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Your turn into the parking garage for Gojo & Sons was a little sharp as you continued on. “Listen, I’ll call you later. I’m at work,” You’re turning the keys in the ignition off, reaching for your phone to perch between your shoulder and ear. 

“If you’re free after nine, all of us and Kento are getting drinks at the karaoke bar you like.” 

You stop rummaging in your bag for a moment. “Kento? As in Kento Nanami? Since when did he do karaoke?” The man was nothing but suits. You think the only time you saw him in regular clothes was Yu’s New Year's Eve party, and that too it was a cashmere Henley. Who casually owns cashmere Henleys?

She laughs. “You’d be surprised how much that guy loves to sing, girl.” You shrug, nodding. Guess looks are deceiving. 

Shoko clears her throat dramatically. “Kento is also very, very single.” 

You’re sliding out of the car with your tote, heading towards the elevators. You’re frantic to dismiss this idea. “Shoko, he’s your guys’ high school friend. You can't be serious.” you deadpan weakly. 

You can hear her hum, all sing-songlike. “That didn’t sound like you aren’t interested,”

The elevator beeps open, empty, and you step inside. You have seen Kento a couple times when Yu brought him to hangouts. He was rather handsome, definitely your type albeit a little serious looking. Both him and Yu worked at a company that wasn’t in the sphere of Gojo & Sons or I&Z. He wasn’t much of a talker, but polite when you did converse with the man. 

“I’m gonna take the silence as a yes.” 

“Hey! I hardly think—” Click. Shoko ended the call before you could definitively tell her whether you did or didn’t want to join them, which only meant one thing. She expected you to be there.

An exhausted sigh leaves your lips as the door opens again. On instinct, you’re moving to leave when your entire body instead slams straight into another person, knocking you onto the floor on your butt. It ends up throwing your phone and tote bag out of your clutches. A mortifying little “oof!” slips out before you can stop it. As you’re suppressing a groan, you look up to see what wall of a person you ran into you.

Ryomen Itadori stands over you, one broad hand still extended halfway like he had meant to catch you but was a fraction of a second too late. He seemed a little perplexed, probably because of the expression on your face when you realized it was him. 

“Shit.” he mutters, almost surprised like he didn’t expect it to leave his mouth.

He drops immediately into a crouch reaching for your elbow at the same moment you try to scramble upright. Your arms tangle unfortunately, his fingers closed around your forearm, warm through the sleeve of your knit sweater. He steadies you with more care than you would have expected. You both freeze.

That same opulent cologne hits your nose, much stronger like it was recently applied. You really did like that scent. 

“Sorry,” it comes out clipped and mechanical. He releases you the instant you’re balanced enough to stand on your own, withdrawing his hand much quicker than you wanted, much to your dismay.

“Didn’t see you.” He continues. You rub your tailbone absently trying to erase just how humiliated you felt in this moment.

“No, uh- it was my fault. I wasn’t looking either.” You bend over to reach for your phone and dropped tote, cheeks burning. He beats you to it, long fingers sweeping everything before you can protest. When he hands the bag to you, your fingertips brush. You try to ignore the spark you feel, not daring to make eye contact. 

“You’re here for the merger meeting?” The question is uttered smaller than you intended. 

He swallows. “Yeah. I.. saw you’re leading strategy. Just like Gojo said.” You hate how defeated he sounds. The look on his face was really unreadable, which bothered you. He's always been stoic, but you could vaguely guess what he's thinking. Unfortunately not this time.

You give a small nod. “It’s a tiny team, but we’re working well. Apparently no one else can handle the case, anyways.”

“Ah.” He nods like he wasn’t the very reason the merger has been in stagnant progress. Nothing about his reaction makes sense, but you oblige to ignore it for the sake of small talk.

The elevator doors try to close on you, but Ryomen slaps the sensor panel without looking, holding them open. The gesture is automatic, yet impatient. He’s still staring at you, calculating. It feels like he’s trying to solve a problem he didn’t know he had.

“You’re bleeding,” he says suddenly.

You blink. “What?”

He nods toward your calf. You look down under your dress and sure enough, the skin is nicked on the outer side, a thin smear of red already welling up. You hadn’t even felt it, it was so small. Evidently you wondered how he saw it first. It was minuscule, it only made sense he noticed only if he was staring intensely. Was he staring intensely?

“It’s okay,” you say too quickly, brushing it off.

He makes a low sound in his throat, something between disagreement and annoyance and reaches into his jacket. A black silk square handkerchief appears between his fingers. He holds it out in a jerky motion.

“Here. Wouldn’t wanna get blood on your dress, it’s a bitch to get out.” He somehow realizes the irony in his statement and is immediately stammering, something you’re still not used to seeing from him. “I-I mean, you probably know how to get those out. Wait, not to assume you know how to—“

You take it quickly, shooting him a small smile and cutting him off before he launches into a segment on period care. “It’s okay. Thank you, Mr. Itadori.” A look of hurt flashes on his face for a moment. You had resorted to honorifics again already and it was ruining him.

The fabric is cool and soft, definitely much more expensive than anything you owned. You press it to your leg and try very hard not to think about the fact that you’re currently staining a piece of your ex-boss' clothing with your insignificantly small spot of blood.

You stare at the handkerchief. Then at him. Then back at the handkerchief.

“…You carry silk squares?”

“Habit.” he shoots rapidly. “It's not usually for this.”

He shifts his weight. “You good now?”

“Yeah. Yeah, I’m fine. Thank you again.” You force another smile. It feels like a little fake, but it’s all you can muster. “Um. I’ll see you in a bit, I guess.” 

You assume your face didn’t exactly appear ecstatic to have another interaction with him later, because the look on his own drops. His mouth twitches. Not quite a smile, closer to a grimace.

“Are you disappointed that you will?”

“No!” The word comes out louder than intended, squeaky. Painfully embarrassing is the only way you could describe how this conversation was going. You wince and clear your throat. “No. It’s not an issue. It’s just.. all a part of the job, y’know?” It feels mildly evil alluding to what you said to him the night of the auction.

He exhales through his nose. “Right, the job. Yes.”

Another beat. You wish the floor could just cave in on you and drag you to the pits of hell because anything could be better than this.

The elevator dings again and the doors finally open to the floor of your office. He doesn’t move to leave, clearly intending for you to exit first. You clutch the stained handkerchief, unsure of what to do. You didn’t feel right giving it back, so you just hastily stuff it into your tote.

When you step past him, careful not to brush against his body, he speaks up.

“I look forward to your presentation.”

You pause just outside the doors, looking back. He’s already turning away, shoulders rigid, one hand shoved into his pocket. He wasn’t getting off on your floor like you thought, so you couldn’t manage to say anything else. The doors slide shut between you. You stand in the hallway for several long seconds, jaw slack and heart hammering, staring at the now-soiled black silk square crumpled in your fist. 

You both were back to square one. Ha.

A melodic knock raps on your door. You lift your head from your computer slowly, as you were finishing an email. “Mhm, come in!”

Your face breaks into a grin when you see Suguru carrying what looks to be two bentos and a drink. A squeal leaves your lips as you rush up to give him a hug. “Oh my babyyy, you shouldn’t have!” The man simply chuckles, pressing a chaste kiss on your cheek in greeting.

“Satoru asked me to bring him lunch, so I thought I’d make enough for us to have a little lunch date.” he says with a tilt of his head, shimmying the boxes towards you. You eagerly accept, motioning him to sit on your loveseat couch with you. "Bet he's so jealous I get to have you for the afternoon," you gloat.

You untie the ribbon and you groan happily seeing the cute little octopi sausages. “You know me so well!” you titter, already digging in with your utensils. 

You’re halfway through spearing a sausage when Suguru leans back against the arm of the loveseat, crossing one long leg over the other. He’s watching you with that soft, amused look he sports whenever he’s about to drop something on you that he knows you won’t like. 

You hum around a mouthful of rice, savoring the flavor before pointing your fork at him accusingly. “This is bribery, isn’t it? Satoru put you up to this.”

Suguru’s laugh is warm and instant. He honestly looks far too elegant for someone who just spent hours cooking before this.

“Guilty,” he admits without a hint of shame. “Though the octopus sausages are purely self-indulgent. I like seeing you make your little nose scrunch.” He pauses, sipping from his iced green tea, eyes glinting with mischief.

“Sooo,” he starts again, casual as ever, “Shoko called me on her lunch break.” 

You freeze mid-bite. The little sausage hovers an inch from your mouth.

“She whaa?” You huff. “When did she have time to gossip? I literally hung up on her like three hours ago. Doesn’t she have patients to attend to?” you whine, groaning into your free hand.

He reaches over and gently pries it away, thumb brushing over your knuckles in an absent, comforting way. “She’s worried about you. We all are, a little.”

“I’m fine,” you mutter, though it sounds lame even to your own ears. “I finally have free time, y'know. I can start crocheting again.”

“You’re lonely as fuck.”

"Okay, rude." 

“What! You’re allowed to be. But you don’t have to stay that way.” 

You were definitely picking up what he was putting down, and you didn’t like it. Poking at a piece of tamagoyaki, you suddenly feel not as hungry. “Suguru… I’m not going to date someone from your high school friend group. It’s literally a fuckup waiting to happen! What if it flops or I say something he hates? And then every hangout for the next decade is weird! I’d rather die.”

He tilts his head once more, studying you with those all-too-perceptive eyes. “Kento isn’t like that and you know it.”

You snort. “The man who yapped to me for twenty straight minutes about expense report formatting?”

“He’s steady!” Suguru counters. “Reliable. Okay, maybe a little boring but you know he’s got his heart right. And…” He leans in conspiratorially, voice dropping. “He asked Haibara about you. Last week. Suuuper casual. Like, he was trying very hard to sound chill.”

Your heart does a stupid, traitorous skip. “He did not.”

His mouth twists wryly, not elaborating further.

Sneaky bitch. 

“Look, no one’s asking you to marry the man tomorrow. Just come tonight, have fun getting wasted and singing. Sit next to him, see if there’s a spark. And if not… you never have to speak of it again and I’ll make sure we’re all too drunk to remember.”

You stare at the remnants of your bento, the smiling octopi now looking like they were mocking you instead of being cheerful little things.

"You guys are really trying to push this.”

“I’m trying to get you to be open-minded,” he corrects, reaching out to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear. “Or at the very least, get your flirt on.”

A long silence stretches between you.

Finally, you sigh, throwing your arms up. “Fine! I’ll come. But if he sings something stupid I’m leaving.”

Suguru’s grin is victorious. “Deal. Though knowing him it’ll probably be something annoyingly perfect like Frank Sinatra.”

"Doesn't Frank Sinatra have a song called 'Somethin' Stupid'?"

"Oh. I guess so," he smiles boyishly. You roll your eyes, but the corner of your mouth lifts despite yourself. “You’re such a manipulator.”

“Not my fault I’m beautiful and convincing,” he says smugly, already gathering the empty bento boxes. “And you love me.”

“Yeah, yeah.” You stand up with him, bumping his shoulder lightly. “Thanks for lunch and reigniting my dead romantic life.”

“Wear that dress, the one that you wore and Utahime called you a harlot. It’ll drive him insane.” You laugh despite the nerves already knotting in your stomach. “Get out of my office, you freak.”

He winks suggestively, leaving quickly before you can shove him out. You sink back into your chair, staring at the black silk handkerchief still peeking out of your tote. You force yourself to not think about how you’re going to get it back to him. You let your forehead fall to the desk with a soft thud. 

“I’m so screwed.”

You tapped your foot impatiently, checking your phone for the time. Ryomen's new executive managers were running late for the merger meeting and you were already anxious as it is. You didn't know that your absence in the company would have them take a massive hit, but alas, it did. Multiple people were hired and fired just because of you, or so you were told.

Sunlight sliced through the floor-to-ceiling windows, casting long shadows across the glossy oval table. You sat at the head, flanked by your small team. Sana was on your left, looking equally as tense while Enji sat next to her, quiet and steady as always, reviewing his printed spreadsheets. Rin occupied the chair right after him, her posture rigid. You notice she always kept her dark hair pinned back severely it made you wonder if her scalp ever hurt. She hadn’t spoken much since she arrived, her eagle-like eyes flicking between her computer and everyone's faces with a sharp intensity that made you shudder a little.

Across the table, Ryomen Itadori leaned back in his chair, clearly annoyed at his own people's tardiness. His commanding presence was carried with something heavier. Reluctance, maybe? You could tell from the corner of your eyes he kept staring at you when you shifted your gaze away from him, and it was starting to make heat crawl up your neck. Finally, his two executives made their entrance. You were briefed by Satoru's other assistant that they were Kei Tanabe and Masaru Yamamura, seemingly younger hires albeit still male and reeking of Axe bodyspray. They took their seats directly to the right of you, leaving Ryomen all alone at the other end of the table. Directly in front of you. A painfully ominous sight indeed.

You cleared your throat, clicking to the first slide. “Alright! So if everyone's here, let’s begin." The two guys clearly look miffed that you sneak-dissed them, but also, they were wasting company time. Why should you honey your words?

"As discussed in the pre-read, Gojo & Sons is prepared to move forward on the operational integration timeline, but we need firm commitments on the overlapping distribution channels and equity split before we can move on to Phase Two.”

Sana jumps in smoothly. “Our modeling shows a potential fourteen percent efficiency gain in the first eighteen months if we consolidate your main warehouses here,” She highlights the map. “But that requires I&Z to commit to allowing key Gojo personnel in those facilities.”

Kei let out a low chuckle that was barely audible, but you picked up on it. Your eyes flick to seeing him leaning toward Masaru. “Does she even know the statistics jargon she's saying? Airhead.”

Your expression falters for a moment, but you let Sana continue as to not interrupt the presentation she worked so hard on just because Ryomen managed to find two more chauvinistic assholes for his company. No one noticed the remarks except you, supposedly.

Ryomen exhaled through his nose, rubbing two fingers against his temple. “We’re not consolidating those warehouses yet,” he said with a tight voice. You could tell he wasn't trying to be combative like the other meetings you sat in on with him before because he lacked the usual bite of conviction. “The numbers don’t justify the disruption for my workers. My people on the ground say it’ll tank morale and output for at least a year, if not longer.”

You met his eyes directly. “Your people have been saying that for three months, Ryomen. The stagnancy is costing both parties here. Mr. Itadori, you agreed in principle to this merger months ago. If you’re having second thoughts, now is the time to voice them instead of dragging your feet.” You let out the breath you didn't know you were holding. Not many, if at all, took such an accusatory and direct tone with Ryomen. Heavy silence fills the room.

He stared at you, something unreadable flickering behind the maroon. “I'm not stupid. I know that Gojo & Sons wants more leeway on I&Z operations. But that is a sinking ship, I promise you that. And I will not let my employees be laid off because of infantile reporting."

Sana blinked rapidly, glancing between you two. She no longer felt equipped to answer his questions as this had quickly morphed into a rapid fire debate between you both.

You pressed forward, standing up and leaning over the long oval table. “Then why are you even here? If this merger is such a bad omen, walk away and save us the money and time.”

Kei smirked, leaning over to Masaru again. His whisper was still barely audible to you, but enough to catch it. “She’s got that mouth on her. Bet Itadori misses having her bent over his desk taking dick-tation.”

The words landed like a slap, making your speech die in your throat.

Ryomen’s chair scraped back violently as he stood. The temperature in the room dropped ten degrees.

“Get out,” he said, voice loud and unceremonious.

Kei blinked. “Sir, it was just—”

“I said get the fuck out of this building. You’re both fired. HR will have your things packed back at HQ by the time you reach the lobby.” Ryomen’s expression was violent, hands flexed on the table. “Don't know why the old fuck wanted you two pussies anyways.”

Masaru looked like he wanted the floor to swallow him. Kei’s face went pale, then red, but he stood without another word, muttering curses under his breath as he gathered his singular notepad. The two of them file out noisily, door clamoring shut behind them. The silence that followed was deafening.

Ryomen remained standing, breathing hard through his nose. His eyes found yours again, and for a second the boardroom vanished replaced by the balcony, Jin’s porch, your wet dreams all at once. He looks so apologetic. You swallowed, pulse hammering. That tethered feeling in your chest returned, pulling you right back to him.

Rin’s shoulders had relaxed a fraction, her expression still blank. She slid a fresh document across the table towards him. “Updated retention proposals,” she said coolly, as if the firing hadn’t happened. “It includes protections for mid-level staff that you want to keep.”

Enji finally spoke, voice a little meek. “Without your block on the Southeast distribution, we could realistically move to Phase Two by end of quarter. Meaning we might just get this merger done by the fourth quarter. Only, if I&Z is willing.”

Ryomen slowly sat back down, dragging a hand down his face. He looked drained. “I’m not opposed to the merger on paper,” he said eventually. His gaze kept drifting back to you and you wanted to be anywhere else with just him, looking at you like that. God, you need to get yourself together. “There just has to be a middle ground that doesn’t feel like I’m selling my company to—” He cut himself off.

To what? My rival? To Yamato Gojo? Who? The words hung unspoken and you returned back to being frustrated. There was something he wasn't speaking on, and it had been this way since the beginning. You know he has a personal hesitance to doing this, but it can't be because he dislikes Satoru. There is a puzzle piece you're not aware of and you're determined to uncover it, by his will or not.

The meeting dragged on for another forty minutes with little forward movement as usual. Minor concessions on timelines, another round of data disputes, polite but firm push-back from Ryomen on every major integration point. No breakthroughs. Just the slow grind of two powerful entities circling each other, neither willing to yield first.

When it finally adjourned, everyone stood. Ryomen lingered as your team filed out. His voice stopped you at the door.

“I am so fucking sorry for that.”

You paused, fingers tightening on your folder. You didn't really know what to say. “It's okay. I'm used to it, seriously.”

He shook his head once. “No.” His hand moves as if he wants to touch your face, but doesn't. “You shouldn't. I'm sorry and it will not happen again. Ever.”

You didn’t trust your brain to reply with anything more than a small nod before stepping into the hallway, heart still racing again for all the wrong reasons. You leave him in the dust without another sound. Behind you, you notice Rin making her way not to her desk, but rather the stairwells. Odd woman. Too many things were happening at once and you just needed a drink. 

Thank god you're going out.

When you arrived at the karaoke bar, you pulled your skirt down as you exited the Uber. The last time you wore this dress was maybe senior year of college, and you definitely grew in certain areas making the dress a little shorter than you remembered. Or maybe it's always been this scandalously sized. 

You make your way inside, weaving through the pretty thin halls to get to the private room Satoru texted a picture of. Him and his extravagant spending. A red door at the corner looks exactly like what you were looking for. Turning the knob, you're met with all of your friends squeezed together, alongside a rather stiff Kento at the end of the booth couch.

"Finallyyyyy!" Utahime slurs her words, way too overjoyed to see you. "Let's slow on the drinks, okay?" You chuckle with a concerned smile. Suguru is already grinning at your over the rim of his glass, eyes darting to Kento as if to suggest you should sit down. You give in, scooting in on his side. 

"Hey," you say with a small smile. The dress rode up your thighs as you sat, and you tugged it down hastily without looking. Kento just nods at you politely. "Hello."

Man, this guy was awkward. You expected more talkativeness as the drinks started flowing, but you both were seven shots in and he was silent as a church mouse. So much for knowing him as a yapper before…

Shoko was lounging against Suguru draped like a cat, occasionally feeding him pieces of edamame. On the other hand, Satoru was dialed up by ten and singing off-key to white girl pop. "Ooh, let's let Taylor keep singing that song," Shoko yells over his pitchy sounds. You were belly-laughing for the first time all day, but your mind kept slipping back to dark red eyes that wouldn't leave you alone. 

By the time you were on your ninth (tenth?) shot, you were loose enough to get dragged up for “Love Me Harder.” You sang your heart out with Utahime, hips swaying and all your assets were moving pretty provocatively. Anyone with eyes and an attraction to women would be drooling by this point. Kento, however, was deeply engrossed with something on his phone. What's worse is that the inattention didn't even send a pang to your heart. 

Eventually, he sang "Somethin' Stupid" just like Suguru predicted. Everyone was whistling and cheering, and you along with. His voice was good, nobody was denying that. Though, if you liked him, you should have felt something? Instead, you felt literally nothing. No spark or pull, or even the schoolgirl crush jump you had earlier today. No heat crawling up your neck like it did every time a certain pink-haired trouble looked at you.

You're just too different of personalities, you thought, sipping another cocktail. He wasn't fooling anyone if he said he was interested in you. The realization settled heavy in your chest. Kento Nanami was a good man but he wasn’t what your stupid, traitorous body wanted right now.

As the room grew warmer and the lights became blurred in your vision, you knew were properly fucked up. Just like that, eventually the walls felt too close.

“I need air,” you announced, waving off a concerned look from Suguru before he could speak. “Just five minutes! I gotta shake off the woozy.”

The cool night air outside the karaoke bar was a blessing, and the wave of nausea you didn't even notice creeping up on you dissipated. Sobering up, you could feel the twinge in your left ankle, stilettos be damned. When you leaned against the rough brick wall, you sloppily pull off the heels and leave them dangling from your fingers. Unfortunately, the sidewalk was spinning… just a little. Traffic blurred past in streaks of light. You closed your eyes, breathing in the city smells of car exhaust and some street-side food cooking.

A pair of headlights swept by of a truck that slowed for half a second, then kept going. You were too drunk to think anything of it. In fact, you didn't notice it at all until you saw it again two minutes later on your side of the road, pulling up to the curb and turning on their yield signal. Fuck, you recognize that beat up truck.

The driver’s door opened and Ryomen Itadori steps out, looking sinfully good in a taut black t-shirt with a different pair of faded denim jeans, hair now tousled instead of gelled back from earlier in the day. God, if he wore that every day you'd be set for life. His eyes were locked on you immediately, dark brows furrowed.

“You’ve got to be kidding meee,” you thought you muttered under your breath but in reality it was a loud whine. He scoffed out a laugh.

He scanned you from head to toe; lingering a moment on your bare legs and the way the material of your short dress rode up, then up to your flushed cheeks. If it wasn't for your inebriated state, you would've noticed he looked like he was trying his level best at restraint. “Why are you outside this drunk?”

“I’m getting fresh aaaiiir, can't you see?” you said, pushing off the wall. All of the sudden, he world was tilting. Huh. You stumbled sideways, catching yourself on the side of the wall with a unfiltered and boisterous laugh. “Seeeee? 'M tooootally fine, boss man.”

Ryomen’s hand shot out, steadying you by the elbow. His hold was firm, the same careful grip from the elevator this morning. He lets go once you lean more into the wall. “You’re not.”

“You always have a mmmassive pole shoved up your ass, Ryomen,” The words left your alcohol ridden brain without a care in the slightest. “Worry 'bout your own bee's wax. Hmph.” The pouty frown you were giving him was so adorable he wanted to die on the spot.

Biting his lip, his mouth twitched at your uncensored feistiness. “I was driving home and saw you standing here looking like you were about to become roadkill.” He glanced toward the karaoke bar, then back at you. “Your friends know you’re out here?”

You waved a hand dismissively. “They’re inside slaughtering some ABBA. I’m genuinely good so you can be on your merry way now!”

Instead, he stepped closer. That damn scent wrapped around you again. “You’re clearly not good. You can barely stand straight and almost ate concrete just now. Let's go, I’m driving you home.”

“I said I’m fine—” You take one overconfident step and your achey ankle betrays you, throwing you top first into his arms. Ryomen caught you properly this time, one arm sliding around your waist to hold you upright. Screw this dress being so thin and skin tight on you, because you can feel every bit of his body on yours. It was enough to make your pulse rise. Your cheek was pressed against the solid frame of his chest, and you could hear how fast his heart was hammering under your ear. What was that about?

“You’re warm,” you mumbled, rubbing your face closer before your brain could stop you. “Like a big portable heater.” He didn’t let you out of his embrace. If anything his grip tightened, fingers splayed against the curve where your torso fans out to your hip. You could feel the calluses on his palm through your dress. When did he get calluses? The thought made you dizzy in a completely different way.

“Come on,” he said, voice rough. “In the car you go.”

You don't protest much anymore and let him guide you toward his car, too drunk and tired to fight him properly. He opened the passenger door and helped you in, one big hand on the top of your head so you wouldn’t bump it on the doorframe. The gentlemanly gesture gave you another flutter in your stomach.

As he leaned over to buckle your seatbelt, his face was inches from yours. You were surprised to get not only his spicy cologne but also the faint scent of his skin flooding your senses. Your eyes drop to his mouth.

“I had a sex dream about you.” you blurt out.

Ryomen freezes, knuckles white on the buckle.

“Last night,” you continued, because apparently your filter had dissolved somewhere between shot number six and seven. “Your face was in between my legs and you were so fucking good at it. Then my alarm ruined everything and I woke up soaked and pissed the fuck off.”

A low, garbled noise left his throat. He clicked the seatbelt into place and pulled back without a word, jaw clenched so tight you could see the veins in his neck.

“You’re going to regret telling me that tomorrow,” he said, voice gravelly as he shut your door.

“Probably!” you agreed cheerfully as he rounded the car. When he slid into the driver’s seat, you turned to look at him, cheek smushed against the cool leather. “By the way, you looked really hot in my dream. Kinda like what you look right now, to be honest. But your mouth was all shiny and stuff from me.”

“Fucking hell,” Ryomen muttered, starting the engine. His grip on the steering wheel was abnormal and stiff. “Stop talking.”

“But I missed you,” you said softly, the alcohol stripping away every inhibition you had. “Even when I hated you.”

The car was quiet except for the low hum of the engine and the city sounds outside. Ryomen exhales shakily. “I miss you too.”

You reach over and poke his arm. “I don't believe you.”

“I swear to you,” he repeats, a tired look on his face. “I miss you like anything.”

Your drunken state doesn't fully compute this, however. The rest of the drive passed in a hazy blur as you rambled away probably more than you ever did in the eight years you worked for him. You blabbed about your random interests, what you ate for breakfast, how much the Bermuda Triangle freaked you out. He listened without interrupting, eyes flicking to you every few seconds like he was afraid you’d poof into the air like a figment of his imagination.

When he finally pulled up in front of your building, you were half-asleep, head lolling against the window. He killed the engine and sat there for a long moment, just looking at you. “You still with me?” his voice rumbles like molasses.

“Mhm. Carry me?” you asked hopefully, already reaching for him with grabby hands.

Ryomen huffed a laugh despite himself. “You’re pushing it.”

But he still got out, came around, and scooped you up like you weighed nothing with your heels hanging from his pinky finger. One arm under your knees, the other supporting your back with your head tucked perfectly against his shoulder. You sighed happily and wrapped your arms around his neck.

“You smell good,” you murmured against his throat as he carried you toward the entrance. “You always have. I tried finding it once, but of course it's probably some stupid, obscure rich-people-cologne I don't know.” He muttered something that sounded suspiciously like “You’re going to kill me,” under his breath.

Inside the elevator, with no one around, you pressed a sloppy, open-mouthed kiss to the side of his neck. His grip on you tightened instantly.

“Behave.” he warned, voice strained.

“Make me,” you hummed back, smiling against his skin. You've officially lost it.

The elevator dinged on your floor. Ryomen carried you all the way to your door, only setting you down when you finally fished your keys out of your purse. He waited until you managed to get the door open, one hand hovering near your waist like he expected you to topple over again.

You turned in the doorway, looking up at him with hazy, half-lidded eyes. “Don't you wanna come inside and sleep?” you asked, only half-joking. Ryomen’s crimson eyes darkened and for a moment you thought he might actually say yes. Then he let out a slow, controlled breath and took one deliberate step back.

“Not while you’re drunk,” he said, voice rough with controlled chivalry. “Get some water and take two ibuprofen pills. Don't forget to sleep on your side.”

You pouted. “Okay, peepaw.”

“I’m trying to be decent for once in my fucking life,” he muttered. His voice softens for you. “Goodnight, okay? Lock the door, baby.”

And so, he waited until you did. You heard his footsteps retreat down the hall slowly before the elevator dinged again.

You flopped belly-first onto your couch with no energy to go change or wash your face. Sleep took you faster than you thought, unaware of the acts of tonight await with consequences tomorrow.

next chapter i foresee them visiting freak nation. WHO SAID THATTTTTUHHH

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A gruff but much more awake voice rumbles on the other line. Infuriating how relaxed he sounded. “I need you to cancel the one o’clock lunch with my grandfather today. And Yuuji’s science fair is tonight. I need you to make his board. Preferably before five. Bring a dress for the auction tonight as well.”

A pause settles. You want to say something but he beats you to it.

“None of the shit you wear in the office.”

Before you can even comprehend all the instructions or even get a word in, the phone clicks off. Naturally, in his usual fashion. You flip around on the bed to stuff your face in the pillow and let out a much needed scream. You sit up to collect your bearings. There wasn’t much use getting in another hour of sleep before having to get ready for the office, so you dredge yourself to get ready.

Ryomen S. Itadori was an insufferable man. All your friends know him as the “King of Curses”, because he was the roadblock between you and a healthy social life. It was like he could sense you about have an enjoyable night off. Calling you out of working hours to gather files, sort his schedule, do miscellaneous tasks that definitely could wait for another time.

But as his personal secretary, there were some unspoken rules for you at the company. One turned down request and you knew it would lead to your termination and all seven of those dreaded years would be for naught.

He was blunt and oftentimes pretty inconsiderate with his words. Comments on your attire or just general aloofness to speaking with a woman were pretty common. You wouldn’t deem it misogynistic, more like he sincerely does not know how to articulate himself in a kind way effectively. With anyone for that matter, not just you. Honestly, that was worse than being an ignorant prick. And besides, there were far worse chauvinists that actually looked down on women in that office.

You were rarely on the receiving end of his true tyrannical side after learning your trade, but everyone else in the office received tirades you could hear from your desk outside his thin-glass office. That frosted glass feature did nothing but hide the embarrassed faces of fellow executives while the large 6’4 man would tear them a new one. Jenny from HR was quite the recurring character for you, much to your dismay. One of the three women on the floor and she was a total two-faced vixen. Somehow, she was convinced you slept your way to your position which you found out from a drunk co-worker by slip of mouth and ever since you’ve kept your distance. Ironic how much of a loose lipped individual she was for someone who handled the interpersonal relations of everyone in the office.

Your mind was elsewhere while blowdrying your hair, churning out how to accommodate all the tasks for the day when your phone rings again.

“Hey, babe. What’s up?” You put the man on speaker as you begin to style your hair in simple curls.

A muffled voice in the background can be barely heard alongside your caller. “—What? Okay, okay I’ll tell her,” Suguru laughs faintly. “Satoru wanted to tell you he misses you and hopes you’re alive.”

You frown and put the iron down, clipping up each side with black barrettes. “He should get Satan to agree to the merger so maybe I’ll actually have free time,” you retort.

You were referring to the long standing project of Gojo & Sons, LLC trying to assimilate with the corporation, which has been going slow and unsuccessful for about three months now. It’s lead to long meetings that only irritate Ryomen even more than usual, and puts you into doing overtime nearly every day from being unable to complete your daily tasks.

“You’re there every meeting! You know I’m trying,” the white haired man whines from the background.

You giggle despite yourself. “I know, Toru. I’m just frustrated that he still hasn’t taken the bait, everything look perfect logistics-wise. The merger could shoot our stocks fifteen percent by next quarter,” You chide, zipping up your dress.

“Duh.” Satoru says. “My company’s perfect ‘cus I’m perfect.” You can practically see the classic smirk in his voice right now. “Wish you’d work for us, to be honest. You deserve more than being a servant for those shriveled dicks,”

“Alright, enough work talk. I’m already turned off,” Suguru groans.

You cackle, buckling your flat Mary Janes. “Thanks for letting me know you guys are screwing again,” you quip sarcastically.

“Why would we be together at six in the morning if we weren’t?” Satoru shoots back playfully.

You grab your large tote bag and throw the cocktail dress inside it alongside your keys and other items. “Lalala don’t wanna hear it,” you yell in a sing-song voice, moving to leave your quaint apartment.

“Okay, okay, we’ll stop being gross,” Suguru slips mid laugh. “The reason I wanted to call you is because we wanted to get you for the weekend, just a small get-together,” he says.

You’re turning the keys of your beat-up Toyota and it revs to life. You mentally check your schedule. “Sugu, I only have Saturday free. Is that okay?” You wish you could have lazy Sundays like everyone else, but it usually ended up being your planning day for the week ahead.

“That… works,” Suguru murmurs carefully.

“Well we wouldn’t want you to miss the engagement,” Satoru blurts.

You nearly screech to a stop in the middle of the road warning you a honk from the car behind you. Your jaw is completely unhinged.

“Are you fucking kidding me?!” You shriek. “You guys got engaged and I’m finding out now?”

“Well, remember the dinner you couldn’t make last week…” Silence fills the car.

“Satoru proposed then.”

You’ve known the two since your college days alongside your friends Shoko, Utahime and Yu. It’s weird how all of your somehow get along (for the most part) despite being in totally different majors and having very contrasting personalities. You’ve seen a lot of each others’ firsts— 21st birthdays, first adult jobs, first bad breakups, first shitty apartments.

You’d always assumed you’d be there for the important things.

And now you weren’t. Because you were busy tending to the whims of a man who couldn’t be bothered to remember your birthday. You wanted to be angry. Sad. Something other than the void and empty hole that was growing in your chest from the last few months.

Your worried mother suggested you see her therapist and you obliged, for her sake. Severe depression and anxiety due to workplace stress. You didn’t need to pay five hundred dollars to know that, though.

You didn’t expect the dominos to fall in your favor. You were taught to work hard for your dreams. But when would it be enough? The year was coming to an end and that would mean eight total years at the company. Your 30th birthday was coming soon too, to boot. Sure, you were focused on your career, but the fact you hadn’t had a real date in over eight years really settled in. When would you get married? Would you even be able to have kids like you wanted? The questions circled nastily into the void in your stomach that housed all your feelings instead of you processing them in a healthy manner.

After ending the call with a solemn “I’ll be there, congrats” you made the rest of the drive thinking about the reality of your life. Pulling into the parking garage you look at the tall, blue building that reflected the sunrise. Today, it looks less impressive than usual. Just bleak.

You ride up the elevator in silence. Not enough foot traffic to have someone to share the silence with, so you just scroll your emails. You try to shake off the dead feeling you were dragging from earlier. Game face, babe, you tell yourself.

With a ding you’re walking away with strong steps on the marble to the executive offices in the back. When you push the tall glass door, Mr. Hoshino from acquisitions is already standing outside his office with a cup of black coffee. He’s somewhere in his sixties, perpetually red-faced, and has the habit of looking women over in a way he probably thinks is subtle. It isn’t.

His eyes briefly drop to your shoes.

“Usually women wear office appropriate heels, not those… school flats.” He grunts. You give a polite but curt smile, the one you perfected for moments like these, and keep walking before he can say anything else.

Further down the corridor, two senior executives stand talking outside the conference room. The conversation dips as you approach. One of them gives you a short nod. The other doesn’t bother.

“Secretary,” he says instead, like a title instead of a greeting.

You pause out of obligation. “Yes, sir?”

“When is Itadori available this afternoon?”

“I’ll need to check his calendar.”

He waves a dismissive hand. “Well, do it. Mark me for his lunch.”

As if that weren’t already the plan. You give him a small tight smile. “I’ll see what I can do, sir.” There was no way Ryomen would want to sit in with him while he already asked to skip the lunch with Wasuke Itadori.

They resume talking before you’ve even turned away. You are unfortunately very used to this behavior and the lack of respect. It’s not much use complaining because all of them share a similar mindset. You’ve never brought it up with Ryomen, but you didn’t think he even noticed at this point. He was too busy yelling at them for not doing their jobs properly to begin with.

Your desk sits where it always has, directly outside Ryomen Itadori’s office, positioned so that anyone seeking him has to pass through you first. The computer hums to life as you set your bag down, the familiar routine unfolding automatically.

You’ve barely opened his calendar when a voice cuts across the corridor.

“Well, look who made it in early.”

Naoya Zenin leans against the low partition beside your desk like he owns the space. He’s younger than most of the men on this floor. In his late twenties, maybe. He makes up for it with a confidence that borders on arrogance. Tailored suit, expensive watch, posture loose with inherited entitlement. It’s infuriating he actually does his job when required because he’s such a pain to hear speak.

Nepotism created and maintained.

“Surprising to see you here early too, Zenin,” you say without looking up, sending off the itinerary to the printers.

He clicks his tongue lightly. “You know, after six years I think you could call me Naoya. You’re around my age, right?”

You don’t bother to correct the fact that you’ve actually been here for almost eight years. “I think I’ll stick with Zenin.”

He smiles at that sharp and pleased, like your resistance is part of his entertainment.

“You females are so snippy,” he chortles, glancing at the garment bag poking out of your tote. “Big night out?”

“It’s a dinner work function. You know, with Mr. Itadori."

“Shame. Would’ve been nice to see you in something tight.”

You don’t respond. He lingers anyway.

“Funny thing about this place,” he says casually, eyes drifting over the desk. “Girls like you always get stuck doing everyone else’s work.”

Your fingers pause on the keyboard. “Well, someone has to make sure everything runs smoothly. I know how stressful thinking can be for you.” You finally look up and give him a small smile that doesn’t reach your eyes.

He laughs under his breath. “Ever the wise one, Miss Secretary.”

Then, after a beat:

“You ever think about moving departments?”

“No.”

“You should. Someone with your… skill set could do well somewhere else.”

You tilt your head and give him a faux pout. “And who would run your calendars, Zenin?”

Naoya’s grin widens. “See? That’s what I mean,” he says, leaning a little closer. “You know you’re irreplaceable. It’s adorable.”

You suck your teeth as you stand up and make your way to the printing room, unfortunately with Naoya on your heels. “Careful with your words Zenin, if I knew any better I’d think you’re flirting. Jenny’s only a couple doors down,” you say rather definitively.

Naoya stops for a fraction of a second, eye twitching, clearly irked. “Oh, I’d never, Miss Secretary. Don’t flatter yourself that much.” As if he wasn’t begging for a chance at seeing your figure just moments earlier.

You roll your eyes and keep walking, scanning the print queue on the machine. The sheets spit out one by one, and you gather them with precision.

Mr. Hoshimoto peers into the room and snaps his fingers at Naoya. “Oi, Zenin brat. You’re needed in the acquisitions meeting. Now,” He barks. Naoya’s cheshire cat act drops and he gives you a small nod and makes his way behind the man. “Duty calls,” he presses through firm lips. Saved by the bell, you exhale.

Finally, you head back to your desk to see Ryomen’s door slightly open. Your sign to make your presence known and start the day.

You step toward the door, hand brushing the frosted glass. The faint creak of the hinge echoes slightly in the quiet corridor. Ryomen Itadori is already seated behind his massive desk, papers and folders spread out like a small organized storm. He’s wearing a navy suit today, you passively note. His figure was nothing short of hulking, and you wondered sometimes how the man acts and dresses outside of the office. It’s hard to imagine him without all the expensive and serious attire.

He glances up as you enter, expression neutral but watchful.

“Good morning, Mr. Itadori,” you say evenly in your customer service voice, laying the printouts neatly across the corner of his desk.

He makes a noise that you know is his own greeting for day. He eyes the stack for a moment. “Brief me.”

“Yes, sir. Your lunch with your grandfather is cancelled. The files from last night’s meeting are in chronological order. Plus the investor notes you requested.”

He leans back, hands steepled, staring at you as if weighing whether you’re capable of remembering the rest of the day. “And Yuuji’s board?”

You blink, because of course. You nod. “I’ll have it ready by five like you asked, sir.”

“The clothing I mentioned,” he continues, flipping through a folder. “For tonight. Show me what you brought.”

You pull the cocktail dress out for him to see, holding it up. He tuts. “It’s too you. Make an appointment with Delaney at Saks. Go during my lunch. Oh, and charge it on my Amex.” You part your lips to protest but he simply looks up with his tense gaze, the protest dying in your throat. “You will look presentable tonight. No excuses.”

You turn around and give a scowl he can’t see as you pack away the dress. Of course he’s not even worried about the money like you are, more focused on scolding you for your choices in clothing. It’s not like you specifically brought the plainest items so you’d get less cat-calls and unnecessary eyes around the office. Not that it actually worked, because you get them anyways.

He’s already moving on in his mind. “Gojo merger prep. I want updated projections, charts on those growth models from last week. I need them on my desk before the conference call at ten. Double-check the numbers. I don’t trust those fuckers in accounting.”

“Already verified,” you hum, tapping the stack of spreadsheets on his desk. “Everything matches the report from last night, and I confirmed the figures before I left.”

He gives a small eyebrow raise and a satisfied grunt. The most praise you could expect from Ryomen Itadori.

A knock interrupts the whirring of your internal monologue. Mr. Manako, an executive, pokes his head in. He’s in his seventies, eyes small and sharp behind thick glasses which was ironic for his name. Due to his clearly deteriorating age, he regards you like a minor inconvenience.

“Secretary.” he bites out, nodding briefly to Ryomen. “I need the revised contracts for my department. I hear you’re handling them.”

“Yes, sir. I’ll get them to you before your eleven o’clock call.”

“Good. Don’t make me wait.”

He retreats as quickly as he appeared, leaving you with the quiet clatter of your own breathing and the ticking clock on Ryomen’s desk.

Ryomen finally leans forward, tapping his fingers against the wood. “Anything else you need to alert me of?”

You swallow the urge to sigh. “Not at the moment, sir.”

He regards you for a heartbeat longer, then leans back, sliding the folder toward him. “Stay on top of it as you do. You’ll hear from me if anything changes.”

“Yes, sir.”

The words taste hollow in your mouth, the rhythm of this constant dance you had to perform. Requests, confirmations, small scolds… so ingrained it almost feels automatic. You push it down.

You gather your things and leave the room before you can gain a splitting headache.

Today is going to suck.

Before you know it, it’s already four o’clock. Your mind drifts to the events of the day so far.

Earlier, you had begrudgingly made the trip to Saks Fifth Avenue to buy the dress during your lunch break. While you were in the store talking with the associate named Delaney whom Ryomen knew well, you received a text from him.

Attached in the message was a link to the official Saks website. You click it and your eyes nearly bulged out of your eyes when the page loaded. He has got to be joking. Nearly thirteen grand for a single evening gown? Has he lost his mind?

You stare at the sweetheart neckline and how the red ombres into a darker shade. It’s a familiar color you don’t remember where you recognize it from. It was a beautiful dress, that’s for sure. But there’s no way you could buy this on his dime.

And as if he heard your internal monologue, another text buzzes.

Satan (1 new message)

If I don’t see the charge on my card I’m coming down there.

You freeze. Yeah, no need to poke the bear. You’ll buy the goddamn dress.

You leave the store with a very happy Delaney waving you goodbye and a large dress bag in tow.

So here you were, coloring a tri-fold cardboard with Crayola markers and glitter glue. You’d done most of your daily tasks, alongside some errands you didn’t want to run for other executives who clearly didn’t understand your position. A small but mighty voice stops you.

“Miss, you forgot the dot in the I!” You look up and smile at the pink haired boy who was swinging his feet in your chair, his size making the chair look far bigger than it was.

“Is that right, hon? You better come here and fix it then,” you quip playfully. The boy giggles and jumps off, happy to actually do his own project. He was done writing his paper on how lemons can generate electricity a while ago, thankfully for you. Ryomen underestimated his nephew Yuuji for a lot of things. He was a beyond intelligent child at seven years old, almost eight. But it was clear he had you help the kid so he doesn’t lose a finger or something while doing the arts and crafts side of the project. You knew from the past few years of unsolicited nannying that he was the most insane ball of chaos you’d ever seen.

You can’t help the grin on your face as you watch the boy make the most adorable concentration face, his tongue barely sticking out the side of his mouth. The glitter glue tube was held with as much precision as an elementary level child could muster as he circled the dot.

“Perfect,” you exclaim. “A masterpiece.”

Yuuji beams like you just knighted him. You could see what teeth just fell out recently which gave his that cute lisp you’ve been hearing for a few weeks now.

“Uncle’s idea is gonna win for sure,” he says confidently, capping the tube hastily.

You huff a quiet laugh. “It’s not a competition, Yuu.”

“It is,” he insists, standing up to face you where you were sitting on your knees. “Last year Uncle got second and he was mad.”

That earns a small snort from you. You could imagine the hilarious scene perfectly: Ryomen Itadori, a merciless dictator, defeated by papier-mâché volcanoes and hand-drawn planets.

“Well then,” you say, nudging the markers toward him, “we better make sure this one is a shoo-in.” He nods gravely, taking the responsibility seriously. You could never get over how adorable that kid was.

Suddenly, Ryomen’s door opens, and his footsteps stop just short of the desk.

“How’s the progress?” he asks flatly.

You look up. “Yuuji’s got a good hold on it.”

His eyes move to Yuuji, then back to you. Then his gaze shifts again to the cardboard. Yuuji straightens proudly. “Look, Uncle!”

He holds up the marker-streaked lemon diagram that was bigger than his body like it belongs in a museum.

Ryomen studies it for a moment longer than expected. “Hm.” High praise.

Yuuji grins, invigorated to continue perfecting the tri-fold.

Ryomen’s eyes flick back to you. “Board meeting ended early.”

“Yes, sir.” It became really awkward whenever Ryomen attempted small-talk with you, you much preferred his gruff demeanor. It was just easier.

His gaze drops briefly to the Saks dress bag leaning against your desk. He doesn’t mention it, but you know he seemed pleased. The receipt in your dress pocket burned, feeling the weight of the thirteen grand even now.

He turns like the matter is settled and starts back toward his office, then pauses. Without looking at you he says, “You’ll come in with me tonight. I’ll drive you.”

“Alright, Mr. Itadori.”

The door shuts and you can finally release the breath you didn’t know you were holding. Yuuji tilts his head.

“Uncle’s scary.”

You give him a half smile.

“Yeah,” you say. “He kind of is.”

Yuuji considers this for a moment, holding his marker pensively. “But he likes you.”

You laugh softly under your breath. “No,” you say. “He just likes things done right.” Yuuji shrugs like the difference doesn’t matter. He goes back to coloring without holding much importance to what he said, but you think on it for a bit. Ryomen doesn’t really like anyone outside of maybe his brother Jin? He spends time with Yuuji, but even then you don’t think he enjoyed being around children that much. It felt a little silly to consider he favored you in any way.

Your gaze drifts from Yuuji to the clock.

4:16 PM. Less than two hours until you have to leave. You pick up a marker and start outlining the title again to keep your hands busy. Lemon Battery. The glitter glue catches the light when Yuuji tilts the board. For a few quiet minutes, sitting beside a seven-year-old with marker-stained fingers, the void in your stomach fades just enough to feel some warmth on your chest.

The zipper on your dress glided up with ease, and the dress fit oddly well. It actually bothered you it held you like a glove compared to your regular wardrobe. I guess money does buy quality, you think.

You switch your flats for black glossy stilettos that let your dress comfortably stay off of the ground, something you were worried about. You hated when gowns dragged along the floor. You adjust the sweetheart neckline, then immediately stop yourself from adjusting it again. You step out into the corridor with your heels clicking in unfamiliar rhythm against the polished floor. The executive wing is quieter now, most of the employees already gone or cloistered behind their doors finishing calls before heading out.

Ryomen’s door is half open. You knock lightly against the frame.

“Come in.”

He’s standing near the side credenza instead of behind the desk, tuxedo jacket already on, broad shoulders stretching the dark black fabric. One hand is working at his tie with visible impatience, the knot uneven and sitting too low. He glances up when you enter. His eyes stop just for a second before they move away again like nothing happened.

“Fix this,” he says, tugging once at the tie.

You step closer automatically. Close enough to smell the spicy edge of his cologne, something rough and expensive. Despite the biting scent, you really like it. You reach up, fingers brushing the silk. The knot is a mess, and you want to laugh at how badly he’s got it wrangled. You suppress it.

“You twisted it,” you say quietly.

“Hm.” Ever the expressive response.

You loosen it with practiced motions, you had helped your brothers with them when they were younger. Your knuckles brush the solid line of his chest through the dress shirt. You pretend you don’t feel the outline of the top of his pec. He stands perfectly still, gaze fixed somewhere above your head. You can’t see him trying his best to avoid looking down at you in this moment.

“Hold still,” you murmur.

“I am.” He mumbles.

The knot finally slides neatly into place, and you smooth the front once and step back.

“Done.”

His hand comes up, adjusting it once out of habit, even though there’s nothing wrong with it. He steps away from you, turning to grab his Rolex. You wait near the door, hands loosely clasped in front of you, the way you always do when he’s finishing up. The habit is so ingrained you barely think about it anymore. His gaze lifts again. His eyes move from your the stilettos, the rising ombré, the structured bodice, the neckline before your simple pendant laying over your collarbones.

“You look different,” he says, as if it was just an observation.

You shrug, simple and dismissive. “That tends to happen when you’re wearing something worth a small mortgage.”

A quiet huff of breath leaves him. Not a laugh, but close. It surprises you because you don’t think you’ve ever made him show that much positive emotion.

“It fits.”

You nod once. “Delaney knows her job.” You hum, sing song-like. His gaze lingers another second, sharper now, like he’s trying to place something he can’t quite name. Then, predictably, he moves on. He reaches for his keys and moves toward the door, and you step aside automatically to let him pass. The sheer size of him fills the doorway for a moment before he steps into the hall. You follow a half-step behind like always, heels clicking in careful rhythm. You stop at your desk long enough to grab your small hand purse and your coat, switching off the desk lamp with a soft click.

Ryomen waits by the elevators without impatience, but also without the softness expected from the gentlemanly look he was exuding. Hands in his pockets, posture straight, presence commanding even in his stillness. When you reach him, he presses the button down. The elevator hums somewhere above. For a moment, neither of you speak. Then his eyes flick sideways toward you again.

“You walk fine in those?” You glance down at the heels.

“They’re manageable.”

“If you fall,” he says evenly, “you’ll make me look bad.”

You smile faintly. So much for him being kind to you for once and caring about your wellbeing.

“I’ll do my best to preserve your reputation, sir.” you manage with a tight lipped tone. The elevator dings and the doors slide open.

By the time you pull up to the venue, the front entrance is already crowded with socialites and other guests waiting to get in.

The dinner was an auction being held in a restored historic hotel downtown, all marble floors and chandelier light. Valets hurry forward to gather the keys to exotic cars. Flashes snap somewhere near the entrance. Investors, board members, donors; dark suits and women in gowns that whisper across the floor.

You step out when he does. Immediately, the shift happens. You fall into step beside him as cameras flash. Someone calls his name. He acknowledges them with a slight incline of his head, one hand briefly clasping at the small of your back to guide you through the entrance. It’s not intimate at all, simply directional. Ownership in the most corporate sense. Inside, the ballroom is already alive with clinking glasses and low laughter. You’re both handed champagne flutes within seconds. He doesn’t drink yet. He scans the crowd.

“Stay close,” he leans down to murmur in your ear without looking at you. You curtly nod, ignoring the shiver that ran up your spine from his breath.

For the first hour, it’s the usual routine. You circulate when prompted. Introductions melt together. You provide quiet reminders of names and departments under your breath when needed. He speaks numbers and strategy like it was silk. You watch the way he commands a group of men twice his age.

The part you had dreaded all day finally starts to surface.

A group of senior investors from an older firm corner him near one of the high tables. You recognize them as some of Wasuke Itadori’s first loyalists. You hover just behind Ryomen’s shoulder, present but unobtrusive as usual. One of them, an Italian man named Mr. Calder, looks you up and down in a way that makes your body stiffen.

“Well,” he drawls, swirling his drink, “Ryomen, you didn’t tell us you had upgraded your accessories.” The men around him chuckle. Ryomen doesn’t laugh at the ill mannered joke, but he doesn’t say anything to him either. The expression on his face was unreadable to you.

Calder’s gaze lingers on your neckline. Not at all subtly eyeing your cleavage, which you now wanted to cover. All that adjusting for you to be eaten up anyhow. “Smart move bringing her. Softens your image. Makes you look less… hostile.” You feel the words like a slimy film on your skin. You keep your face neutral. You’ve done this before.

Another man leans in slightly. “What’s your role, sweetheart? PR?” You open your mouth, ready with the rehearsed line.

Before you can speak, Ryomen answers. “She handles my operations.”

It should feel like he came to your defense, but it just doesn’t.

Calder smirks. “Must be exhausting. Keeping up with him all day.” His eyes slide back to you. “Bet you earn your paycheck.” He winks as if he knows something more. Laughter roars among the group again and something inside your chest tightens.

You wait. You wait for him to shut it down. To correct the tone. To say your name. To say anything that places you beside him instead of beneath his feet.

He simply doesn’t.

Instead, he pivots the conversation back to acquisition margins like the comment never happened. The men follow him easily like the greasy dogs they were. You stand there, heat creeping up your neck, the champagne turning sour in your mouth. It wasn’t the first time you’ve been meat on a stick, but it’s the first time you can feel exactly what they think you are in this room.

A prop. An accessory. A nice visual. A good fuck.

The rest of the evening blurs in your mind. You smile when expected, fetch updated numbers from your phone. You even endure when another guest asks if you “came with the merger package.” You laugh it off because that’s what you do. You can feel the void in your stomach nearly swallow you into the ground, unable to control the spiral you were slowly losing yourself to. You didn’t felt the tear roll down your face until it hit your chest, and thankfully no one saw as you chose to excuse yourself to the bathrooms. The marble counter is cold under your clammy and shaking palms. The mirror reflects a woman who looks expensive and composed and completely hollow behind the watery eyes.

You think about Yuuji’s proud and innocent grin earlier. Your two best friends getting engaged without you being able to be there. About eight motherfucking years of being an “indispensable asset” but never visible for anything more than being a pretty face to stare at. You think about the way Ryomen’s hand rested at your back like positioning furniture.

You don’t think he ever truly disappointed you until today and it hit you, cold and unrelenting. Your knees buckled as you slid onto the marble floor. Before you know it, you were silently sobbing with your head in your hands. Thankfully no one was around to witness your facade slip, especially not the men that made those degrading comments about you. You prided yourself in not letting think they got to you. Today it just felt like everything was crumbling. Years of invisible labor, of constant polishing and preemptive apologies, of running on autopilot to make men look good while fading yourself into the background. Eight years of your life spent making this corporation run while quietly eroding the parts of yourself you once held sacred. The scent of expensive perfume and champagne hung thick in the air, suffocating in its own way. You hated that it made you feel trapped, hated that it felt so damn inescapable. Your thoughts drifted, as they always did when exhaustion cracked the careful walls you built. Gojo’s words from this morning float in your mind.

“You deserve more.”

Satoru made the offhand offer a couple times over the years, joking but not entirely, about a position in his firm where merit meant something and you could be more than an overworked secretary. The memory burned through the fog of resignation like sunlight through rain. You straightened your shoulders, exhaled through a shaky nose, and let the logic seep in slowly, deliberately. The merger would definitely be stiff when you left to work with Gojo and Sons only to see Ryomen and the team again, but this time it would be across the table where you could be the one calling the shots. Not just the girl who brought them coffee and handled their dinner reservations.

You would go back out there. You would finish the night as expected, perform your duties for Ryomen like you promised. You would keep the smile and nod. But every step you took would carry a quiet weight of the seed of a plan forming in the dark spaces of your thoughts.

This was it. You wouldn’t let another comment from a man like Calder slide past without consequence. Because you were done with the treatment you’ve been subjected to.

You quickly pull a tissue from your tiny purse and damage control your makeup and blotchy face. Don’t look like you’ve been crying. Don’t let them see. As you stand up and collect your feelings up again, you adjust the hem of the dress and reposition your pendant.

When you step back into the ballroom the layered murmur of voices and clinking glassware grows and fills your ears once more. Nothing has changed, no one noticed you were gone. The world of elites moved on without interruption, just as it always did.

For a moment you stand near the entrance, letting your eyes adjust to the warm gold light again. The void in your stomach has settled into something steadier now. Contained.

You spot Ryomen almost immediately.

He’s standing with two board members near the far side of the room, posture straight as ever, one hand loosely around a glass he still hasn’t touched. He’s listening to one of them speak, expression carved into that familiar impassive line. Even from across the room, his presence pulls attention like gravity. He’s not looking at them at all, he’s scanning the room. Who is he looking for? It takes him less than a second to notice you when you start toward him. He steady gaze lingers longer than usual as you take your place beside him automatically, half a step behind and to the side.

“—projections for the third quarter are optimistic,” one of the men is saying. “Assuming the merger terms finalize on schedule.”

“They will,” Ryomen replies evenly, still staring at you.

The conversation wraps a few minutes later, and the two men drift away toward the bar.

Only then does Ryomen finally feel it right to speak with you.

His eyes move over your own, not in the analytical and leering way the other men’s had been, but in that precise, intentional manner. It’s unlike how he usually looks at you and you’re hyper aware of it. A large hand settles on your elbow as he steps close to your bubble.

“You were gone for a while,” he says.

“Long line at the bathrooms.”

A beat passes.

His sharp red eyes narrow slightly.

“You look tired.”

You manage a controlled smile. “Long day, Mr. Itadori.”

“Hm.” He doesn’t accept that answer, you can tell. Not at all. Ryomen doesn’t ask questions he doesn’t intend to follow through on, and right now he’s studying you with a quiet focus that feels far more invasive than Calder’s wandering eyes ever did.

“You’ve handled worse days,” he says.

The observation lands heavier than it should.

“I’m fine,” you reply more sharply than you intended. “Everything’s on schedule like you wanted.”

His jaw ticks slightly, like he’s the one bothered by your obligations.

“That isn’t what I said.”

You hold his gaze anyway. It takes effort not to look away from his deep red stare.

For a moment he says nothing, and the silence stretches in a way that makes you acutely aware of how close he’s standing, his deep breaths pushing on the sleek black tuxedo he was wearing.

Finally he exhales quietly through his nose.

“If you’re unwell,” he says softly, “you should have said something.”

The words are gentle, almost awkward, like he isn’t entirely sure how to phrase them. Concern isn’t quite the right word. But it’s closer than you expected.

“I’m not sick,” you murmur. “Just thinking.”

That seems to catch his attention more than anything else. His brows deepen into a frown.

“About what?”

The question comes out flat, but there’s real curiosity underneath it, the rare kind he doesn’t bother hiding.

You smooth your hands together, keeping your voice even as you flit your gaze between his eyes. “Work.”

A pause. Then, quieter:

“Well, I assume that’s where your head should be.”

And there it is. Nothing malicious in his statement but you already lost the fragment of realism you saw just now from Ryomen Itadori. Work first. Always. The confirmation lands strangely gently inside you, like the final piece sliding into place in a puzzle you’ve been avoiding.

You nod once, finally breaking the gaze to look at the bustling ballroom.

“Of course, sir.”

His eyes linger on you another moment, like he still isn’t convinced, but eventually he turns back toward the room as another guest approaches. Every minute that passes while you stand there providing quiet support like always, the heavy decision inside you settles deeper and deeper until it feels solid as bone.

The next morning, you step into the office without your usual large tote bag of necessities. You were actually dressed in your normal attire for once, not the work clothes you had routinely wore, earning more than a few stares from the men in the office. Naoya is the first to approach, predictably. He’s grinning before he even reaches you, eyes already dragging over your figure with open interest. Whatever comment he’s winding up to deliver never gets the chance to leave his mouth. You hold up a hand without breaking stride, palm out between you like a stop sign.

“In your fucking dreams, Zenin.”

The words are loud and sharp enough to land cleanly. He stops short, blinking in surprise before a laugh breaks out of him startled and amused. “Well, good morning to you too,” he calls after you, voice bright with entertainment.

You continue your beeline to Ryomen’s office with the stack of documents and the cleanly prepared letter in your arms. There was no turning back from this now.

You enter without your usual greeting. This has him looking up with confusion, and then doing a double take when seeing you dressed so casually. You barely take note of how he’s looking at you as your heels click around his desk, handing him the letter while still holding onto your papers.

“I quit, Mr. Itadori.”

He doesn’t speak, the silence stretching into something dense and unfamiliar. He pushes his chair hastily from his under desk and stares at the envelope like it might rearrange itself into something else if he waits long enough.

“What?”

You flick your fingers through the papers in your hands with a practiced impatience. It was mostly performance— but performance was half the job anyway.

“Repeat that for me?” The tone in his voice was more emotionally charged you’ve ever heard him speak to you.

A simple sigh leaves your lips before you can stop it. Your heels click away from his outstretched chair, not interested to see the incredulous look you knew he had on his face. You couldn’t indulge yourself that quickly.

“I said I quit, Mr. Itadori.”

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