet you were. You scraped at the cushion as if it were a bedsheet, as if you could twist the taut fabric between your fingers to ground yourself. 

Once Eren discovered a pace that had you both breathing hard, he let his head drop against your shoulder. You took it as an opportunity to stifle your moans, mouthing and sucking at his neck, with hands flattened against his back like you wanted him to smother you. 

His skin tasted salty, and if he kissed you anywhere now, you were sure you’d taste the same. The heat between you grew more feverish by the second, leaving you grinding against each other in a sticky lust. 

When the blunt of your teeth dragged over his skin, you swore his groans tapered into low whimpers. You did it again, harsher this time, biting down as the lean muscle gave easily. It kept you quiet enough but pulled another sound from Eren. He muttered some curses you couldn’t make out, and you thought you might have hurt him if not for the way his steady thrusts turned into pounding. 

Already, you realized this position wasn’t going to work for long. Half of you had slipped from the couch, inch by inch with each of Eren’s thrusts. He’d hoist you back into place only for you—the pathetic, squirmy thing that you were—to nearly fall over the edge again. Then the process would repeat. 

Of course, you were the ones who made this more complicated than necessary, forgoing two bedrooms, full-sized beds and all, and chose to fuck on the couch because you couldn’t keep your hands to yourselves long enough to think ahead. 

Eren shifted upright. He closed his hands around your waist and yanked you closer to him, further down on his cock.

With a yelp, your head slipped from the armrest and bounced against the cushion. He took your wrists and pinned them above your head with a sturdy grasp. Your knees threatened to clamp around him, but he used his free hand to hold you open. 

“Keep ‘em spread for me,” he growled. “Wider.”

You liked how his voice sounded then, all raspy and weighed down by lust. You’d never heard it like that before, and it gave away just how turned on he was. 

You fucked like that for… You weren’t sure how long. Time was irrelevant after three a.m., right? One particularly good thrust had his elbows buckling. Unable to both hold himself up and continue his ruthless pace, he chose the third option and flipped you onto your stomach. 

You leaned on your elbows against the armrest, propping yourself up. His hand forced a nice bend in your back, then smoothed lower before taking a handful of your ass. He spread you indulgently, watching as his cock disappeared inside. 

Too weak to hold your head up, you let it rest against your forearms. “Fuck—you’re deep.”

When he bottomed out, the head of his cock brushed the spot that had you briefly seeing stars. 

Eren slowed at your dubious remark. You cleared things up with a demand of, “Keep going.”

He began ramming into you, and you were far too gone—far too focused on coming again to hold back any longer. The noises that poured from you were pornographic. Short and breathy bleats of ‘right there, right there’ as his cock sent sparks between your legs. 

Your fingers flexed and relaxed around nothing, nails piercing the meat of your palms fiercely enough to leave them tender. You didn’t know if you needed him harder or faster, and through a few choked gasps, you could only plead, “Fuck me.”

You emphasized it by rocking back on him. Eren’s hands found your hips and settled into the crease where they met your stomach. 

“Let me know if it’s too much.”

He was so casual that it almost irritated you. Whatever snippy comment you wanted to make, you kept it to yourself for the sake of getting off again. And you were glad you did, because you would have eaten your words not a second later.

Eren planted one foot on the floor, giving him extra support with every thrust. The first stole your breath; the second knocked it back into you. He took you from behind, sealing every rut of his hips by jerking you back onto his cock. In the tangled spot where too much became ‘yes, yes, yes,’ you became lost in the messy throes of pleasure. 

The sound of smacking skin was more severe than even your loudest of cries. Between, you could hear Eren’s grunts and huffs through his nose, restrained, but telling of just how riled up he was to be ravaging you like this. To have you take and take and take him.

You let your eyes close, only for a second, before they shot open again as you thrust over the armrest. Your chest lurched forward with the brutal snapping of his hips, and you extended a hand to the floor to brace yourself. And bent over that armrest, your ass so perfectly perched in the air for him, you let him have you. 

Eren didn’t let you hang there for long, just enough for the blood to rush to your head a bit. You were blinking and dizzy as he gracelessly swung you upright so you straddled his lap. You went with him, willingly, submissively. Happily. 

You sat on your knees as Eren grabbed hold of you by the waist to impale you on his cock. You gripped his biceps, throwing your head back with a moan as he took care of you, working you up and down over his length. 

He looked you squarely in the face, jaw tight and eyelids heavy with determined lust. You wanted to clear the hair from his face, but before you could, you were kissing again, roughly and carelessly, with him humming as you licked into his open mouth. 

When you pulled away for a breath, saliva connected his lips to yours. Eren’s eyes flitted down to your tits before returning to your face. “You look good like this,” he said, snapping the spit string with a flick of his chin.

“Like what?” you attempted to sass, but it came out warbled as he continued bouncing you in his lap. “Getting fucked by you?” 

“Exactly,” he panted through a half-grin. “Gonna think about this—you taking my cock so fucking good—every time I jerk off.”

That mental image did things to you. 

“Mm, fuck,” you murmured, long and sweet. You shoved a hand between your legs. “I’m close. Keep talking.”

If you’d seen it, if you hadn’t closed your eyes, you would have wanted to slap the smile off Eren’s face. He would have never suspected you’d be so into dirty talk.

“Oh, yeah? Gonna come again?” he cooed. You nodded dumbly. “Playing with yourself—whining on top of me, but you can’t get there on your own, huh? Need me to tell you to come, don’t you, pretty girl?”

The words were heavy on his breath and settled in the depths of your chest.

“Yes,” you sighed, rubbing at yourself desperately.

You sensed Eren enjoyed this—uttering such filth to you—as much as you did. Perhaps even more. His hips sputtered as they bucked into you, as if he wasn’t already rashly stuffing you to the hilt. You could already see the reddened, blotchy marks this would leave on his thighs. An unavoidable consequence of fucking like a couple of animals. 

“I wanna hear you say it.”

You started rolling your hips, babbling, “I need you to make me come. Please make me come.”

His cock jolted inside you, you could feel it. But he didn’t relent; he wanted to play with you for just a bit longer. 

“Tell me how pretty—ah—how pretty you’re going to look coming on my cock.”

You were right there. So close to coming that you would do just about anything—say anything—for him to keep going. It would spill from you in a drooly mess of course, but you’d say it. 

“So pretty—” A shiver reverberated through your whimper, your insides ignited. “I’ll look so pretty for you when I come.”

“Fuck yeah, you will.” 

He punctuated it with a firm slap on your ass, which you barely felt because you were coming, deliciously hard. 

You sounded pitchy and whiny, and you already knew Eren would relentlessly tease you for it in the future. You wished you could cover your mouth, but you were too overwhelmed to do anything but hold on tighter. Pleasure hit you in ripples, and you rode out every last one of them, carving your nails into Eren’s arms like you could wring out the last drops of your orgasm. 

“Goddamn,” Eren remarked, voice tight. “You needed that one, huh?”

He was right, but you wouldn’t have answered him even if you could.

When your shaky comedown finally subsided, it left you in a fog. You fell into him, hooking your chin on his shoulder. Soft, happy hums escaped you while you stayed there, satisfied, as Eren headed toward his own high.

He could have come two positions ago, but he finally allowed it to well up inside him. His hands abandoned your hips only for him to lock his arms around you, holding you there to fuck up into. 

Eren’s breathing picked up, his chest heaving against you. His thrusts turned erratic until he pumped into you one last time, deep, and kept you flush against him. It was your name on his tongue, the word he buried into your neck as he groaned from the back of his throat. 

You felt him throb inside you as he emptied into the condom. Gradually, he moved you over his length a few times to ease himself down. When he lifted you from his lap, his oversensitive cock slipped out from you, tearing a tiny hiss from him. After he let you go, you crumpled to the couch.

You stayed like that for a moment, staring at the ceiling, hands folded over your chest as you timed your racing heart. By the time it evened, Eren patted your leg and stood up. 

He went to the bathroom—you could tell by the fluorescent light seeping into the hallway. You listened to the faucet turn on, then searched for your underwear.

You’d already wrapped yourself in a blanket and snuggled into the couch corner by the time Eren returned. Your eyes lazily followed him as he pulled on his sweatpants and double-checked that you locked the door when you came home. 

Eren flicked the light off, but when he realized you weren’t following him to your respective bedrooms, he turned back to ask, “Aren’t you going to bed?”

You didn’t want to get up yet, whether it was because you were too sleepy, or because your body felt too doughy to walk—or because the thought of tomorrow now felt like a threat.

“No,” you said. You tugged the blanket to your nose and nuzzled into it. “Not yet.”

“Okay.” 

You figured that was that, but instead of leaving, Eren plopped down on the other side of the couch. He answered your question before you could even open your mouth.

“I’ll stay here then, too.”

“Why?” you asked. 

Eren thought it over, and though he couldn’t decide on an answer, he was just as content with, “I don’t know. Just want to.”

Everything was silver in the moonlight, barely sneaking in through cracks in the blinds. All the color had been smudged away like ink, except for Eren’s eyes. You made out the glint in them as he quoted you from earlier. 

“I thought you were so mad at me for waking you up.”

“I got over it,” he said with a shrug. “Besides, for some odd reason, I’m not so tired anymore.”

You laughed through your nose, and Eren tossed back a small smile in return.

He was still shirtless—not that you minded, there was no point in modesty now—with an arm sprawled along the back of the couch. His breaths were no longer heavy, neither of yours were, but you could tell he was still cooling off from your porn star sex because he was quick to tie his hair up again. Neater this time, with every strand up and off the nape of his neck.

His neck.

Eren noticed how your eyes widened, and it freaked him out. “What?”

You stifled a cackle. “That’s a nasty hickey you got there, Eren.”

His expression fell. “Shit.” He started prodding at his neck, looking down as if he could possibly see it. “Is it that bad?”

“A little.” You leaned in to poke the bruise, but he swatted you away. It only made you giggle as you asked, “Hey, can you put on our show? The one I like.”

“You don’t even know the name of it. How can you say you like it?”

“I know it! I just… can’t remember it right now,” you said, confidently and sheepishly, if that were even possible. 

Eren raised an eyebrow. “So I was just that good, huh?”

You snatched a pillow and launched it at his head. “I thought we said we weren’t going to make this weird!”

Eren broke out into the sort of laughter you only hear from someone every once in a while. One that made it feel like you could go back to the way things were—you know, before everything.

And they would, just as Eren hoped. Except now, he had a pretty good solution for the next time he pissed you off. 

you’re disarmingly funny, smart-mouthed when it counts but you’re dedicated to your craft and fiercely loyal to the people you care about. by all means, you’re the girl of his dreams, there’s not a day that goes by where you’re not the first thing on his mind after a gruelling patrol and meetings with the hero commission. 

katsuki seeks you out like a blossom winding up to find the sun, desperate to spend free time with you — dates that aren’t really dates in places hidden away from prying public eyes. late nights that lead to your legs tangled at the short end of his couch, your cheek smooshed into his chest and a hand low the small of your back. heaviness there that doesn’t seem burdensome, natural.

the two of you are too far into the comfort zone after such a short time, he doesn’t even pick up on the blaring warning signs. the dating app notifications that still pop up on your phone, the way your head dips when he leans in a little too close to kiss you. 

he doesn’t see it clearly enough, the dangerous thorns that wrap around you like the stems of a blood red rose. his friends know better, you’re the type of girl who drank the blood of her enemies and ate the bones of her past lovers, stripping them bare like a carcass lost in the wastelands. they know the map of bakugou’s being well, the subtle craving for attachment and endearment that lies behind walls of flesh, muscle and a hardened exterior made up of a bit of trauma with a dash of near death. for all his gruffness and grandeur, there is a human within katsuki bakugou. one who carnally craves the simple promise of forever with someone else. 

those friends who pledge a lifetime by katsuki’s side aren’t enough to satisfy his appetite and yearning inner-ego, they know that, but still — they look out for him. 

“oh, relationships? i don’t do those.” you’d laughed, then, waving a hand dismissively when mina corners you on the way into the dynamight agency. a favour. a good friend willing to ask what the other can’t. 

her shoulders had risen in anxiety, treading carefully as the pink haired pro prodded and pried. “then what about katsuki?”

“what about him?” you quipped, tone clipped, unwilling to fall open to her investigation. katsuki’s friends weren’t yours by any means — you were new, fresh meat in their eyes that had somehow withstood of concerned childhood classmates. “we’re not dating. just messing around?”

mina’s expression soured then. “does he know that?” 

“he should. he’s a grown man, i’m sure he knows what kind of relationship he can handle.” 

“a situationship.” 

“a friendship that comes with added benefits.” he recalls you supplying. quick to the punch and cold like ice.

katsuki stays long enough to hear mina give you the low down. katsuki bakugou doesn’t do casual, he doesn’t mess around — his heart only goes out to some and when it’s yours, you’re supposed to take care of it. mina gives you the chance to walk away, leave him be and you fail to take it. with that minacious sense of esurience you possess.

the first time you sleep together happens after your first fight. he wants something you can’t give him, permanence, the sturdiness that reminds one of an oak tree that’s grown proud and tall over time. katsuki wants something that lasts and his heart is set on you — someone who disappears into the rolling smoke and only exists for a split second, a momentary fraction of time like when the sun and moon meet for an eclipse. you’re evanescent, almost imaginary, fleeting like a nomad who never stays for too long.

he can’t have you. not in the way that he needs to feel stabilised. 

everything blows up, when you tell him that. sitting on the other side of the bed, wearing his clothes, comfortable in his penthouse where your shoes ( an impressive collection of sneakers to high heels ) are lined up by the door and you’ve got a favourite mug on the top shelf of his kitchen cabinets where only he can reach. there’s a piece of you everywhere in bakugou’s home but not a single piece you can part with long enough for him to call you his own. the fight is full of rage and pent up frustration and a hurt that’s nearly incurable — katsuki should have made you leave right then and there, emotions rising like hot air above cool. with tears building behind his red eyes that burn brightly with fury, but he can’t because you’re so intertwined with his life, it’d be like having a lung missing if you’d gone. 

it’s not love, it shouldn’t be — but his heart feels anchored to you even if it’s holding you back. you let him say it, that he loves you so much it could kill him in his youthful age. he loves you while pushing into you deep, chest rising and falling in tune with yours, much like a habit you’ve picked up from one another. he loves you with your legs hiked high on his shoulders, at the weight of his shaft pressed up against your sensitive walls with his teeth and tongue marking you like you belong to him. the sex that night had felt like a confession, a love letter written in hickies and scratch marks — penned and signed into your body by rough-padded fingertips that find your clit between rolling waves of trusts, hips that hit yours like the turning tide hits the shore.  

in the moment, you reciprocated. sung his praises kike they were the lyrics to your favourite song, coated in wistfulness. howled his name, katsuki, at the moon whilst the stars bore witness to the union of your souls and your bodies. struck claw marks between the muscles in his back, leaving him with a scar. a heavily ironic reminder of your presence in his life — even if you left him physically, you’d still be there in the root of his heart and in every breath he’d take from then on. he couldn’t get rid of you, not that he wanted to, not even if he tried. in every sense of the word — mind, body and soul, katsuki had decided he belonged to you. willed you to understand through every stroke of his cock into you, every gentle kiss that deepened to share hungry moans, every caress over your battle wounds and fatal flaws… that he was yours, however you wanted. whatever that looked like. he would take it. 

in the morning, you were different — colder, sharper, as if the sinful hells from which your desire had risen from, had now  frozen over. like the heat and passion you’d shared were nothing but a mutually beneficial exchange. pleasure for pleasure, not to be mistaken for beating hearts coming together as one. in the morning, you’d tossed katsuki aside, smiling sweet, your lips pressed against his cheek, your clothes from the night before wrinkled against your love-bruised frame. “thank you,” he remembers you saying. “same time next week?” 

it’s a joke that lands as a sucker punch. worse than any hit he’s ever taken on the field. 

despite that, bakugou had never wanted you more. something he couldn’t keep. a hurricane in a glass jar that  he couldn’t contain. free as a bird that could fly away at a moment's notice — too dazed with desire and devotion to see the cruel limbo you were leaving him in. even then he’d have called you the girl of his dreams, perfect in every way except for your knack for avoidance. he should have walked away then. 

he should walk away now. as his tired, blood red eyes look to you with a rose tinted lens. watching you sleep soundly amongst sheets you’d complain cost more than a month’s rent and won’t let katsuki buy for your own apartment. still thinking that you’re perfect for him, that you fit right into his world where you’ve made him so intrinsically part of your own. thriving in this weird symbiotic relationship where you get your needs taken care of and he gets a taste of what it’s like to be longed for. as more than a hero. as less than dynamight. just katsuki. you’d taken a sledgehammer to the pro hero’s concrete shell and sent his shield packing, now he’s no longer to build up his walls without fear of shutting you out. 

friends with benefits, lovers but not quite — bakugou doesn’t care as long as he’s with you. he’d pick fights for you until he turned black and blue, rescue you from the competition because he knows it means having his way with you afterwards, let you call him your boyfriend high on life and liquor just to piss another man off. now you’re in his shirt, the warm charm of the sun spilling through his curtains to illuminate the soft slopes of your thighs and highlight every perfect imperfection on your skin. the scars you try to hide, the tiger stripes you sometimes let him love. 

you look softest when you’re asleep, like you wouldn’t dare destroy someone’s self worth and ability to love. you don’t look dangerous. 

he still doesn’t believe that you are.

“suki,” stretching high and wide like a little harmless — maybe even blameless — kitten lounging under the blessing of the afternoon sun. your voice calls to him — wafting through the aerosols that catch light under golden rays. they act as a smog, a performance of smoke and mirrors that hides your true intentions from the blonde. even if he were to wave his hand through the smoggy disguise, katsuki still wouldn’t be able to see your desires clearly. “my head hurts.” 

“yeah?” bakugou’s bare chest rises and falls with somewhat of a brusque titter, the sound curling inward like a wisp of smoke caught within his lungs —  cemented into their small branches of bronchi. it’s soft, barely noticeable, if you weren’t listening. almost as if he’s been trying to keep it a secret from you. as though his fondness were to scare you away. “want me to kiss it better?”

“mhm…” more of you emerges from cotton hills and stiff peaks of linens — a hand rubbing through the crust corned at your eyes and lips. “god it kills, what even happened last night?”

even then, despite the sleep caked into your skin and the lines carved out by creases in the sheets struck against your cheeks, disregarding the bitterness to your morning breath and the drool staining the fabric of his your sleep shirt — you’re still the most beautiful person in the world to katsuki bakugou. with all your flaws and icks and green flags he can’t help the uptick in his pulse and the pull of gravity that lures him into smiling almost school-girlishly at the sight of you rubbing the ache from your forehead, lost in the waves of his bed spread.

you’re perfect even if you don’t know it — some kind of lawless and flawless being that could do no wrong in the jewelled eyes of the beholder. 

“party. didn’t invite me so i don’t know what you had.”

“it was a party, am i not supposed to drink?” a cheshire grin blooms amongst your features and compliments the mirthy spark to your sleepy stare as you reply bluntly. if there was any inclination as to how deeply katsuki feels for you, it would be the way his focus flits away from your eye contact and the manner in which rich red blood pools underneath the surface of his cheeks. a blush that catches sunlight and spreads like a flame over oil slick, creeping down to the back of katsuki’s neck.

he rubs at it — akin to how one would smooth over a scab they’re not trying to pick in fear of making it bleed —  as he speaks. intent and careful. “responsibly, sure,” he’s already reaching to pull the covers back and welcome you to the land of the living. you hide, pouting like you’ve been scolded. “you were so shitfaced last night, ‘m surprised you even managed to call me to come pick you up.” 

you don’t like that. the tenderness that sits between curse words and stretching through the comfortable atmosphere of the late morning. to you, katsuki is scary in the kind of way that reminds you of the buzz you feel after watching a horror movie — electric and alive, all fried nerve endings and an impending sense of doom tickling your chest. maybe it’s because he’s so handsome. in the way that causes trouble with the old ladies on floor thirty four of the apartment building or gets the girls tripping over their kitten heels at the agency. maybe it’s because he leans into this natural duty to protect or nurse strays like you back to health. 

genuine fear easily takes residence in your being when bakugou cares for you in the ways you feel you don’t deserve. it’s small, fleeting — almost like the subtle beat of a butterfly's wings or the tickle of your own hair at the nape of your neck. 

katsuki isn’t someone to be afraid of. he’s not some kind of predator lurking in the dark waiting to turn you into a chunk of meat. his affections lap at you in the same way ocean blue does at a sandy shoreline, in soft waves with bubbling white at the owl waiting to be absorbed into porous substrate. he waits, oh, he waits for you to accept all of him as though he were always meant to be yours. 

that’s what frightens you, his gentle dedication. his tired eyes that crystallise when you walk into a room. his heart tattooed in fading ink on his sleeve, waiting for you to take a knife and pierce it with all that you’ve got. 

the thought of accepting his love and returning it had your stomach turning. not because you resent the idea, but because you find yourself warming to it like a steel kettle on a hot stove or a freshly potted sapling winding towards the light in order to grow. it’s as frightening coming face to face with an animal that sees you as nothing more than prey. like a hare standing against a wolf where the odds are hardly in its favour. 

“it’s too early on in the day for you to parent me katsuki and you sound like my dad,” you bite like a snake that has venom poised behind its teeth, regarding the blonde with devious merriment. “bet you like that though, gets you all riled up telling me what to do. acting like my dad. do you want to be? my daddy, katsuki?”

your banter is usually like this, the kind where the dialect crawls underneath his skin through an open wound and spreads uncomfortably in the form of a viral infection. it sticks meagerly to katsuki’s ego in a similar fashion to a postage stamp placed down wrong — where you can’t pick it up by the corner and peel it back, unable to reposition it correctly. in the moment, you’re funny — light on your feet and quick with quips that come easy and aren’t supposed to mean anything aside from serving the purpose of laughter. except, when the coals cool and the time passes you leave a sting that creeps up on the victim, dead before they even know it. straight faced by the time the day is over.

“don’t be like that.” he leans over you, wafting notes of clean pine and smoked applewood, sparking your senses awake, and pushes the side of your head playfully. his touch slides down, careful as it goes, before bakugou cups your cheeks and squishes them twice.“bein’ fuckin’ mean.” 

“sorry daddy.” you grin the same as before. with the air of someone who knows exactly who they are and what they’re doing. you’re a woman who’s made a vexatious habit out of reading people — katsuki is one of them — scouring their worn, aging pages for something that makes them tick. 

by now he’s caught on the game that you play, toying with the knotted mess of his feelings like a feline with her bawl of carmine coloured yarn. the iniquitous version of the red string of fate. he returns to his seat at the edge of the bed,  turning away before you catch the fall in his face. as though the manner in which icarus flew too close to the sun — only to be scorned —  could be captured in his expression, like an artist who carves his wages through stone.

“oh shut up,” bakugou pushes again, no weight behind his hand. controlled because he’s not a man with a temper. the kind you run to when he spends a weekend out of town. “‘m not fuckin’ you ‘n i gotta go to work.” 

“that’s never stopped you before.” you purr, never quite having learned how to be subtle.

hero galas and award-show after parties run rampant through katsuki’s mind — the memories without picture frames because you never stay long enough to keep. alcohol bleeds into the ink, leaving them splotchy where he’d remember the happenings if he were sober. lipstip smudge kiss that taste of plasticky makeup and the bitter pop of champagne 

undeterred by your little mind games and the puzzles you make of the pro hero’s patience — he glances over at you, just for a moment. registers the presence of you helpless in his bed and then suppresses a fond smile, poking his tongue into his cheek. “you’re hungover, that’ll stop me. told you, i care about you.” 

there’s a twang to katsuki’s voice that has always warmed you sweetly. much like honey and buttermilk simmering on a stove. years of drawling and pulling along the vowels braided between their intimidating consonant peers. unhurried and rough around the edges. the way he softly answers you despite the wrath and envy that hides behind the snakelike bite of your words when you speak — he tries not to be loud, in fear his speech may be taken as a curse. the last thing katsuki wants is to scare you away, especially when you make a habit of escaping from his hold like a bird from a net or a gazelle from a hunter. 

you turn silent –  in a manner similar to the creep of the quiet night that sneaks up on her friend, the day – shifting upright and bringing the duvet with you. “don’t need you to,” your fingers curl in the blankets until crescent moons form in your palms through the thinness. you don’t snap, that is what terrifies katsuki more. “and that doesn’t mean you have to baby me.” it’s a childish retort that you add on, one that lands in the pocket of silence beginning to brew at the center of the room. sour like the punch of a lemon when you sip on something citrus. “i’m an adult, we can fuck if i wanna.” 

“but i don’t,” he feels far away when he responds, carefully unveiling his truth to you at a safe distance, to avoid the splinters of your shattering morning. “even if you’re nicer to me when you’re fucked up.” 

a rare joke from him turns you into the cheshire cat.

“you think i’m mean sober. so you prefer me subdued.” you ask, a taunting tone intertwined with the cadence of a person who seeks only to get a rise out of their victim. you pass his

the blonde whips round to face you, not to yell or to “listen. you were drinkin’, i wasn’t there to look out for you and there could have been anythin’ in your system. i was worried about you.” something churns in his stomach and ties his intensities together in some kind of fatal knot guided by a sick sense of anxiety.  it’s the same kind of feeling you. katsuki sighs, shoulders falling as though the strings that master them have been released.  “i don’t wanna argue.”

“me either,” you quip, sensing the defeat. “my head really hurts, kats.”

he softens as you drop the topic. a change in tactics to keep him on his toes, interested in playing the game of chess you’ve laid out for the two of you. his pieces have been stolen, barely anything left on the board since you so eagerly take and take from him. “i know baby,” katsuki supplies in that sugary simple syrup manner that would have any girl twist her ankle in order to get a chance with him. “just, lemme get you some orange juice for your hangover, kay?”

“with bits in it? bleck. you know i don’t like orange juice.” he does. of course katsuki bakugou knows that you hate orange juice with the little floating pieces of fruit flesh and that you prefer the kind of squash you dilate with running water over anything else. he knows that you hate to eat breakfast in the morning because you’re never too hungry, but if he were to cook something up you’d eat it with the same appetite as a grown man. katsuki knows you like the sun burning up high, would know the familiar company of a summer’s day and a clear blue sky — in a way that’s complimentary, two souls tangled by a fine rouge thread, knotted with no loose ends.  

except he finds you tugging at them as though you’re a bird caught in a net — fighting ferociously until you’re too fatigued to taste it. freedom. as though you’re frightened of the calm katsuki could offer you. he dwells on the thought, standing too still amongst a hurricane — biting fear cool against his skin because he’s not entirely sure what he’ll do when he loses your presence beside him simply because you’re not ready for something greater.

his eyes drag away from you, polarised to the wall like a magnet that attracts. “well it’s either that or tomato juice, pick your poison,” katsuki supplies, listening for your tantrum amongst cotton sheets. you settle on the bright, more-fruity counterpart ( because you’ve argued about this before at 3AM whilst he’s been in indonesia for a mission and you've been stuck here — using your spare key to get into his apartment when you’d missed him. tomato, despite its many seeds, isn’t a fruit in your eyes ) and the blonde hauls himself up from the edge of the bed to find his juicer in the kitchen. “that’s what i thought, brat.”

katsuki never leaves you without saying goodbye. a text after patrol to let you know that he’s safe, a kiss on the forehead when he moves from one room to the next, a perfectly wrapped morsel of his soul packed up into a brief, flickering moment all for you. something to keep when the regular rhythm of your body starts to fall out of tune without him, no matter how long or short the time spent apart is — katsuki always gives you something. 

but this morning he leaves the bedroom with his lips pressed into a thin line and the hard set expression of a man who’s worked so much for too little in return — breaking a sweat to undo crossed wires as though there’s a time bomb ticking relentlessly between you that requires a special agent’s touch to figure you out. katsuki isn’t a spy, he isn’t a mind reader and yes, he’s super-human… but in his line of work there are just some people you can never seem to save. maybe you’re one of them and maybe that’s why he feels as though he might need to give up.

you draw your knees to your chest underneath the sheets in order to add pressure to the panic building within — he doesn’t shut you out in the manner that you do with him. katsuki always comes back to pull you out of your own mess as though you’re a wounded animal in need of tending. he’s good like that. he cares about you like that. 

you’re a blender, an emotional one at that, you come with razor sharp, silvering blades that constantly whir like a looming threat. get too close and you’ll lose a piece of yourself, bleed out on cold concrete like a saviour who tried entirely too hard to save someone who didn’t want it. what seems right to him, when it comes to you, is a means to his own demise and death – in this tale, katsuki is a wolf licking crimson blood from a blade poised to kill him, worsening his own wounds inflicted by his own desire for you.

a mere twenty paces away, you listen to him clatter about in the kitchen – juicing fresh fruit for you. from scratch. just to help you feel better. It's a luxury you know that you don’t deserve, a tragedy that you know he’ll play line by line if it means being with you. for a while, you thought yourself invincible, taking advantage of the weakness of men who have hurt you before. yet, katsuki is kind, he warms you, treats you as though you’re flawless to the point where you feel as though you are a physical lie. an apple dealt to adam instead of eve, rotted on the inside and ripe on the out.

bakugou waltzes back into the bedroom not even ten minutes later, freshly squeezed orange juice and two pills in hand to ease away the pain you know doesn’t compare to what lives between each intercostal space protecting his heart and lungs. he says nothing. you say nothing. the room feels like a trap, latent hostility building between the four walls as if it had cemented them together itself.

you inhale, like you’re taking a drag of a cigarette. you don’t want the smoke to clear – you’ll see the heartache in his eyes clearer then.

“are we okay?” you ask with the uneasy focus of someone who feels like her world is out to get her – drown her in the emotional turmoil she’s built. a swig of orange juice and bitter paracetamol clings to the insides of your teeth, causing a similar discomfort to that in the atmosphere. “i feel like… things have been really weird. with you. with me.”  

“no ‘m not. you’re being weird.” he delivers the line with a sharp intensity you’re completely unfamiliar with – like he’s taken on the same skillset, the same precise aim of an adroit sniper, and gone straight for your heart – forcing himself to speak over the blockage in his throat that keeps him from spilling emotions like an oil slick on clean water. 

a wound to the body can easily heal, but one to the heart that keeps pumping, can last a lifetime. you don’t scream out in agony, a wounded soldier on a battlefield – no – you quickly build a defensive shield and strike a strategic attack, because your ego broils brightly underneath the surface of your skin and never settles enough to let your temper just be.  

this time round, you scoff in braggart disbelief. as if you hadn’t expected this, the rain on your make believe parade.  “woah okay, childish.” 

observant as ever, katsuki does not miss the way you roll your eyes over the glass – the spread of your lips seeping into your cheeks as they take the form of a grim lour. something akin to kindling, a match-stick ready to set light to a bomb. this morning you’d promised not to argue, and yet, one catches in the wind that changes course. imminent and ready to detonate this faux relationship you’ve built.

“oh, like you’re not.” the blonde snaps back, sarcasm snaked between syllables. 

“alright then, what’s that supposed to mean, katsuki?”

“you just — ‘m just…” bakugou grapples for a sensible sentence, something to explain away the clouds in his mind that came with you. he hates to admit it, how you unhappiness came into his world soon after you did, bringing with you bouquets of bewilderment and nights where too many things were left unsaid.  “it’s okay for you to tease me and not the other way around?” 

it’s unclear why that sets you off, perhaps its how accusatory bakugou sounds. when he says it like that – calls you out on how hypocritical you can be, your temper flares like a streak of red in the dead of night. a cry for help to anyone watching, to katsuki not to give up on you before you’ve properly started.

“you’re not kidding around though, it’s not funny,” spitting venomously, you let your response rain down on him like acid rain, searing through the thick and guarded armor he thought he had built strong all these years. “you keep calling me mean when that’s how i’ve always been, firey just how you like it. you treat me like i’m made of glass, like you’ve gone soft and keep looking at me like i’m gonna burst into flames!” it keeps going, this gruesome splurge of awful words used to cut at him, and you can’t stop it because you see it working. the manner in which this big, mountainous and explosive man, shrinks away from you as though it burns to be near. “like me, being here is setting you off. almost as though you don’t want me here. and if you don’t, that’s fine, i’ll go. but in the future don’t bring me over if you’re gonna act all avoidant and shit.”

katsuki sits up now, alert, as if his burns have been doused with cold water. his carmine eyes, devoid of the same cruelty you treat him with, are electrified with everything he doesn’t say. loaded with all the ways you’ve hurt him. tears that refuse to fall. “what? was i supposed to leave you there drunk with that fuckin’ asshole? the one you keep fucking when ‘m not around to give you the attention you crave.” the blonde throws a thumb your way, inculpatory. “you don’t get to do that, call me like ‘m some shitty lapdog. then c-call me that fuckin’ name and then act like it’s weird that i want to take care of you.” 

“call you, what, katsuki?”

“course you don’t remember,” bakugou grumbles incredulously, standing from the bed in the same manner someone would flee from the scene of a crime. like he needs to get away from it all. from you. from the jail cell that is your fucked up relationship. “‘m not saying shit. got patrol so ‘m headin’ out.” 

the blonde excuses himself weakly and reaches for his hero costume as a shield.

because maybe, right now, he needs to be dynamight instead of katsuki. he needs to be a hero to save himself.

“katsuki,” you growl to make him stay. “call you, what? say it. it’s on the tip of your tongue.”

the look he gives you is wounded and pleading. the kind only a dying animal could give whilst begging to be put out of its misery — whatever katsuki says now will be blood on your hands, his organs violently spilling into your grip since you’re the only person in his life with enough strength to rip his heart out from behind the doors to his psyche. “your boyfriend. you called me your boyfriend last night and i picked you up and i liked it.” katsuki admits from across the room, at a safe distance from you because confessing feelings to you is akin to stepping on a land mine.

he’s been fighting an internal war since figuring out that he feels for you outside of fucking, wishing like a wistful child on every lucky star that perhaps, you would be able to wave your white flag and admit the same. beyond your own facade, you could maybe trade your heart for his like you would for a trading card. if you’d wanted him the way he wanted you, you’d push your pride away just enough to let yourself believe you could love someone outside of yourself.

 “i liked that you sat in my backseat, on the verge of throwing up and called me your boyfriend…” he supplies in the same way a child would when they make an attempt to be part of adult conversation — rushed in the sense that syllables land awkwardly and vowels tack themselves to the underneath of his tongue it moves around in his mouth, like there’s too much to say to you and not enough time for telling you. “i feel sick just sayin’ i liked that you let me hold your hair back when you did eventually puke your fuckin’ guts out, ‘nd let me shower you ‘nd change your clothes. let me hold you without making it weird, like we’re not supposed to do that shit just because all we do is have sex!”

with every inch he gives, you take, and the consequences nearly choke katsuki bakugou slowly to an unfair death. “i know you won’t ever let me do it again, now that you’re sober, ‘cause that’s not what you want and it’s not what we agreed to. you don’t like lookin’ like you need someone.”

“but i liked it,” bakugou rasps, vocal chords strained like an out of tune guitar — the notes wail into the tense, thickened air. “even if it was only for one fuckin’ night. when you were mine, for just one night. i liked being your boyfriend.” 

he liked being wrapped around your finger, even if it were a noose. 

“but you’re not,” the words of your retort are entirely too harsh and brittle, and they slip out like fine sand through fingertips before you have a chance to stop them. “you’re not my boyfriend.”

“exactly.”

“so what do we do?”

for the first time that morning. you sound scared — reality dawning on you as though you’ve woken up to nothing after dreaming about everything you could have ever wanted.

“dunno, do whatever you want,” he’s so tired of going back and forth. if he knew from the very day your eyes first met – in a similar fashion to two worlds colliding, colours mixing, flowers blooming – that this is what you’d wanted, he would have stayed far away. “you can stay. you know where your things are ‘nd i left you breakfast. in the fridge. bottom shelf where you can reach it.” 

“katsuki, i–” 

he shakes his head, the weight of him in your mind and head and in this very room lifting – as though he were never there. you seal your lips. your true feelings are a sullen, oppressive secret behind your teeth.

katsuki bakugou is stubborn. he always has been. to a fault. “i really gotta go, kay?”

you sink into the sheets, “okay… i’ll call you?” 

the pit in the stomach tells you he’ll wait for your call, you know he will. he’s always been self destructive like that. you’re like a ticking time bomb in the centre of his bed, where he’s supposed to feel safest — just waiting to explode and send shards of shrapnel shaped like daggers directly into his scarred heart and  he’s got no sense of danger. no telling of when you’re going to go off and decimate him. 

“be safe.” you add.

“i will be. i–” katsuki looks back, his tongue pushed to form the shape of love that he quickly abandons as if the weight isn’t crushing his heart in his chest. “… just don’t go anywhere? we’ll talk about this later.”

you nod silently as he leaves. afraid. 

you never do talk. 

you never do stay. 

because he’s certainly not your boyfriend and you’re not his girlfriend either. 

there’s no obligation in that anyway.

end ! likes are appreciated, but just liking doesn’t do much on tumblr! to support and motivate myself and other writers, reply, reblog and comment if you'd like to see more!! — asks are open to thirsts and thoughts! join my taglist ! love you!

You remembered the pain. The ambulance. The sickening crack that had echoed up your leg.

You also remembered Brendon arriving at the ER. That part had honestly been scarier than the fracture.

Because Brendon Park, the notoriously composed orthopedic trauma surgeon who could calmly handle shattered pelvises while every else spiraled, had walked into your trauma bay looking one bad sentence away from committing a felony.

He'd still been in scrubs. Blood on the sleeve, surgical cap hanging around his neck. His eyes had gone immediately to your leg immobilizer, then your face, then the pain monitor.

"Why is her heart rate still that high?" had been the first thing out of his mouth.

Not hello. Not are you okay. Just immediate interrogation.

The ER nurse, who knew exactly who he was and looked vaguely terrified of him even on good days, had blinked.

"She just came back from imaging—"

"She's already been medicated."

"With what?"

"Brendon," you'd groaned from the bed.

His attention snapped to you instantly, sharp and terrifyingly focused. "Did they move you after the X-rays?"

"Yeah."

"Did it hurt?"

"Yes, because my leg is broken."

His jaw had clenched so hard you thought he might crack a molar.

And somehow things only got worse from there. Because apparently orthopedic surgeons became unbearable when the patient was someone they loved.

You found this out over the next forty-eight hours.

Brendon sat through every consult, every update, every medication discussion.

He questioned your surgeon despite literally being able to perform the operation himself (But he couldn't for obvious reasons).

"You're using the locking plate system?" he asked Garcia with narrowed eyes.

She stared at him. "...Yes?"

"What approach?"

"Brendon."

"What?"

"You are not interrogating my surgery."

"I'm verifying."

"No, you're being annoying."

Then came the surgery, which went well.

Too well, actually, because apparently the moment Brendon heard "successful procedure" his brain immediately transitioned from anxious boyfriend to maximum-security prison warden.

The discharge papers had barely printed before he was taking over.

"No weight-bearing for six weeks," he repeated while adjusting your blankets for the hundredth time.

"I know."

"You use the crutches every single time you get up."

"I know."

"You do not try to hop."

"I'm not an animal, Brendon."

"You joke now," he muttered.

The nurse handed over your prescriptions with visible relief. "You're all set."

You thought freedom awaited you. You were wrong. Because the second you got home, Brendon transformed your apartment into what could only be described as an orthopedic dictatorship.

Within an hour, throw rugs were removed, furniture was rearranged, cords were taped down, ice packs were lined in formation inside the freezer, medications were sorted by time and dosage, and your entire life was relocated to the couch and bedroom so you "wouldn't need unnecessary movement."

You watched all this from the sofa with increasing alarm.

"Brendon."

"Hm?"

"You took my coffee table away."

"It has sharp corners."

"It's a coffee table."

"You're on meds and your balance is impaired."

"Baby, I have one broken leg, not a traumatic brain injury."

The first night home, you woke up at two in the morning needed the bathroom.

And normally, this would not have been an issue. You had crutches, you were medically cleared to use them, you were perfectly capable of traveling the astonishing distance between the bed and the bedroom.

Unfortunately, you were dating Brendon Park.

You'd barely shifted under the blankets before his eyes opened instantly in the dark.

"What are you doing?"

You stared at him. "Were you awake?"

"I am now."

"I need the bathroom."

"Okay."

"...Okay."

But instead of going back to sleep like a normal person, he immediately sat up. Then stood. Then reached for your crutches before you even could.

You blinked at him. "What are you doing?"

"Helping you."

"I can use crutches by myself."

He ignored that. You tried to take the crutches from him, but he held them out of reach.

"Brendon."

"I'm making sure you don't slip."

"You cannot stand in here while I pee."

"Yes I can."

"Brendon."

He finally sighed and backed out exactly one step beyond the doorframe. You stared at him in disbelief.

"Why are you still there?"

"I'm supervising."

"You're insane."

"You love me."

Unfortunately, that was true.

And now, it became a recurring issue. If you adjusted position on the couch, his head snapped up from whatever he was doing.

"Brendon, if you ask me one more question I'm going to fracture your leg too."

"You'd need help reaching me first."

Three days into recovery, cabin fever started setting hard.

You were exhauted, sore, itchy beneath the cast and dressings, and so catastrophically bored that you genuinely considered reorganizing your email inbox for entertainment.

Meanwhile Brendon had become worse. Not better. Worse.

There was something about medical professionals witnessing injuries in clinical detail when it happened to someone they loved.

You could practically see the knowledge haunting him in real time every time he looked at your leg.

So instead of relaxing as you healed, he became even more vigilant. He brought you food, adjusted your pillows, timed your medication down to the minute, and hovered. Constantly.

One afternoon you attempted the dangerous and reckless activity of standing to reach for a book on the kitchen counter.

You hand your crutches, you were stable, you were literally fine. Unfortunately for you, Brendon walked in halfway through.

"What are you doing?"

You nearly jumped. "Jesus Christ!"

"You should've called me."

"For a book?"

"You shouldn't be putting pressure on your other leg for prolonged periods."

He crossed the kitchen in seconds, immediately reaching for your elbow like you were seconds from collapsing.

And then he paused, looking at you properly for the first time all day.

Your messy hair. Your oversized shirt that was definitely his. The irritation building behind your eyes.

Something in his expression softened immediately.

"Honey."

"I know you're worried," you said, quieter now. "I know. But I can't just lie there twenty-four seven while you stare at me like I'm made of glass."

His hand slid carefully around your waist.

"You're not made of glass."

"You treat me like I am."

"That's because you snapped your tibia in half."

"Well, technically it was—"

"Do not correct me on anatomy right now."

He looked exhausted suddently and that finally made the pieces click together.

Brendon wasn't hovering because he thought you were incapable, he was hovering because he was terrified.

Terrified of you getting hurt again. Terrified of complications. Terrified of pain he couldn't fix fast enough.

You reached up, touching the tense line of his jaw.

"Hey."

His eyes flicked to yours.

"I'm okay."

His expression did something painful then. Small. Fragile around the edges in a way Brendon almost never allowed himself to be.

"You were screaming," he said quietly.

"When they moved you in the ER," he continued, voice low. "I heard you from the hallway."

You hadn't realized that stuck with him.

"I've seen people in pain before," he muttered. "Obviously. But hearing you—"

He stopped. You stared at him for a second before your irritation melted clean away.

"Oh, honey."

His laugh came out humorless. "Now I sound insane."

"You are insane."

He rested his forehead briefly against yours.

"You scared the hell out of me."

And for a few days after that, he genuinely tried.

Tried not to hover. Tried not to leap upright every time you shifted. Tried not to track your movements like a paranoid mom.

And that lasted approximately forty-eight hours.

Then he caught you attempting to carry your own tea mug while using crutches.

"What the hell are you doing?"

You froze mid-step. "...Transporting tea?"

"You could spill that."

"Yes."

"You could slip."

"Brendon."

"You have one functioning leg."

"I know."

He took the mug from your hands immediately while looking personally betrayed by your decision-making.

"You are unbelievable."

"I survived medical school," you informed him. "I think I can handle tea."

"That attitude is exactly why you fell down the stairs."

You argued for a good ten minutes. And it dissolved into bickering so domestic and ridiculous that by the end of it both of you were laughing too hard to continue.

Still, the hovering remained. Especially at night.

You once woke up around three in the morning to find Brendon gently checking the circulation in your foot.

"...Baby, what are you doing?" you mumbled sleepily.

"Just making sure swelling hasn't worsened."

"In the middle of the night?"

"I woke up."

Another night you caught him staring at your discharge instructions like they personally offended him.

"Honey, I think you've already memorized those."

"There's a typo."

"You are impossible."

But the worst one, the one that nearly ended with you smothering him with a pillow happened two weeks into recovery.

By then you were mobile. You were comfortable on crutches, restless beyond belief, and deeply tired of being supervised every waking second.

So while Brendon was in the shower, you decided to perform one singular independent task.

Make your own sandwich.

That was it! It wasn't anything dangerous, nothing dramatic, it was just a sandwich.

You were reaching into the fridge when you heard:

"What are you doing?"

You nearly screamed. Brendon stood in the hallway dripping wet, hair soaked, shirt barely put on, staring at you like he'd walked in on a crime scene.

"How do you move so quietly?!" you yelled.

"You weren't in bed."

"I was just making lunch!"

"You should've called me first."

You stared at him in genuine disbelief. "Did you just tell me I should request supervision before making a sandwich?"

"No, I'm not saying—It's just that you're still recovering."

"I have a broken leg, Brendon. Not a terminal illness!"

"I know."

The sharpness drained right out of him and he looked tired again. Worn thin around the edges.

"You think I don't know I'm overdoing it?" he said quietly. "I do."

"But every time I look at your leg, all I can think about is what could've happened if you hit your head too. Or if nobody found you right away, or if the fracture had been worse."

He exhaled slowly.

"And I know you're capable, I know you can use the crutches, I know you're not helpess." His mouth twisted faintly. "You're probably the least helpless person I know."

"Then why are you acting like this?"

"Because I love you."

You looked at him standing there. An exhausted surgeon, damp hair dripping onto the floor, eyes shadowed from stress and lack of sleep. You felt your irritation unravel completely.

"You realize this level of hovering is classified as annoying."

"Last time I checked it was called caring?"

You laughed despite yourself. "C'mere, baby."

He stepped closer instantly. You wrapped your arms around his waist carefully, leaning into him while balancing on one leg.

His hands settled against your back with automatic gentleness, like he was afraid squeezing too hard might hurt you somehow.

"I love you too," you murmured.

"I know."

"But if you follow me into the bathroom one more time, I'm filing a restraining order."

"That seems excessive."

He kissed the top of your head to hide his smile. And annoyingly enough?

Even with the hovering, and the overprotectiveness, and the absolute loss of personal autonomy...

You'd never felt more loved in your life.

some small town a few hours away that bella barely remembered the name of because at the time she hadn’t really thought it mattered. jacob had always been restless in this boyish sort of way, always talking about wanting to leave forks for a little while, wanting to see something bigger than rainy roads and broken trucks.

so bella hadn’t looked too deeply into it.

she remembered standing outside his house while he threw bags into the backseat of his truck, smiling at her like he always did.

“you’re seriously leaving me here alone with the vampires?” she teased lightly. jacob laughed instantly. “you’ll survive a few months without me, bells.”

and maybe that should’ve felt strange.

the way he said it.

because usually jacob acted like the idea of being away from her for even a few days physically pained him. usually he looked at her like she was the center of every room he walked into.

but bella had been distracted then.

edward had come back.

and whenever edward came back into her life, everything else blurred around the edges.

including jacob.

at first she barely noticed the distance growing between them because it happened in pieces too small to catch immediately.

his texts stopped coming first.

bella would send him something in the afternoon and not hear back until midnight. phone calls became shorter. quieter. sometimes she’d catch background noise she didn’t recognize behind his voice, laughter and music and once what sounded suspiciously like a girl teasing him about something before he abruptly hung up.

she remembered staring at her phone afterward feeling strangely irritated by it.

which was stupid.

jacob was allowed to have a life outside of her. wasn’t he?

except some ugly selfish part of bella had grown used to jacob revolving around her no matter what happened. no matter how many times she ran back toward edward, jacob always stayed. always waited.

until suddenly he didn’t and by the time bella fully realized it, summer was almost over.

their friendship had turned awkward somehow. conversations that once came naturally now had gaps inside them neither of them knew how to fill anymore.

then jacob came home.

except even that felt wrong immediately.

bella remembered pulling into la push after almost three weeks without seeing him, expecting things to settle back into place the second she did.

instead she found him distracted. he felt different yet still the same but there was something calmer about him now, something less desperate. the constant pull he used to have toward her had dimmed into something quieter and bella hated how quickly she noticed it.

he smiled when he saw her but it didn’t light him up anymore and for some reason that bothered her far more than it should’ve.

after that things only got stranger.

jacob started disappearing randomly again. sometimes bella wouldn’t hear from him for days at a time and when she did, he always sounded busy.

happy.

that part unsettled her most.

because jacob used to tell her everything. every stupid thought that crossed his mind, every little thing that happened during his day now it felt like entire pieces of his life were happening somewhere far away from her.

once bella called him late at night out of habit and he answered on the third ring sounding breathless.

“bella?” he said distractedly.

then softer.

muffled away from the phone.

“baby, hold on.”

baby.

bella remembered going completely still at the word.

her stomach twisted so sharply she almost felt embarrassed by it.

“are you with someone?” she asked before she could stop herself.

there had been silence for a second too long before jacob answered carefully.

“i’m on a skype call on my laptop.” he spat out quickly and then said noththing else.

bella told herself she didn’t care. she absolutely cared and after that, curiosity started rotting at her slowly because jacob never brought the girl up directly. not really. if bella asked vague questions, he’d shrug them off or change the subject entirely but somehow that only made her more irritated.

because why was he hiding her?

and worse.

why did it feel like he was protecting whatever this relationship was from bella specifically?

eventually the distance between them became impossible to ignore entirely. bella noticed it most whenever edward wasn’t around because jacob stopped trying to fill the space.

stopped chasing her attention. stopped looking wounded every time she chose someone else over him.

and maybe that should’ve made things easier.

instead it made bella feel strangely… untethered like something she assumed would always exist suddenly didn’t anymore.

so one rainy afternoon she found herself driving toward jacob’s garage without fully planning to.

she told herself she just missed her best friend. he barely looked at her when he saw her “hey, what’s up?” he asked working on the engine to this car, leaned over under the hood. that made her more annoyed, how could he be so nonchalant? did he even miss her. “you tell me” she sounded bitchy.

she knew she did but it didnt stop her from saying it as she dropped her bag onto one of the old chairs near the wall harder than necessary and the sharpness in her voice made jacob glance back up immediately.

confused.

“what?”

for a second bella just stared at him.

he looked the same.

same broad shoulders hunched over the car. same dark hair falling messily into his face. same grease smudged across his cheekbone from working all afternoon.

but somehow he felt different now.

quieter around her like there were pieces of him she no longer had access to and maybe she was reading too much into it but she couldn’t shake that feeling.

“you’ve been weird,” she finally said.

jacob blinked once before letting out a small breath through his nose, almost amused.

“weird?”

“yes, weird.” bella crossed her arms tightly over her chest. “you disappear for months, barely answer your phone anymore and every conversation feels like i’m interrupting something.”

his expression shifted slightly at that. “bella…”

“no, seriously.” she cut him off quickly before she lost momentum. “did i do something or are you just over being my friend now?” that finally made him stop working entirely.

the wrench clinked softly against the counter as jacob straightened up slowly “i’ve been busy.” the statement only makes her more upset, she ran a hand through her hair huffing at him “busy? with what?” he shrugged “life. i don’t know.” his laugh is dry like he wants to avoid this conversation more than anything but bella won’t let him off easy.

“jacob, you used to tell me everything..” she sounds genuinely hurt when she walks closer to him and for a moment jacob feels guilty. guilty for abandoning the girl that needed him but this girl… she wasn’t his and he had been sick of doing the boyfriend job for a girl who chose someone over him every time. “bella.” he didn’t know what to say “come on, aren’t you tired?”

she looks confused “with what?”

“you know..” he doesn’t wanna say it, because saying it makes it real. makes it final. makes it something he can’t take back. this whole thing between them, this cycle, this thing that kept looping back into itself no matter how many times he tried to step out of it.

him.

her.

edward.

a triangle he never agreed to be in but somehow always ended up standing inside of anyway.

the truth was, jacob had fallen in love and it wasn’t with bella. and it wasn’t complicated anymore the way it used to be in his head, it was just simple now, clean in a way that hurt less than staying tangled in something that never really chose him back.

and that clarity made everything else easier to walk away from.

“i’m not doing this anymore,” he says finally. bella’s face tightens immediately “doing what?”

his jaw clenches slightly, like he’s trying not to make it sound harsher than it already is. his hands flex once at his sides, a small restless movement like his body is already stepping out of the conversation before his feet do.

“all of it.”

a pause.

it hangs there between them, thick and unfinished, like he’s refusing to dress it up into something softer just to make it easier to swallow.

“i’m not waiting around for you anymore, bella.”

the words hit bella far too hard than she expects, like they land in her chest before her mind even catches up. she can feel it immediately, that slow, sinking realization that this isn’t him being emotional, this is him being certain.

she hates the way it sounds decided.

her breath catches slightly, and before she can stop herself she steps closer, placing a soft hand on his chest.

not forceful, not angry, just instinctive like she can still anchor him there if she tries hard enough. her palm presses against the warmth of him like that alone could rewind whatever has already started unraveling between them, like skin-to-skin contact is enough to undo distance.

“jacob…” her voice comes out quieter than she means it to, almost careful now, like she’s afraid of pushing him further away just by speaking too loud.

“you’re my best friend.” jacob almost wished the words sounded true from bella’s mouth like if they felt true he’d feel better about himself and this friendship. it wasn’t even about the romantic aspect anymore, jacob had found love but it was just about the fact that bella didn’t treat him much like a friend when edward was around. like their friendship only existed in spaces where she was lonely.

that’s when he steps back away from her hand, he’s quick to create distance between the two of them like she had some disease “you should go, bella.” he wiped his grease stained hands slowly against the rag hanging from his back pocket, avoiding her eyes for a second because looking directly at her right now just made something ugly twist in his chest.

she blinked at him immediately, hurt flashing across her face too fast to hide. “what?” but her being hurt didn’t hit him the same way it used to; he didn’t run to fix it, protect her because she was no longer his priority, his priority was on her way here and a part of him didn’t want bella to meet his new girlfriend.

bella only stared for a moment.

girlfriend. he says it casually but with this unusual about of love, it was only the idea of what bella imagined she sounded like when she talked about edward. she didn’t know why she felt jealous, maybe because she did love jacob and in her heart she knew she also loved edward. she was just confused and before she was to make that decision within herself jacob already subtracted himself from the situation.

“my girlfriend’s a little of the jealous type.” he chuckled to himself softly but bella doesn’t find anything comical. maybe because some ugly part of her assumed jacob would always be there waiting. orbiting around her no matter how many times she pulled away from him. she hated herself for hating the idea of him with someone else.

“since when do you have a girlfriend?” bella asked too quickly, pretending not to already know the details he had been fighting to keep to himself every time she had asked but jacob almost shyly shrugged at her like a boy with a crush as his lips curved into a soft smile. “a while.”

a while. bella could only assume he meant months.. months that they hadn’t talked besides awkward texts and ignored phone calls, months of him slowly disappearing while she’d been too wrapped up in edward and her own confusion to notice it happening in real time. suddenly, she felt left out like she was on the outside of a locked door of a room she was desperately fighting to get into.

“you could’ve told me.” she hates how her voice comes out weakly and for the first time jacob looks at her like actually looks at her and suddenly she can see how different he is. still the same jacob but with a different look in his eyes, that very specific light in his eyes that was once reserved for her had gone out. he just looked almost content.

“yeah, i guess i could’ve.” it didn’t sound like he meant it in a bad way but she felt it that way, her jaw tightening at his words because he seemed to have already made peace with the distance between them months ago while she was only now noticing it existed.

she knew she didn’t have a right to feel wronged but it didn’t stop her from feeling it. uncomfortably she crossed her arms over her chest suddenly the room felt too warm, thick with the smell of motor oil and rain drifting in from outside while jacob leaned back against the workbench watching her carefully and for the first time, bella couldn’t read him.

jacob used to look at her like every emotion sat directly on the surface.

now the space between them was too strong and she knew she was at fault for it but a part of her was to prideful to admit it, admit that she had been too busy chasing after edward to see jacob’s distance. “you didn’t think i deserved to know?” his eyebrows furrowed at “it wasn’t like that.” he sputters back quickly.

“then what was it like?” silence fills the area as he struggles to answer for a moment because the truth sounded bad out loud.

because there was no version of this conversation where bella walked away without realizing she had missed something important while she was busy looking somewhere else.

jacob looked down briefly, outside, tires crackled softly against gravel somewhere down the road and Bella caught the smallest change in him instantly. His attention flickered away from her without thinking, subtle but automatic, like part of him was already waiting for someone else. like he could sense his other half arriving.

her. bella comes to that conclusion very quickly once he stands up fully, his whole emotions changing from this awkwardness to nervousness, his hands wiping at the grease stain on his jeans as if it’d disappear if he rubbed hard enough. he suddenly cared about how he looked.

and that hurt bella in a way she wasn’t prepared for because jacob had never been nervous around her.

not like this.

never quietly anticipating someone’s arrival like his entire body recognized them before they even appeared and for a moment bella just watched him the realization settling ugly in her stomach as he began adjusting his clothes to look perfect in his own way.

“jacob?” bella called quietly when he stopped listening halfway through the conversation entirely.

he blinked once like he’d forgotten she was standing there before clearing his throat quickly. “sorry, i just…”

another crunch of gravel echoed closer this time then came the flash of baby pink through the trees.

bella turned instinctively just as the convertible rolled into the driveway smooth and shiny against the dull reservation roads. it looked expensive. out of place, almost like someone had dropped a barbie dreamhouse accessory into the wooden area by accident.

her eyes dragged to jacob when the car came to a halt just to see the jacob’s entire expression changed instantly.

it was subtle but devastating.

his shoulders loosened first then came this unconscious softness around his mouth, his eyes warming in a way bella hadn’t seen directed at herself in a very long time.

the gravel hadn’t even finished settling when you stepped out of the car. you were beautiful, you looked far too expensive for a town like this. your body looked beautifully drawn from an old greek painting and your clothes looked out of an expensive magazine and your face... god, you were just perfect in a way that almost made bella’s heart race.

your car looked far too out of place for the reservation roads, sat there like it didn’t belong and knew it. like it was already offended by the idea of dirt existing. the door shut behind you with a soft, expensive click that felt louder than it should’ve been.

you paused the moment you settled into the gravel, your shiny expensive heels getting dirty with it. you looked down, particularly slowly.

then up again at the wet grass like it had personally wronged you.

“jacob,” you called, already unimpressed, voice carrying that soft bratty edge like you were trying not to be annoyed but failing anyway. “why is everything always… damp here?”

jacob huffed something under his breath that almost passed for a laugh. “it rained.”

“i can see that,” you said immediately, like he’d insulted your intelligence by stating it. you lifted one foot slightly, staring at your shoe with open betrayal. “this is ridiculous.” this time jacob laughed again openly and bella watched him, watched the way jacob moved toward you without thinking.

no hesitation or awkwardness. he was a complete different person than who he was in this whole conversation.

like a switch had been flipped the second you existed in his space. he grabbed your waist softly when your knees wobbled from almost slipping, bella watched the way your manicured nails held onto his bicep and for a second, she didn’t know who to be jealous of. “i told you,” jacob said softly, now closer to you than he had been to bella all afternoon, “don’t wear those here.”

his chuckles were borderline giggles at this point.

you scoffed, but it didn’t land harsh, it sounded more like affection disguised as annoyance. “you didn’t say it like that,” you corrected him, gripping arm immediately like you had every right. like you’d done it a hundred times. “you said it like you were joking.” he was careful the way he guided you into the garage before settling in with you. hardly acknowledging her presence or perhaps in your love you hardly even registered her being there.

jacob didn’t move away, he didn’t even look like the thought crossed his mind and that was the part that made bella’s stomach tighten. she hated how closely she watched jacob lean down to press his lips against your perfectly glossed ones, she felt like a perv for how closely she watched your lips perfectly mesh together like you were meant to fit together. like you had been jacob’s missing piece.

finally, bella cleared her throat and you had to basically push jacob away from you because he kissed you like he was starving for your lips. you finally looked at bella, your eyes scanning her like you were dissecting every piece of her, jacob was careful wiping the smeared lip gloss off his lips “this is-”

“bella” you finished for him with a soft nod at him, you pulled away from him creating the tiniest bit of distance between you and your lover with a soft kind smile that seemed oddly real but with a hint of something else. bella snorts trying not to seem threatened by you but on the inside she was screaming. you were insanely beautiful. “you know me?” she tries to sound strong but the words die off at the end.

“yeah, he talked about you.” jacob was quick to cut in the second he caught the edge in your tone. “y/n,” he scolded softly, the warning gentle more than anything, but you only shrugged one shoulder like you didn’t really care.

“not in a weird way,” you corrected smoothly, glancing at him with a small roll of your eyes like you already knew exactly what he was trying to prevent. then your attention slid back toward bella again. “just… mentioned.”

bella hated that instantly.

mentioned.

like she was some passing story jacob casually brought up between conversations instead of the person who used to take up entire pieces of him. as if she had been reduced down into a few harmless anecdotes told to a pretty girl between kisses and late night phone calls.

“right,” bella answered quietly before the bitterness slipped out anyway. “i’m sure i come up a lot.” she hated how catty she sounded about it and it didn’t help the way jacob’s expression changed instantly.

his shoulders tensed and bella caught the brief flash of exhaustion across his face because he knew her well enough to recognize exactly what she was doing. poking at something just to see if it still hurt.

but you only looked mildly amused by it. if anything, bella’s reaction seemed to confirm something for you.

slowly, you stepped away from jacob then, heels hitting softly against the floor as you moved closer toward bella. far too confident for bella’s liking. the kind that came naturally to girls who had never needed to question whether they were wanted.

up close somehow you looked even prettier, expensive perfume mixing with the smell of the rain in the air while your glossy lips curved slightly at the corners.

“yeah…” you said softly, eyes dragging over bella slowly enough to make her chest tighten. “i expected you to be a lot prettier.”

silence.

bella physically felt the insult settle into her stomach because your tone wasn’t loud or dramatic. if anything, you sounded almost thoughtful about it.

like you were genuinely underwhelmed.

“y/n.” jacob’s voice came out sharper this time, disbelief flashing across his face as he caught your wrist gently and tugged you back against him before you could say anything else.

the movement was automatic.

practiced.

bella noticed that too.

the way your body folded back into his without hesitation, his hand settling against your waist instinctively while you tilted your head up at him with wide innocent eyes that didn’t match the smug little smile threatening your mouth at all.

“what?” you asked sweetly, like you hadn’t just insulted her to her face. “she started it.” but jacob shook his head at you, the two of you practically having an intense conversation with just your eyes. unspoken yet effective from the way you rolled your eyes again but leaned further into him once more.

and suddenly bella became painfully aware of herself standing there in the middle of it all like an outsider interrupting something intimate. there was history here she couldn’t touch, small habits and looks exchanged without thought, conversations happening silently in glances alone.

she didn’t fit into this space anymore.

maybe she hadn’t for a while.

“i’m gonna go,” bella said suddenly, the words coming out quicker than intended as she reached for her bag before either of them could stop her.

jacob looked up immediately. “bella”

“bye bella!” you shouted over him waving “drive safe!” though from the way bella was out of there jacob wasn’t even sure jf you beard.

then the second her truck disappeared past the trees, jacob slumped slightly beside you like the last ten minutes had physically exhausted him.

you looked up at him immediately, unimpressed.

“no more history, my ass.”

jacob let out a tired groan at that, dragging one large hand down his face before covering his eyes completely. “y/n,” he mumbled through his fingers already sounding defeated.

“mmhmm.” you crossed your arms over your chest, one heel tapping against the concrete floor impatiently. “because that looked super over.”

his hand dropped slowly and immediately found your waist again like it belonged there. “it is over,” he promised quickly, voice softer now. “i swear.”

you stared at him for another second then laughed directly in his face. “oh, baby,” you murmured sweetly, reaching up to smooth your fingers lightly through the ends of his hair where the rain had curled it slightly. “i’m not worried about you.”

jacob’s expression softened instantly at the nickname alone, completely gone for you in a way that almost looked embarrassing.

“then what’s the problem?” he asked quietly. you tilted your head slightly toward the driveway bella had disappeared down moments ago, lips curving with something dangerously amused.

“she seems to think it’s still happening.”

jacob blinked once then sighed hard enough to make you laugh again because the worst part was he knew exactly what you meant.

bella hadn’t looked jealous because of history. she looked jealous because she still thought she had a place here.

and maybe once upon a time she did.

but that space was no longer hers to fill, you were here now and honestly, he wouldn’t want it any other way.

a/n: hi! omg thank you so much for reading if you made it here!! i’m very happy you chose my fic and i really would love if you gave me your thoughts in the comments and hearted if you liked the fic! ❤️

Still, nothing is happening externally.

He thinks that must be why your technique isn't working. He could still feel it until just a moment ago, like a warm blanket over his head, settling nicely in the space around the battle-field. The actualization of luck: the ability to sense where luck will strike and turn it into cursed energy. You still haven't learned how to utilize it properly, so it works best when applied on physical properties. A particular area, a particular body, attacks that you can see with your eye. It might land in a different spot than usual, a gap in momentum may be created, a tree might fall to the ground in front of your opponent and block their escape route… 

There are many components to "luck". Your ability lies in reading them. But when applied like this, recklessly, desperately, on an opponent who's attacks you can't understand—

He isn't surprised when your knees buckle. 

Isn't caught off guard when he has to catch you with one arm, and sees a trail of crimson running from your nose down your lips.

(Worried, though. That, he'll always be when it comes to you.)

"Stick to the sidelines for now," he whispers above you. One of his smaller cursed spirits, sluggish but still listening, comes to usher you away. "I'll handle the rest."

"Suguru, I—" you swallow dryly. "I can't feel my technique."

"… I know." Suguru sighs. "We'll worry about that later. I've got it, alright? I'll come get you."

He can tell from the look in your eye that you aren't happy. Far from it, hesitance and frustration burrowed into the hazy, dilated pupils of a body pushed well beyond its limits, directed not at him but at yourself. You're too tired to protest, though. Suguru makes sure you're all sorted, led farther into the woods on the back of the serpent-like curse, its tail curled protectively around your body.

Then he turns to face his opponent. She makes no move to pursue you, knowing he's the only real threat. It's a welcome relief. 

Thinking is still difficult. It's still difficult to move, watching her flicker, the echo of coins and glass cruising around in his skull. Clean-up missions are always risky— he's sure none of the locals know of this location, the rotten bundle of cursed energy clinging to the well. He already has an idea of its cause. Past disappearances, serial murders, and the perfect hiding spot. That's not his mess to untangle, but it's something to file away for later reports. 

Suguru takes a breath. Roots his cursed energy to the ends of his ankles, his feet on the ground, and attempts to get in touch with his senses. The polyester of his uniform is soft beneath his palms. The stench of rotten plum tree hangs heavy in the air. The click, click, click of coins being rustled in a pair of bony palms makes the hair on the back of his neck stand on end. He scans the battlefield, pupils struggling to land where he wants them to; disorienting, like weaving a sieve through muddy waters, but still doable. His curses aren't moving, some of them trembling, others circling the target, seemingly unsure of what their next move should be. They're stuck in a stalemate. Stasis. 

Suguru knows this kind of curse: the kind sorcerers get lost in. Their bodies slowly broken down, their minds lulled into dream-like passivity, their corpses found wide-eyed and untouched days later. He finds them especially terrifying. Interesting, too. 

But this curse doesn't know what Suguru is capable of turning it into. 

All he needs is one clear opening. One good strike, and he can breach the distance she's created. He needs a curse unaffected by mental disarray. Better yet— a curse that can only be properly utilized when in mental disarray. 

He summons Kuchisake-onna.

You don't like it when Suguru takes care of you.

This tendency of yours is by no means new to him. You came to Tokyo Jujutsu High as a transfer student two months into his first year, wide-eyed and fawn-legged and late to class on your first day. In over their head, Satoru whispered to him. Not unkind, just stating the obvious. He does that a lot. It's exactly why his jabs sting, but Satoru has no sense for that kind of thing.

Of course, Suguru tuned him out. Half-enamored by the look of you. The smile on your face, how you'd laughed to ease the tension when you admitted to oversleeping and Yaga-sensei pinched the bridge of his nose and let out a sigh, cherry petals in your hair from where you stood next to the opened window. A breath of fresh air. When he was put on duty to show you around the school, the training field, the weaponry— Suguru was pleased. 

But he noticed it, during that first hour you spent together. When you insisted on paying him back for the drink he got you from the vending machine; how you'd ask about his own background when he tried to ask for yours, smoothly redirecting the conversation. How you'd stiffened briefly, shifted in place when he held the door open to let you in first.

To the naked eye, that's good behaviour. Standard politeness. Give and get. 

Suguru knows better. 

Because as much as he knew you were trying to hide it, cover it up with a smile and a laugh, your expression back then wasn't one of politeness. There was only the subtleties of discomfort. You don't like it when the spotlight stays on you for too long, and you don't like accepting favours without giving something back. He gets that. Care is a heavy drug. If you aren't used to leaning on others, it won't come to you that easy. He understands. Really. 

It only made him want to get to know you more, though.

(Funny how that works. You were never going to get out of being courted by him; Suguru is a boy who knows what he wants, if nothing else. There's only room for one Tokyo Jujutsu High student in your heart, and it's him. He’s made sure of that.)

… Deep down, he'd assumed it would change once you started dating. That you'd realize he wants to look after you, or that you'd accept the idea if it's coming from your boyfriend. That you'd learn how to ask him for help when you need it. Mutual understanding. Partner to partner. Something like that. The special connection only you two share.

But, even now, you are hesitant to lean on him. It grates at him like nothing else, now more than ever.

Two weeks have gone by since your technique sputtered out in the precipice of battle, but it still hasn't returned to normal. Stale, is how you described it. When I try to use it, it feels like dragging a spoon through mud… Seriously. It's the worst. Suguru absorbed the vengeful cursed spirit before taking you back home with him, so any lingering hex placed by her should have already dissipated. That can't be the issue. 

Shoko's theory is that you pushed your senses so far they need to relearn the basics for a while. Spatial awareness, cursed energy control— everything your technique needs to function as it should. That means more training, less missions. More time spent with Yaga-sensei, less time spent with him. He knows you hate that. You get restless if you sit still for too long, and there's nothing you hate more than being left out of a mission him and Satoru are going to. It's a stark reminder of the difference in your capabilities: Suguru doesn't think of it as a bad thing, but you always get so silent with him. Always ask, sheepishly, why they aren't letting you tag along.

Luck isn't always applicable, he says. There are better and worse uses for it. It's nothing more or less than that.

When you hang your head, half-unconsciously, he regrets being honest with you. Wishes there was a way for him to tell you that you don't need to be strong without hurting your feelings. Not all techniques are suited for combat. It doesn't make you less significant. It doesn't make you any less special in his eyes.

(… If he told you that now, he thinks he'd break your heart.)

One, two knocks ring out against the door to your dorm room. Suguru is holding a plate with one hand, a mug murmuring steam towards the ceiling with the other. On the plate is a neatly cut sandwich, well furnished with veggies and meat— bread is all they have left in the pantry, because a certain someone dropped the entire bag of rice down the sink— and slices of fruit from a local market by the train station closest to the school. The owner likes him, so he always comes back with more than he can carry, apricots and plums and perfectly pink peaches.

Today has been a slow day. It's still springtime, edging into summer, but curses have already been found swarming Tokyo's middle schools, appearing in larger packs than usual. He was sent to clear the area with Satoru. An easy mission. He only had to absorb three of them, one of each kind, so the taste didn't linger for longer than the hour-long trip back. 

When he entered the dormitory's kitchen lounge, Haibara and Nanami told him you haven't left your room since breakfast. That's why he's here, knocking at your door— bringing the kitchen to you. Selfishly, because he doesn't really want anyone else to see you when you're feeling blue. Wants to be the first to check up on you, make sure you're alright, watch you eat what he brought you. It'll cheer you up, hopefully. Make you smile at him, ask him to hold you. Maybe. If he's lucky.

… Though he shouldn't be greedy, either.

When the door opens, Suguru's heart twists. You're blinking up at him, slowly, weary lashes weighing down and up. Out of sorts, glancing down at the plate with a blank expression. He smiles.

"I brought you lunch.”

As easy as breathing, you step to the side; letting him slip into your dorm room. Built in routine, the kind that makes his heart flutter. "Thanks, Suguru."

"You aren’t skipping meals, are you?” He watches you sit down on the side of your mattress, your bedsheets tangled up and tousled like a kitten had its way with it, one of your pillows sprawled out on the floor. Suguru loves your dorm room: loves how it reflects everything you are. Band posters fastened to the wall above your bed, board games stashed into a corner on the shelf, figurines you've gotten from gashapons in the past. For my technique, you'd tell him after stopping in the middle of the street, hunting for loose change in your pockets. He's learned to keep spare change close at hand for you, though it's not a given you'll accept it. I want to see if I can apply it here…

Fondness blooms in his breast. Even the unmade bed and dying houseplant on the windowsill instill something like endearment in him. It's you, after all. You in your mess, you in your well furnished. You, you, you.

"It's not like that," you reassure him. "I just forgot. I've been studying."

"Studying?" 

You nod. 

"Not too hard, I hope."

"Nah. Just the basics. Like Shoko said."

… Your tone of voice shifts at the end there. Something pitiful. The way you're seated, the look in your eye; it reminds him of a bird with broken wings. Staring up at the branches of the tree where its nest is. 

"Baby." His voice is soft, delighting silently in how the pet name makes you squirm, shy as a fawn. Another thing it seems you can't get used to. "Are you okay?"

You dangle your legs, avoiding eye contact. "I'm fine. It's just boring. And I don't know what to do."

"That doesn't sound fine."

You give a sheepish smile. It doesn't put his mind at ease in the slightest. Suguru raises a firm brow, keen eyes cutting into yours, and you stammer out a laugh.

"I'm… I'll be okay. I just miss going on missions with you, and stuff." 

"I know." He misses it too. Missions with Satoru are always exciting, but nothing beats spending time with you alone. "But you need the rest."

"…"

He knows you disagree. You don't need to tell him. Haven't I rested enough? He can practically hear it.

"You gave me a scare back then." He walks towards you and holds out the plate until your fingers come to curl around the ceramic edges, bringing it pliantly to your lap. "I don't want you pushing yourself like that again. Okay?" His smile is kind, but it doesn't make you look any smaller, on the cusp of curling in on yourself. Suguru doesn't like seeing you like this.

At the same time, he…

"… You do too much for me, Suguru."

"Huh?" His gaze snaps to yours. You're smiling somberly, looking down at the peeled fruit cut into slices. He almost wants to ask you to repeat yourself. "What makes you say that?"

"Just… This. And missions." A beat. "And everything, actually. I just don't want you to worry."

Suguru tries not to furrow his brow. How can you say that, when you barely let him do a thing for you? You don't let him carry your bags when your arms get tired, you don't let him do your share of the laundry. You don't let yourself be selfish with his time the way he'd like you to. 

That's too much?

"That much is natural," he responds. Trying to keep his voice even. "I'm your boyfriend."

"… But I," you breathe, "don't do anything for you."

"That's not true. You do more than you think." Suguru's lips furl in silent distaste, like he just bit into a lemon peel. "You do too much on your own. I want to help."

He must sound desperate, because that's how he feels. Desperate like a dog. Fiending for scraps, battering its paws against a chain-link fence. Suguru wants to grab you by the cheeks and look into your eyes until you believe him, but he can't let himself be so uninhibited with you— doesn't want to say too much and end up pushing you away. 

He just wishes you would take his hand when it's offered to you. That's all.

Your face is framed by strings of shadow, waves of them caressing your cheekbones, down-turned and shut-out. "I want to," he echoes. "You don't let me do enough."

…

Inhale, exhale. He watches your lips part.

"Thank you." You muster a half-smile, meeting his gaze with crescent eyes. They're lacking luster. "I appreciate it. Really. But I just want to be alone right now, to be honest."

Suguru watched you. Fox-eyed, sharp.

Contemplates denying you that isolation. 

"… Alright." 

Before he leaves, he runs a gentle palm down your head. Ruffles your hair. It makes your lips draw into a smile, flimsy as a sheet of paper, as a talisman waiting to be ripped into shreds. It's better than nothing. Suguru doesn't want to leave. Obviously not. He wants to help you study, help you sleep. His palms itch to do more, but he knows it'll be futile.

You'll just reject it again.

"But make sure you get some rest," he clears his throat. "And eat what I brought you. Okay?"

"Okayyy."

He puffs out a breath. "Good."

When the door to your dorm-room closes behind him, Suguru tips his head back and stares up at the ceiling. The light is broken, giving out faint flickers, burning into his gaze. Dead flies are stuck to the inside of the paper sheet. He closes his eyes and lets out a sigh.

(There's nothing he can do about this helplessness.)

One rainy morning in May, Suguru enters Jujutsu High's library premises with a mission in mind.

He walks past the books on innate techniques, the tombs of history he spent his first few weeks after enrollment scouring through, up the stairs and past the infamous Domain Expansions: To Master Barrier Techniques by an unnamed sorcerer of the Heian era—

and stops by the essays and academic papers written on sense-based techniques.

The selection isn't grand. They have more in Kyoto, he's almost certain. Yaga-sensei isn't the textbook type; if it weren't for the principal and past faculty, Suguru doubts their library would be this furnished. It's enough, though. He flips through a few of the soft-covers and bundles of threaded-together paper, tucking the most note-worthy of the bunch under his arm. Nanami is sitting on one of the tables downstairs, reading through a book on cursed energy application— Suguru reads off the title as he takes the seat opposite of his junior, who looks up only to give his upperclassman a polite nod of greeting. Suguru doesn't mind that Nanami is quiet. It's nice to have that in a school like theirs. With classmates like theirs. No pressure to speak or make small talk.

He leans back, and relaxes his shoulders. Opens one of the smaller essays at page number one.

Suguru's mission is a simple one: help his partner. Recently, you've been wanting to take your technique in new directions. From the ability to sense lucky spots, to the ability to create them yourself. The evolution of your Luck Shall Follow is a Lucky Break: forcing the possibility of luck onto your target, a weak spot for your allies to abuse. You told him last night, mouth full of takeout he brought with him post-mission— half-sheepish, like you were afraid he'd discourage you. But Suguru couldn't have been prouder. And, though you seemed hesitant, he's grateful that you spoke to him about it. The least he could do is his fair share of research. Even if you're too stubborn to ask him for help, he's always been a good teacher. 

What you need is an even stronger grasp of what components your technique centers around. To direct luck, you have to understand it; see the full path it travels down. You have to break it down until the pieces couldn't get any smaller. You have good instincts, he thinks. It's the basic understanding that needs honing.

Suguru hums, thumb in between two pages: hunting eagerly for any information he can relay to you later. 'Abilities built around utilizing the senses were, as far as our records show, the foundation of olden sorcery; sight, hearing, smell, touch, taste— and of course the infamous sixth sense. Out of these human traits blossomed sense-based sorcery, not only by utilizing cursed energy to strengthen them for survival, but by sharpening one's innate cursed technique—…' Nothing new. He flips forward, the soothing sound of pages falling. 'The ability to sense what should be unseen is the first any sorcerer gains. Certain sorcerers attain an even wider scope of sight: the ability to view the abstract. Emotions, elements of the human body, and any manner of things. In the Kamakura period, a sorcerer by the name of Shinonome was said to have had an innate technique that allowed him to see people's pasts and futures flutter behind them, reflected in a swarm of broken glass.'

Suguru flips forward. Yet another section.

'… Further development of this technique is said to have granted him mastery of weather currents. He began to use it for directing storm-clouds to the wheat fields surrounding his village, securing a bountiful harvest. The innate ability to sense became the ability to warp reality.'

There.

Just when he's about to continue the passage— his cellphone buzzes in his pocket. It almost makes him jolt. He fumbles for it, inwardly wincing when Nanami gives him a weathered look, flips it open and glances at the contact.

It's Satoru.

Suguru answers. "Hell—"

"Where are you?"

…

A weary exhale. "Greet me first."

On the other end of the line, a thoroughly drawn out sigh. "Hey, Suguru. You're so annoying." Suguru's brow twitches. Before he can tell his best friend off, he continues: "Where? I wanna go to the city today. You down?"

"I can't right now." He continues to idly read through the weather-based section, skimming the contents with his eyes. "I'm reading."

"Reading?! Dude, how do you not get enough of studying?"

"It's not for me. It's for ▇▇.” Suguru tuts. "I'm helping them look into their technique. Ask Shoko to go with you."

"Ohhh. They told you about it?"

"… Huh?" He blinks. Gaze moving towards the phone at the corner of his vision, subconsciously, as if he could find Satoru looking back at him. Suguru tries not to frown. "How do you know about it?"

"They asked me about it. After class." Ah. He remembers. You stayed behind for what must have been at least half an hour, urging him to get lunch without you. (Not that he did.) He'd assumed you were going to talk to Yaga-sensei, though. Not— "I guess they thought I'd have something useful to say 'cause of the Six Eyes. Well, I did try, though. I figured they were keeping it a secret from you."

(… Why would you ask Satoru?)

Suguru bites his inner cheek. Jealousy festers in his gut, hot and oily.

No, more importantly—

"Why would they keep something like that a secret from me?"

"I don't know. Because you're a mother hen?" He can practically see Satoru's careless shrug through the phone line. "They want to develop their technique into something more offensive, right? Something that'll let them fight on their own. Even I thought you'd be a little put off."

…

"Well, good on you, I guess. Maybe you can stop being so overprotective now."

"Satoru," Suguru's voice feels raw in his mouth. "What are you talking about?"

"… Huh?" The line goes silent. "So they didn't tell you? Or did you just not realize what they meant?"

His stomach twists. Satoru's jabs are never meant to hurt as much as they do, Suguru reminds himself. Inhales, for five silent seconds, and exhales: feels his chest lift, then deflate. 

"I didn't realize."

"Oh." A beat. For once, his best friend seems to be weighing his words. "I know you might not… love the idea. But it's a good thing, right?"

"Right."

"Weird that they didn't tell you."

"Mm."

"… I'll ask Shoko to go with me."

"Sounds good." Suguru cards through his bangs. Restless hands. Closes his eyes, and looks into the dark of his own skull. "Bye, Satoru."

"B—"

He hangs up.

…

So. Here's what Suguru knows: 

1) Your Lucky Break is meant to be an individualistic offensive technique. That's just fine.

2) You were hiding it from him, though.

3) You told Satoru about it before you told him. You asked Satoru to help you figure it out, instead of asking him.

How is he supposed to contend with that?

(Suguru was awake when you first moved into the dorms. He remembers it in perfect detail, down to the thud your bags made when they hit the floor through the thin wall between you. He was lying in bed, unable to sleep, staring up at the ceiling; made sure to get up off the mattress and gently clink the empty cup on his nightstand, just so you'd hear him too. 

It felt like a secret between the two of you. Even though he didn't get to greet you until the morning after, you had already met before sunrise. To some extent— Suguru always felt like you were his. He heard you first, felt you first. He knew of you before Satoru or Shoko. Sensei asked him to show you around, because he knew he was the only one suited for it. You're his partner. He's your boyfriend.

… So why did you go to Satoru for help? 

Why not him?)

Suguru simmers in the feeling. Waits for it to come to a boil. Not anger, but frustration.

He wants to kick something. Satoru, ideally. Maybe swallow a curse, just to forget about the rotten taste of what he's feeling now. 

Has he really failed you this much? You can't even ask him for advice anymore? Do you trust Satoru's judgment more, just because he's been a sorcerer for longer? Because he was a prodigy from birth? Satoru doesn't even know basic history. Satoru didn't know Ryōmen Sukuna was a human being and not a curse until Yaga-sensei held that class three weeks ago. Satoru doesn't know a damn thing that wasn't hand-fed to him by the clan elders——

Suguru closes the book on the table in front of him and stands up from his chair.

"… Are you alright?"

Nanami asks, staring at him from the other seat. Usually he wouldn't intrude like this. It'd warm Suguru's heart if it wasn't so muddied by his thoughts.

"Yes." He turns to his underclassman with a smile on his lips. "I'm fine."

He doesn't believe him, obviously, but that's just as well. Suguru doesn't believe himself either. He walks up the staircase and puts the book back on the shelf where he got it, then walks out of the library with a heavy heart and a vacant expression. Bright-green leaves scatter around his feet, catching streaks of golden sunlight breaking through the cloud-line in the sky. Summertime is almost here.

It's difficult, he thinks. It's difficult to be loved by you when you don't want him loving you back.

How is he supposed to approach the situation?

Suguru chooses force. 

It's early in the morning when he knocks curtly at your door. One, two knocks, in rapt succession. 

You wake up shortly after 8 AM on most days. An hour or two later on weekends, depending on how hard you worked the day before. (You sleep like a baby on nights after back-to-back missions, two or three in succession. Not even slipping his tongue into your mouth could wake you. Not that that's something he's thought of trying.) He's sure you're still asleep now: curled up in bedsheets, legs to your chest, cheek smushed against your pillowcase. Infuriatingly adorable. If he thinks about it too long, he'll lose his strength of will, so—

Another knock. Sharper.

Behind the door, the sound of rustling. Bare feet meeting floorboards, moving sluggishly towards him. His palm moves on instinct, fingers curling through his bangs. 

And the door opens. You're blinking at him as if you're still half-asleep, eyelids drawing up and down like haphazardly closed window-blinds, weighty with whatever dreams you were having before he roused you awake. It makes his heart pang with guilt. Like this, watching your tousled hair and unguarded face, he…

…

No. 

This time, he has no choice but to be firm.

Suguru's smile is tight-knit. A crescent moon hung on its side, sculpted by monsoons.

"Good morning, baby."

You blink at him again. Lips parting slightly.

"… Morning, Suguru."

"How did you sleep?" He lets himself in, guiding you seamlessly, his broad palm falling down to rest over your lower back. Voice carefully sharpened. Like a coyote circling its prey. 

"Um, I…" you rub your eyes as the door falls shut behind you. "Good. I think. I don't remember."

A breezy chuckle. "You don't remember?" His gaze is fond where it holds yours, sitting down with you on the bedside. Your shoulders knock together. The mattress creaks beneath your shared weight. The lights in your room are off, so Suguru leans back to open the window-blinds until they've let in enough hazy streaks of dawn to illuminate your face. "I guess I woke you up, huh? I'm sorry."

You shake your head. Leaning against him, too tired to keep your head up— it makes Suguru's heartbeat sputter like a marble dropped on ragged concrete. It makes him feel more solid than a brick-wall, softer than the pillows scattered across your bed. 

"It's okay."

He watches you silently.

Carefully, after a moment's hesitation, he brings his hand to your face. Cups the apple of your cheek, and lets his thumb ghost the sensitive skin under your bleary eye. Your eyes flutter shut in response— Pavlovian— a dog to a bell-chime, even though you hold the leash to his heart. He wonders if you realize that. 

He wonders if he hasn't made it clear enough. 

"What did you talk to Satoru about?" Suguru asks, smiling tightly. Only his eyes remain gentle. "After class."

"Oh." Slowly, your eyelids blink open. "We, um… just stuff, you know."

"Stuff."

"Yeah."

"Just stuff," he echoes. Sucking on a laugh. It comes out sharper than he meant it. "For forty minutes?"

The air between you shifts— sparks with the beginnings of unease, blisters on the palms of whatever gravity is keeping you both side by side like this. He can't dull the spike of anger in his voice, and he knows you've heard it when you stiffen beside him. When you try to move your cheek from his collarbone. Which is the very last thing Suguru wants, so he guides you back with a palm on your skull, not firm, but insistent. You melt into it nervously. 

"… Suguru," you whisper. "Are you mad at me?"

No, he wants to say. Never at you.

I'm mad at Satoru, and Shoko, and Yaga-sensei. Nanami and Haibara too. I'm mad at everyone who enables your behaviour. Who don't hold the door open for you, who don't ask if you've eaten by dinnertime, who don't tell you to take a break when you're obviously looking to exert yourself beyond your capabilities. I'm mad at whoever made you like this in the first place. 

I'm mad at myself. 

"No," slips up his throat. The word tastes like ash. "I'm not mad. I'm upset, though."

"Why?"

The word is meek off your lips. It makes him want to lay himself at your feet. But Suguru is mad— just not at you— and he doesn't have it in him not to let it show. Not right now.

"Because you didn't ask me." A slow inhale, air flooding his lungs. "You asked Satoru. Why is that?"

His palm curls against your bedsheets. Forms a fist, white cloth spilling out through the gaps between his fingers, his gaze bleeding gold and ochre. Suguru can't hide the hurt in his voice, and he hates that more than anything.

"Why do you trust me so little?"

Your eyes widen. 

Anxiety squirms in the black of your pupils, lips parting around a sound that doesn't make it out of you. You close your mouth again. Then make another move to pull away, maybe to look at him properly, but he won't let you. Doesn't let you move an inch. Petty. His mother liked to call him that when he got silent with her. 

(Suguru feels beastial. Like he could eat you. He hates the feeling— desire spilling over itself.)

"Suguru, I didn't mean it like that," you rush to explain yourself. "I just— I didn't want to bother you with it."

"Bother me."

…

This time— Suguru does laugh. It isn't cruel, nor is it sharp. It's…

"Is that how you think I feel?"

(… Exhausted.)

"I don't know what I need to do to make you understand. To make you see things from my perspective. But if you think I've ever," he nearly seethes, only his voice is too quiet now to have that much of a bite, "ever, seen you as a burden— You're wrong. Alright?"

When you flinch against him, Suguru's palm slips from the back of your head. You pull away from him, standing up clumsily. Like a rabbit about to break into sprint, he thinks cynically. Are you going to run away from me again?

"Suguru."

And Ah, he realizes.

You're about to cry. That's why his heart doesn't feel like it's beating anymore.

"I don't…" your gaze falls to the floor, mouth formed around a garbled murmur. The sunlight from the window glides across your face, the dip of your cheeks, the bridge of your nose. "I love you. I really do love you, I just can't—"

A sniffle, barely-there, tugs at the back of your throat. He put it there, he thinks. The confession jabs the blade in his heart deeper; a smack against the handle. It cuts between his ribs.

"I don't know how to do this."

"… Do what?"

You make a gesture with your hands, smiling brokenly. "This. I don't… know how. I've tried."

Your breath is staggered— unsteady in your breast. He watches you worriedly, sure it's showing on his features; watches you take a moment to gather yourself. There's something so fractured about your expression. As if you've been keeping this dam in your throat all this time. That hurts more than anything. 

How long have you wanted to speak to him like this?

How long have you been avoiding it?

"I know you want me to rely on you. I'm not stupid." He wants to cut in— tell you that he's never once thought that— But Suguru bites his lower lip to keep himself silent. You need this, too. "But it makes me so uneasy. I promise I've tried, Suguru. It just doesn't…" a breath pulls at your teeth, weather-worn. "it never feels right."

…

"Isn't that," he exhales, "because you aren't used to it?"

The expression you're wearing now is tight-strung. Your features drawn together, set into firm lines. Like you're about to take a leap off a mountain trail, still gathering the courage.

"You don't know how to be taken care of," he summarizes. "If I want to be the one to teach you— is that so wrong? Is it still that scary?"

You wring your hands together. Inner palm cupping the small of your wrist. "… Yeah."

"… Even if it's me?"

"Especially when it's you," you laugh breathlessly. It doesn't sound much like laughter at all. "Because I like you so much. More than anyone. The last thing I want is to become another chip on your shoulder, Suguru." You bite down on your lip. "… You're always taking care of everyone. Not just me. I don't want to contribute to that."

"What? I don't…" his brows furrow. "I've never felt that way about you. And you're not just like anyone else."

"I know that's how you feel, but—"

"No." Suguru cups your jaw. It shocks you out of speaking, makes you focus on him and nothing else. He stands up with you, leaning over your frame, half-threatening, hunting for the eye contact you're trying to flee from. The amber of his eyes is aflame with angered love. "You're trying to give me something that I don't want from you. That I've never asked of you. Who are you to decide that all on your own?"

Your eyes are still wet, unshed tears pooling at the corners. He shouldn't be so rough with you, he knows. Shouldn't be this firm. But it's hard— it's hard when you say things like that, and look at him like this——

"I want to take care of you. I want you to need my help. For everything, ideally." His eyes bore into yours, never letting them stray. He wants you to hear this. Feel this. Thinks he'll go crazy if you don't. "I'm not being polite. That's my own selfish desire. I want you to need me. When you don't, I…"

…

(On the back of his tongue: a sour taste.)

"I feel like I've failed you."

The words ring out like a bad omen. Sorcerers shouldn't be careless with their words: That's the first thing Yaga-sensei taught him, before he even moved into the dorms. Suguru has always taken them to heart. Even as a child, he knew to think before he spoke. Knew words carry weight. That they have consequences. 

But now, in this moment— he's letting his greatest insecurities spill out of him. Can't take them back, because they've already splattered on the floor for you to see. If love makes you this careless, he thinks, is it really any different from a curse?

His hand forms a knuckle, the indents of his nails digging crescents into his palm. 

"You've… You've never failed me," you frown. "You're always good to me, Suguru. Seriously."

He holds a sigh between his teeth. 

"I wish you'd trust me more. That's all." He collects himself; Think before you speak. Reigns himself back in, a bull finding solace in the firm palms at the juncture of its horns, blisters blooming against the ridges. Don't take your anger out on them. It isn't anyone's to bear but you. "I know it's not that easy, but..."

…

"I'm sorry," you mumble. As if there's nothing else to say. Your voice is soft and battered. "I don't know how to fix it. Sometimes it's just… so overwhelming. I want to like it. I do."

Suguru's hand slips from your chin. He shakes his head, after a moment. "I should have been more considerate. Maybe I've been pushing too hard."

"No. Anyone else would love that about you." A beat. "I love that about you. Even when you're a little… intense." Heat gnaws at the back of his neck, nipping at his nerve-ends. Suguru clears his throat discreetly. "I wish it was easier for me. To depend on you like you want me to. Honestly."

"It can be," he tries. "It'll get easier with time."

…

Your fingers curl around the fabric of your shorts. A gentle anchor. Through the window, slathers of rusted gold and tangerine come to cradle your features. The beckoning of a sun late to rise. Suguru doesn't even feel the fatigue anymore, the lead in his sleep-less limbs: all he can do is stare at you, breathlessly, waiting. 

"You think so?"

"I know so," Suguru promises. Sharp facial features, broad shoulders accentuated by the sunlight. Eyes soft, always, only for you. "I'll be patient. I won’t force it. But can you try, for me? Even when it's scary? Can you believe me when I say you're not a bother?"

…

After a moment— though it feels like a century spent at your ankle, down on his knees— you nod. Suguru's heart loosens its shoulders, goes limp under the bird-cage of his battered ribs. 

"Okay," he exhales. "Good."

For a moment, all is still. Silently, he begins to wipe your unshed tears away: the pad of his thumb rubbing gently at the corners of your eyes. Catching them before they can think to fall, slip down your cheeks, like he's counting rain-drops cruising down a car window. Like he's cupping the innermost parts of you, pressing kisses where it hurts the worst. 

"Thank you."

You shake your head, snuggling closer. Still weary, still fragile. So, so very fragile like this. In the dim light, in the crook between his neck and shoulder, whispering so low he has to strain his ears to hear: "Are we… okay?"

"We are." He cradles you closer, tethering you to his chest. His heart beats a lullaby for you. "More than okay. Talks like this will only make us stronger. Better suited for each other."

"… It's scary, though."

"I know," he croons. His palm slips down your spine, rubbing gentle circles into the small of your back, tender eights. "But we'll get through it. We've got luck on our side, remember?"

Finally, you smile. It's weak, but sincere. Suguru lets out a breath he didn't realize he was holding: leaning forward to press a kiss at your temple, relieved that he could salvage this dam waiting to break. Relieved that there's something for his hands to do, and places for his lips to land. This is the first of several challenges you'll face together, but he isn't worried. Not anymore. Not right now, at least.

No one gets to see you like this but him. A wounded bird on his wrist, letting him hold its broken wing in his palm.

It's a start, he thinks. A leap off the ground.

"… Suguru."

He bends his gaze from where his feet are planted, gently untangling his hair from the hasty bun he threw it into this morning. "Yes?"

"Is this…" you shift from one foot to the other, holding a pure-white towel in your arms. It looks good there. Soft. Makes him want to hug you tight. "… really necessary?"

Suguru smiles. His hair falls across his shoulders, across his back, a pitch-black meteor shower.

"It is."

And he turns his back on you. Turning on the shower-head, then stepping away to avoid the downpour, waiting for the temperature to rise. It takes a while for the communal showers. With an exhale, he pulls off his uniform. The black fabric gives way to white, his buttoned-up undershirt. His hands move to unfasten it. 

Behind his back, he can practically feel you squirming.

"I won't look," he promises. Unless you want me to. "Just let me wash your back, baby."

"But… why?" 

You sound embarrassed.

"To teach you how to lean on me. How to let yourself be taken care of." He turns around, half of his chest bare. Tries not to smile when your gaze drops, then flees all over again. "I'm not expecting you to change in a day, but this will be progress. Does that sound okay?"

A moment passes.

"… If you really want to, I guess."

Another smile; deeper. It carves all the way to the corners of his eyes. "I do." Suguru steps away to fumble with the last of the buttons, until his entire chest is bare: warm skin and a few sun-shade moles smeared like kisses on his collarbone. After he's taken the undershirt off, he drapes it over his bicep. Then steps away to give you space. "You should go in first. Face the wall if you're shy. I won't peek."

"… Okay."

Ah, you sound nervous. It shouldn't make his heart flutter. But as he imagines you, eyes shutting in silent loyalty— imagines you moving your arms, dragging your uniform up and over your head, left in nothing but a tank top, or a t-shirt, or maybe nothing at all— Suguru's mouth waters. This isn't lust. It's not something that can be so neatly defined.

(When he pictures you, the flustered, vulnerable state you're in, physically and emotionally: Suguru thinks to himself that he'd truly do anything for you.)

Darkness. Overwhelming, blanketing darkness. He sees nothing else. Suguru hears only the shuffling of fabric, and finally, the sound of bare feet against the floor. Moving forward, beyond him, coming to a halt. His heartbeat aligns with the rhythm of your steps.

"… I'm done," you call softly.

And Suguru opens his eyes.

He makes quick work of his pants. Leaves his underwear on, with your comfort in mind. Then he turns to where you're standing, your naked back facing him, the lines of your neck and spine already hot with steam and shower-water, and moves until he's hovering above you. Close. Close enough that he feels sheepish. Warmth buds between your bodies. Warmth from the water, warmth from the tender nervosity bubbling in the air. 

Suguru knows how much trust this must have took from you. He intends to reward that.

"Is the water okay?"

"Yeah. It's perfect."

"Good." 

Body wash, shampoo, conditioner… he even brought you some of his expensive herbal oils. Anything you could need. They're stacked on the shower floor; he leans forwards and picks up the body wash, uncaps the lid and squirts a dollop onto his palms. Rubs them together until it starts to froth and the air begins to smell of honey and lavender. Your shoulders remain tensed-up, like you're waiting for a strike in the back of your neck.

"Are you sure this is fine?" He hears hesitance in your tone. "Nobody will walk in?"

"No one. You have my word." Suguru puts his hands on your shoulders, working his way down your lower back. It makes you squirm, so he remains careful. Slow enough not to overwhelm you. "I locked the door. They'll know not to force it. Nanami does it all the time."

"Oh… Okay."

He digs his thumb into the tender skin under your shoulder-blade. Waits for your body to respond. A twitch, or a shiver, a feathery flexing of your bones. You let out a shaky breath. "Don't be nervous, baby. It's just you and me."

"I know," you exhale. "It feels… nice."

Suguru's lips draw up at that. The branches of a plum-tree, budding into bloom. 

He avoids doing too much. Lathering your back, shoulders and collarbone in sweet-smelling froth, all the way down to your forearms. It's fine if he doesn't get all the spots. Your comfort is more important. And the purpose of this runs deeper than just washing. Once he's finished, the shower-head rinsing it away, he changes to the hair products. 

It's soothing. Quiet. He works at a slow pace, cradling your scalp with both palms.

"Um. Suguru?"

Like a dog, he responds within a heartbeat. Like he's leashed to the chamber of your voice. "Yes?"

"Is this really… good, for you?" you ask him, shifting subtly from one foot to another. He doesn't hear you well under the patter of water, so he leans closer, his breath ghosting the back of your head. "You like doing this? Honestly?"

…

He can't help it. Suguru leans down, and presses a kiss at the nape of your neck. Water clings to the seam of his lips, his nose pressed against you. He feels you shiver in response, like you've never been touched here before in your life. Like he's the only one who's ever come this close. He can't explain what that does to him. "Honestly." Then, after a moment, half in jest: "I feel like a god."

Just as he hoped, it makes you laugh.

You even turn your head to meet his gaze, the colour of your eyes shining through the steam. "A god?"

"A god," he echoes. Stifling a grin. "Your shower god."

"That's so… silly."

Suguru shrugs.

"I can be silly," another kiss, this time smeared against your shoulder. Hot water in his mouth. Worth it, for this. "For you."

Only for you.

You hum. It sits low in your throat. 

"Yeah." He hears the smile in your voice, bleeding honey and gold. "You can."

After that, only silence, woven into the very space between you. You've melted against his fingers now, gone soft and pliant under the weight of the experience. You're like a small animal after a good meal. Docile, curled up with its belly exposed. Suguru keeps rubbing your scalp, washing your hair free of the conditioner. The air smells of lavender and coconut. He breathes it in, hungry.

"Suguru?" you break the silence. He hears that you're weary, feels that you're drowsy. Knows you'll fall asleep standing up before long.

"Yes?"

"I… love you." You say it shyly this time. Almost like a question. Like you're hoping he'll tell you you're exactly right. It's different from before, and better when you aren't close to crying— like you're just now realizing the weight of those words, the reality of what you're signing yourself up for. "I just want you to know that."

Suguru's chest blooms with pride. Warmth. Warmth in abundance, sweltering, his heart melting like candle-wax and dripping down the drain.

"I do know." He wraps his arms around your waist, bringing your back against his chest, skin to skin. His heart beats against you. Now, too, he feels abyssal. Like he could protect you from anything at all. As long as he gets to have you here after long missions, on nights that stretch on too long, mornings that have him struggling to let go of you— he thinks he'll learn to live with letting you fight by yourself. Maybe. "And I love you too. More than you know."

Silently, all to himself, he thinks:

Now that I've said it once, I'm scared I'll never stop. That I'll keep saying it until my tongue goes numb.

You let out a soft, contemplative noise. Something like low-lilted bird chatter. He smiles into your hair, water dripping down his chin, down his chest, down his abdomen. If he drowns here, he'll be happy.