Emi

You turned your nose up at the idea, scoffing under your breath. 

But for all your poise, all your prestige, there was only so much you could push back until the wedding planning came. Albeit, years later, but still. 

You picked up the wedding invitation in front of you with a frown, the edge pinched between your gloved fingers as you squinted at the cursive print. 

Other women would probably be more excited over their own engagement to the most eligible bachelor in a hundred-mile radius. Well, the whole country, really. The cream of the crop – and all yours. 

“This is the wrong shade of pearl,” you shook your head, dropping it back down on the table. 

Gojo was tempted to remind you that it was the same color you picked out last time. But that was what you wanted. An argument, another delay, some excuse to shove back the wedding date some more since each time you wanted a new sample, the wedding date had to be changed in order to accommodate it. Your fall wedding had already been shifted to the winter, and if with one more delay? It’d be spring again. 

“I’m sorry, my dove,” he purred, offering an apologetic smile and reaching across the table to grab your hand. You didn’t move. Just sat there stiff, let him hold it while your pretty scowl scrutinized him. “We already sent them out.” 

There was really nothing more fun than watching the faint twitch of your lips, how your jaw locked before you reminded yourself to release it. A constant battle to control your expressions in front of him. 

Sometimes though, he wondered what you were trying not to betray. 

Secret affection buried underneath your blunt exterior? That you enjoyed this back-and-forth as much as he did?

“Without my approval?” Your question was clipped, but not chilly. It was just as calculated as everything else about you.

“You approved it when the vendor showed us a month ago,” Gojo shrugged. He leaned back in his chair, one of those annoyingly stiff ones that was designed to look ornate, wood carved with a million details while the cushion could use more stuffing. Your parlor was full of stuff like that. Pretty, yes. But cold. Uncomfortable.  

Like you were trying to say you can look, but you have to get out. 

Gojo appreciated that. Appreciated that you knew you were above the visitors you might receive, the lords and ladies who attended your family’s parties that you entertained with your practiced manners and perfect smile. 

In a world of social climbers and scum that would stick to the soles of your shoe if they could, you were the star shining at the top of it. What his days and nights revolved around, his heart pumping just to hear your voice and imagine how warm your hand must be under that glove. 

It was improper, but he was dying to peel it off, to take his time to expose every inch of your skin and press a kiss to the back of it. Each finger too, if you’d let him, even your palm. He’d eat out of it you said to. 

“Are you upset with me?” He asked, innocently tilting his head to the side. 

“Why would I be upset with a dog when it barks?” You hummed, the pitch of it too high as you swallowed hard. It was your way of calling him an imbecile. 

Saying that you expected him to be stupid because you thought he was already. You didn’t say it as directly as you used to, no more muttered insults saying he was a moron, just sly ones that slipped out.

“Is it too much to be asked to be pet then?” He teased, grinning again at your stoic reaction. 

“That would not be proper,” you declined, but he watched you swallow hard and couldn't help but hope some small sliver of you had thought about it at least. 

“For my fiancée to touch her husband-to-be?” He pestered, but you just pushed your lips together. 

“You are not my husband yet,” you reminded him. 

And it seemed the most he would ever manage to get from you until then was a dance at whatever event your family forced you to attend. 

But your virtue, how hard you clung to it around him, how steadfast you were about saving your intimacy and affection for after marriage, it was admirable. You didn't entertain other men. Refused to dance with them and cited your engagement every time they tried. Declined drinks and invitations, stepping away if they tried to sneak by your side. 

Your love would be hard won. 

But Gojo refused to lose. 

“It will be dark soon,” you softly said, glancing towards the window. The sun was not going to set for another hour, but he’d rather leave on your good side than risk you being mad at him at the ball next weekend. 

He exhaled as he stood, smoothing out any wrinkles in his clothes, stretching his limbs out to drag out the moment as long as he could though. 

“I will be back to pick you up next Saturday,” Gojo informed you, not giving you any room to squeeze out of it. “Your dress should arrive here for you in a day or two.”

It was the only way to get you to match with him, despite your protests. He saw it coming now, the way your features pinched together. 

“I have other dresses I could-”

“It's already been custom-made for you,” he lightly scolded, walking around to your side of the table. “It would be rather rude to the designer if you didn't wear it.”

You hesitated, biting your lip before nodding. “Fine.”

That was his girl. 

You weren't doing it for your own reputation – but for someone else’s. 

“Good night,” he happily hummed, leaning down to leave a small kiss on your forehead while you sat still. 

Your face looked a little flushed when he pulled away though. 

“Get home safely,” you muttered. Your voice was strained, your stare shifting out the window so you didn't have to watch him leave. 

His footsteps echoed through the exquisitely-decorated halls on his way out, the rest of your family absent despite the fact their unmarried daughter was meeting with the man she was engaged to wed. 

Giving them space. 

Most other parents wouldn't have dared to do the same. But given both their – and most importantly, his – place in high society, he suspected they were trying to secure the marriage even if it meant the two of you having premarital sex beforehand. 

He wasn't the only one who'd taken notice of your reluctance to make it to the aisle. 

But he had a date now. A day set – and invitations set out to show it. It would be the main subject of the next society event, the two of you the center of conversation.

He walked out the front door to the pretty path down to where his carriage was waiting for him, blue eyes locking on something who shouldn't be there. 

Or someone, technically. 

Not that the man feeding his horses sugar cubes really counted as a person to be noted. He was unremarkable. Dark hair, dark eyes. Dressed in plain clothes. Not quite as tall as him. 

Just a peasant playing horse whisperer with one of his well-bred studs while his carriage driver was who-knows-where. 

Gojo cleared his throat. 

The man didn't jump, but just glanced over at him. He didn't offer any respects or stammered apologies. 

“Beautiful horses,” he complimented instead, his voice deep, filled with gravel. 

“Expensive ones,” Gojo huffed. 

“One would imagine so,” he replied, letting the lead horse lick another sugar cube off his palm. It pricked at Gojo, bothered him far more than it should, but he couldn't quite pinpoint why. 

“I don't appreciate you touching what's mine,” Gojo heard himself sneer. 

The stranger seemed to get the message. He slipped the rest of the sugar cubes in his pocket, heading down a branching path to the back of your house. 

Your stable boy, he supposed. 

Gojo automatically didn't like him. 

It was obvious he was the sort that didn't know his place. 

You'd have sympathy for someone like him. Scold Gojo for not falling all over himself to accommodate the poor man who’d spend the rest of his life looking after horses. 

He made a mental note to inquire with your parents about how well they instructed him that one of their servants would feel so comfortable as to handfeed his animals. 

But he immediately forgot when you sent a letter three days later informing him you would just meet him at the ball instead of allowing him to pick you up. 

He placed the floor, put his own paper on paper a hundred times, but he couldn't find the words to convince you otherwise when you punctuated your words so precisely. Signed your name with no affection. 

Had he done something to piss you off? Push you away? 

He deliberately arrived at the ball early, knowing you would be precisely on time. But that just meant he could start chatting up the other couples there, chirping away about the upcoming nuptials before you could come up with another delay. 

“She's lucky to have such a devoted fiancé,” Lady Manami clicked her tongue, throwing a disdainful look to her husband and his friend, who had not been all that interested in marrying her. 

Geto rolled his eyes at the woman on his arms, both of them unhappy in their match but confined to staying for the sake of having children, of cementing their stake in high society. 

“I’m lucky to have her,” Gojo grinned. 

The door opened, and your name was announced, his head swivelling to see your head fixed forward, held high as the skirt of your dress shimmered and shifted with your movement. It was just as pretty in person as he pictured it. A soft shade of blue that would match his eyes, one that went well with his suit. 

He was there to take your hand before anyone else had the chance to approach you. Bowing and bending to kiss it, counting the seconds until you were starting to slyly tug your arm back before he stood and escorted you back properly. 

He was about to compliment you, to praise how pretty you were, already leaning down to murmur in your ear, but you were turning your head up towards him first. 

“Happy now?” You quizzed, immediately looking back ahead as if you hadn't said it. 

“I'm always happy with you,” he murmured back, keeping his voice light, airy even if he was annoyed at your attitude. 

Wasn't he trying? Wasn't he doing everything he could to make this work? 

He understood your reservations. He didn't push. Let you delay and drag your feet within reason. Marriage meant you moving out of your family's home, being his wife before your own person, managing an estate. 

But that was what you were bred for. What your life had been built around – being his. 

It wasn't like he was some asshole who would mistreat you. You'd be spoiled, treasured, treated like the pretty trophy at the top of the pedestal, protected and worshipped. 

Why wouldn't you want that? 

He even spent the rest of the night acting like the gentleman he thought you wanted, keeping his hand in polite places, holding your drinks for you, not stepping on your toes during dances. Did he bring up the wedding planning whenever he had the opportunity? Maybe. But was it really so wrong to look forward to seeing you walk down the aisle? 

“I'm not feeling well,” you murmured, barely two hours in, wiping the back of your forehead. But there wasn't any sweat there. 

“What's wrong?” He frowned, eyes narrowing as you stepped back and shook your head. 

“I think I should return home,” you quietly replied. “My head is throbbing.” 

Gojo wanted to believe you. Truly. 

But when you let him walk you out the main entrance, allowed him to pull you close enough for an embrace where he could smell the perfume clinging to your skin? 

He couldn't convince himself what you said was true.  

So he did what any other puppy would do – follow its master. 

Gojo trailed you outside, the light of the moon casting long shadows across the thick shrubs and well-maintained greenery surrounding the path out front. You were in a hurry the second you thought you slipped out of sight from the rest of the party, holding up your skirts high enough he caught a glimpse of your ankle underneath as you rushed down the cobblestone to where your carriage was waiting. 

He lurked, lingered in the cover of the night, edging closer as your carriage driver held out his hand to help you in. 

The same man he thought belonged in your stables. 

Gojo froze, thankful for the darkness to disguise himself in while he watched your hand take his. Grabbing it to tug that peasant inside your carriage. 

Gojo felt the disgust lodge itself firmly in his throat as he moved closer, desperate to convince himself this was just some misunderstanding. A mistake the universe made instead of one you were making. 

“Choso,” You whispered another man’s name as if it was the only thing that anchored you. Low and soft, filled with something that sounded an awful lot like love. A pretty purr that should be reserved for him. 

“You look divine,” a gruff voice replied, and Gojo couldn’t help but wonder if he could even spell that. There was no way that man was educated. Could he even read? 

He could hear the rustle of clothes, soft thuds and light giggles as Gojo imagined those filthy hands touching your pristine skin. Dirtying it with heavy touches and calloused palms. 

“Show me how much you mean it,” you whispered back, and the excitement in your tone, the way it wavered and lilted, it gave him goosebumps. 

It should be him. 

But no, you were lowering yourself for a quick fuck in a carriage with a man who would never do more than driving it – rather than one who could buy you two hundred of them. Could your Choso even count that high? 

The groan he heard next had him clenching his fist, digging his nail into his palm so he didn’t rip the carriage door open and punch him for defiling his bride-to-be. The only reason he didn’t was because you might not forgive him. 

Just blame him for being the bad guy.

Besides, making a scene at your expense would only end up worse for him. You were supposed to be his wife. Not the laughingstock of society who had a secret affair with some stable boy three months before your wedding. 

You might be willing to throw away your future, but Gojo wasn't. 

The carriage creaked, the walls vibrating as your gorgeous moans escaped, albeit muffled by the sounds of sex and sacrilege. 

“How soon?” You hummed, your voice all airy as you sucked in breaths. 

Gojo couldn’t breathe. How soon until what? 

“Yuji’s getting over the flu. Give me two weeks,” Choso murmured back, and there was the sound of wet kisses, the lewd noise of something thrusting in-and-out. “Then we’ll go somewhere far away from here.” 

“Promise?” You pleaded, a whine that left his shoulders slumping, his heart stalling. 

“Promise.” 

You were trying to leave him. 

He couldn't let that happen. 

So he played dumb. Walked away and waited until your carriage rode off to go back to the party and pretend nothing happened. 

Went back to sleep in his soft bed and dreamt up ways to win you back, made and discarded a million plans before he settled on the same conclusion every time. 

He had to get rid of Choso.

Figuring out how was harder. 

He paid a private investigator, someone who knew how to keep his lips sealed – and sent him to look into your servant. He came back quickly, he might be the same age, but he’d spent half his life taking care of his younger siblings, scrounging for any coins he could to spend and save for them. He started working at your family’s estate last year – and had somehow wormed his way into your heart since then.

Gojo settled on sending a letter to the shack he called home, short and simple – but not shying away from the threat. Demanding a duel for your hand or face the fury of his family. And the shame that would slander your name until your parents would put iron bars on your windows and refuse to let you leave your home. 

If Choso cared at all, was even a fraction of devoted to you as he was, he’d be at the meeting place at the specified time. Gojo just didn’t know how to feel about it when he stepped into the clearing behind your house two days later and he was. 

“You’re late,” Choso called out, a pistol sheathed by his side, hanging on a loose belt. Gojo was surprised he even had one. Wondered what black market he must have bought it from. 

Typically, the person being challenged would be the one to choose the grounds and the weapons to be used, but Gojo had figured someone as poor as him wouldn’t be able to provide either. Gojo tossed the extra pistol he brought onto the grass, chuckling as Choso stared him down. 

“I was with my fiancé,” he taunted.

You were taken aback when he showed up, your hair hanging loose, no makeup dusting your features and a dress hastily tied up by your personal maid when you greeted him. But for the first time, there was a hint of guilt in your pulled-tight smile. Like you thought he was terrible but still felt bad for him. 

More tolerant of his teasing, more accepting of his jokes – appropriate or not – listening with a distracted expression, all dreamy and dazed as you nodded along. Still, you shooed him out the second the clock struck and reminded you that he’d stayed more than long enough to be considered polite.

Today was the first time he wasn’t really here for you though. 

He had a problem to take care of. 

“She’s not in love with you,” Choso spoke firmly, but it was soft, weak. 

It didn’t change anything. This had never really been about love. 

He had enough for both of you. He could live without it if it meant you’d still stay next to him – somewhere he could touch and hold. 

“I don’t really care,” Gojo admitted, shrugging his shoulders and slipping his own pistol out from where he’d been keeping it hidden. “She’s still mine.”

Choso was the one in the wrong. The one stealing what was rightfully his. 

“She’s not a thing you can claim,” Choso gritted his teeth, frown lines etched into his skin and tired circles under his eyes. 

“And yet you came to claim her,” Gojo retorted, reminding him that Choso was like him too. A man desperate to hold onto you by any means necessary. 

Gojo could admit it, at least. 

“That’s-” 

“Let’s just get this over with,” He interrupted Choso before he could reply. “When you lose, you leave. Disappear back wherever you came from and never speak to her again.” Choso scoffed, brown eyes squinting at him across the clearing. His mouth opened, but it took him a few seconds to reply, probably because his brain didn’t work quite as quickly as Gojo’s did. “Fine. Fifteen paces.” 

Gojo had never challenged anyone before, but he’d seen a few duels. Been shooting since he was old enough to join his father for hunts. Fifteen paces was nothing to shooting flying feathered birds or taking down wild deer. 

They followed the steps, his brain already considering where to aim – his shoulder maybe, or his arm. Enough to maim, but not to murder. Minimize how mad you’d be if you found out. 

Losing had never been a consideration. 

But when he turned, when his gun fired on the signal, the two seconds it took were marred by a sudden blinding pain. Burning radiating up his hand, his nerves screaming at him that something was wrong, wrong, wrong. 

Choso’s shot had hit. His didn’t. 

Above the knuckle on his left ring finger, where a gold band was supposed to be in a couple months, was nothing. Blood was already dripping down the rest of his hand, staining his clothes. The burning had twisted into a deep ache, a painful throbbing, one that forced him to put up his gun to pay attention to it. He held his finger, what was left of it, pressing down and putting pressure on the wound as he seethed and scrambled for some control. 

“You lost,” Choso deadpanned, dropping his pistol down by his side. “So let her go.”

No.

The dark eyes across from him were cold, cruel. Empty as they stared straight through him, jaw locked tight. But Gojo still saw it – the hint of pride in his twitching lips. 

Had you ever seen this side of him? 

“What do you think will happen?” Gojo snarled. “You run off with her and live happily ever after in some shack?” 

God, even the thought of you slumming it on a straw bed in some plain dress with a few brats that weren’t even your own crawling over you made him sick. Chasing after children in a village where there probably wasn’t even clean water to drink or wash your face with. 

“She’s used to being bathed with roses and imported bath salts. She has a personal maid. Do you even know how many servants her parents hired for her? What foods she’s used to eating? How much just a yard of fabric for her simplest dresses cost?” Gojo scoffed, each word an assault in itself. 

Choso’s somber face faltered. Fell. Brows pinching together just to droop. 

“How long until she comes running back to me?” He added. Maybe he was spoiled – but you were too. 

“She wouldn’t,” Choso shook his head. 

“Maybe not after everyone knows she ran off with a guy who shovels horse shit,” he snapped back. Gojo didn’t sound anything like himself. 

But Choso flinched. His resolve to keep you was crumbling with just a few sentences. 

He didn’t deserve you. Because if the positions were reversed, he would’ve burned the rest of the world to have your love – and this guy was just giving it away.

“What do you want?” Gojo scoffed. “Money? I could give you enough to take your brothers and get as far away from here as fucking possible. Enough to send them to private school. To get real jobs.” 

He wanted to roll his eyes when he saw the hesitation. The consideration on Choso’s face. 

Choosing gold coins before a future with you.

“How much?” 

Choso was gone in two days.  

He, however, spent an entire week shuttered up in his room, shivering and shaking as the best doctors in a hundred miles worked to keep infection out of his hand, cleaning and wrapping it and insisting he stay in bed while he healed. Fussed over how something like this could’ve happened while he was hunting. He claimed his gun was faulty. Made up a story about a misfire. 

But it didn’t matter. All the pain, the disfigurement, he’d do it again just to feel the relief when the investigator he had trail your former lover to his new home sent a letter back that Choso had made it there, little brothers-in-tow. 

He didn’t write to you. Made no attempt of contact. Just took his coins and called it quits. 

Hadn’t Gojo done you a favor? Saved you from the suffering being with a man whose love wasn’t pure would put you through? 

He wrote to you like a wet kitten, whining about his injury, seeking sympathy. But your reply was hardly a page long, wishing him to heal well. Only signed with your name. 

Almost three weeks passed before he heard from you again. 

A short invitation for tea – and a single sentence saying you hoped he was feeling better. 

He might’ve lost the duel, but you were the one wearing the defeat on your face when he walked through the door to your parlor. 

“Satoru,” you said his name like it was the last thing you had left. Your eyes were tinged red, sleepless circles underneath them, worry written in the lines of your face. “Hi, angel,” he greeted, getting on his knees to kiss the back of your hand. 

You were fidgeting. Glancing out the window every few seconds. Fingers curling, clutching at your skirt just to release it when you realized what you were doing. Your eyes darted over to him, and he didn’t say a word before standing and wrapping his arms around you. 

Pulling you in for a tight hug, letting you bury your face into his chest. He could feel the dampness through his shirt, quietly crying, holding your breath like you didn’t want him to know. 

“Can we move up the wedding?”

Of course. 

The whispers started when the new invitations were sent out. 

People wondering out loud if his hunting accident had anything to do with the new date. But they knew better than to say it to him. Well, almost all of them.

“So, what finger are you going to wear the ring on?” Manami bluntly asked at the next party the four of you were at. You, in a matching dress, hanging by his side, numbly staring at a spot on the wall while he did most of the talking. Him, with his hand still-bandaged up tight. 

“My right hand works fine,” Gojo casually replied, but there was a cold edge to it that he didn’t hide. Suguru hated his wife, so why should he pretend to like her?

“Shame it happened so close to the wedding,” she feigned sympathy, shrugging as Suguru slipped away from her to find a drink to drown himself in. Manami settled her sights on you, face scrunched in a stuck-up pout. “I mean, I probably would’ve pushed it back if I were you. But I guess sooner is better when you’ll be sizing u-” 

“Well, isn’t it wonderful you’re not me?” You blinked, cutting her off before she could hurl another insult at you. 

She made a shrill noise, some annoyed scoff that drew attention from the closest lords and ladies trying to listen in. Manami turned on her heels, heading off in the direction Suguru went. 

But Gojo was replaying her last sentence. 

He knew what she was trying to imply. That you were running to the altar because you were pregnant. That he knocked you up and now you were both just saving face. 

Gojo wanted to deny it.

To call it absurd. 

But he’d be lying if he said the thought hadn’t crossed his mind when you started handling all the details of wedding planning, pushing for vendors and moving up all the arrangements on your own when you’d been dragging your feet and dodging every single question he asked about it. 

And after a life spent studying you at any given opportunity, the signs stood out. When he came over early one afternoon to catch you trying to squeeze into a wedding dress that had been using your measurements from six months ago just for it to fit tighter than it should.  

But he didn’t know until he heard you throwing up in the bathroom down the hall the morning of the wedding at his estate after he went to check on you. Heard your choked-up coughs and sniffles and the faint sound of crying. 

Still, an hour later, he stood at the end of the aisle, straight-faced and waiting for you to walk down the petal-lined walkway. 

No one else had to know. 

When you walked down, still perfect, still the prettiest girl he’d ever seen in your white dress, he cried too. Slipping the ring on your finger and saying vows he’d meant even now, to love you through sickness and health and everything in between, dipping you down to kiss you despite his suspicion that it was really three of you up there. 

Maybe he was missing a finger. Maybe you were pregnant.

But those were just details. Tiny details that didn’t matter. Couldn’t matter. 

Because you were his wife. 

The rest of the reception was a blur, dancing with you, dragging his thumb over your lips after you pretended to drink wine, not even damp. But he still popped it back in his own mouth, like he could taste it anyway. Kissed you again with no shame, ignoring guests and insisting on feeding you cake with his fork. 

“I’m stuffed,” you complained, trying to pull his hand down. There weren’t bandages on it anymore, but what was left of his finger still felt ugly, like it belonged to someone else. Not him. 

“Ready to retire then?” He hummed, tilting his head to the side. Teasing a different question his brain had been lingering on. 

Consummation. 

You might not be a virgin. But he’d fuck you hard enough it felt like you were. Let his touch wash away any other set of hands that defiled or deflowered you. 

Gojo felt the heat rise to his face, the color dusting his cheeks as your breath hitched in your throat, probably thinking what he was. “I suppose so.”

It might’ve been duty to you. That you had accepted this was just the role you’d been raised for, resigning yourself to filling it. But you still held your head high. Walked into his bedroom with your wedding dress brushing against the floor as if you had never dreamed of anything else.

You stood straight as his fingers worked to unlace your corset, to loosen it up. Your maid had moved in with you, and you had offered to call for her to help get you undressed.

But he wanted to do it. Wanted to feel capable of taking care of you. 

You didn’t need anyone else. 

Gojo just had to help you see that. 

The dress fell in a heap to the floor – but there were still other undergarments, ones he carefully stripped you free of until you were standing naked in his room. He imagined this moment a million times. What you might look like, the curves and lines he’d die just to trace, how soft your skin might feel, how warm. And nothing could compare to the real thing.

It was funny, Choso was the last thing he wanted to think of here, but he couldn’t help but briefly consider what a moron he’d been to walk away when he had a taste of this. 

“I’ve dreamed of this,” Gojo breathed, and for the first time, he felt what it was like to be the one to make you blush. 

“You can never be serious, can you?” You lightly scolded, your voice tight as you stood there, arms folding across your chest to cover your breasts. Your stomach had yet to swell, no tell-tale bump or anything to betray what you’d done before him. 

He wanted to lie to himself. Blame all the other signs on you being distraught, devastated that the man you tried to leave him for had left you first. 

But it was harder to forget the sound of you moaning when he was hearing it again fifteen minutes later. 

When you spread your legs for him before he’d even fully laid you down on his silk sheets, your hair splayed out and head propped up on one of his pillows. Soft thighs pliant for him as his palms traveled up them.

“I may not bleed,” you warned him, your lip twitching as you lied right as his mouth trailed kisses up the inside of your leg. “The doctor said my hymen broke from horseback riding as a teenager.” 

“I trust you,” he murmured back, just to feel your muscles tense. 

“You’ve never really known me,” you incredulously started to argue, a bad habit you hadn’t broken, but your protest died when he kissed your clit next. He wasn’t well-versed in women’s anatomy – but he’d stolen a few of his mother’s illicit romance books to get an idea of how to pleasure a lady like you over the years. Planned what he’d do once he had you in his palm. 

“I’m the only one that ever has,” he teased back, wrapping his lips back around your sensitive bud, sucking softly before rolling his tongue over it.

It was harder for you to talk back when he pushed two fingers (from his right hand) inside your pretty pussy next. Felt you squeeze around them, try to suck them in deeper. 

“S-Satoru,” you stammered his name, and it was immediately seared into his head. “You don’t have to-”

“Worship my wife?” He wryly laughed into your skin, feeling you shudder around him as he thrusted his thick fingers in deeper. 

Choso clearly had never fucked you well enough, because it only took five minutes to turn you into a shivering mess, squirming and sweating as your body tensed and jolted each time he curled his fingers or lapped at your clit, finding a steady rhythm and dragging it out.

“I-I can’t,” you whined. Even your whimper had him rock-hard, rutting against the bed to soothe the ache in his pants. “S’too-”

“That’s it, pretty,” he purred, coaxing you to cum. 

You had never been as pure as he thought you were, but you were even more perfect than he could ever imagine. Glossy eyes all glazed over, lips parted when you finished for the first time. It wouldn’t be the last tonight. 

He practically ripped his own clothing getting it off, leaving it in a pile on the floor before climbing back on top of you, guiding your hands to cling onto his shoulder blades as he nudged his leaking tip by your entrance. 

Gojo groaned the second the first couple of inches slipped in. Grinded his molars and gripped onto his self-restraint until he was choking on it, taking his time to sink into your heat. To stretch you out as he brushed your hair from your face and kissed your lips as if they were the secret to everything he’d been searching for.

You kissed him back. Soft. Slow. Scared. 

Like you weren’t sure if it was right. But you didn’t spill your secret. Just dug your nails into his shoulder blade and tethered your fingers in his silky white locks to tug on when he pulled back out only to thrust all the way back in. 

Gojo tried to be sweet. To be a sensitive lover. Caressed your cheek and left a long line of kisses from your mouth down to your chest, purring promises as he fucked into you in fast thrusts. Toyed with your swollen clit and tried his hardest to hold off on filling you up with cum until he knew you’d finished a second time. 

It was a little clumsier than he intended. A little sloppier. 

Fucking his cum back inside you until his cock went soft again, collapsing on top of your body, his chest slick with sweat as he held onto you. Staying like that until you both fell asleep. 

That was what marriage should be. 

Connection. Intimacy. Knowing you inside and out. 

In the morning, he woke up to you getting dressed, insisting on some menial task or chore that you needed to do. Thank-you letters or organizing a society event for socialities and merchants that only wanted to make money off of you. 

But you spent every night in his bed. Having sex or just sleeping, it didn’t really matter to him as long as his hands were on you. As long as you were never more than six inches away. 

And three months later, you were showing. 

“I’m pregnant,” you muttered over breakfast, spoon halfway from your bowl to your mouth, waiting for him to say something as he sipped his juice. 

“I know.” 

You never said it was his. 

And Gojo never asked. 

Some slim part of him hoped. But the logical side of him knew better. 

The whispers turned into talking after you went into labor early. 

An entire month before you should’ve – just to deliver a healthy-sized baby. One with dark hair and dark eyes. But the rumors that spread were wrong anyway, claiming you slept with Suguru before the wedding. It didn’t help that Manami hadn’t given him any children yet, or that Suguru came over nearly every weekend for parties or hunting or just to get away from his wife. 

But Satoru just smiled, carried around him as if it was his own, because the baby was his. You both were. He was half-you anyway. He shut down anyone who tried to say otherwise. Fired any member of his staff that dared to insinuate you were a whore or slept around before the marriage. Made up an imaginary aunt that your son just happened to look like, insisting on the lies until they started to sound real. 

Everyone was too terrified to try to say otherwise.

You softened after you had him. Stopped arguing. Stopped calling him spoiled or selfish. No longer stared at the ceiling like you were waiting for the world to crumble and fall on top of you.  You looked at him with something he told himself was adoration when you watched him dress your son up and spoonfeed him. As he helped teach him how to walk and sang to him on his birthday. 

“Toru,” you murmured, staring at your reflection in the mirror so you didn’t have to meet his eyes. He’d just put him to sleep in his crib in the adjoining room, although he was almost too big for it now – would need something new soon.

“Yeah, sweetheart?” He hummed, coming up behind you to rest his head on your shoulder. Glancing down at the ring on your finger, the gleam of white gold and the glittering diamond, before looking back to your face. He saw it there. The hesitation, the confession on your tongue ready to roll off. 

“He’s-” 

“Our boy is growing up, hm?” He interrupted before you could do it. Before you could crush the illusion of the perfect marriage he’d spent so long crafting. This worked better when you felt bad about it. 

Gojo didn’t need the confirmation he was Choso’s. He just wanted you to give him one of his own.

“Yeab,” you breathed.

“Perhaps it’s time for another one?” 

The next baby looked like him. A gorgeous chubby-cheeked girl with white hair and bright blue eyes. Something about the way her small fingers wrapped around his, and how she looked nestled against your chest had him craving a third. And you gave him that too. A son with white hair, but your eyes. 

He had tuned out most of the rumor mill. Proudly showed off all three of his children and his pretty wife by his side. You were too busy chasing after them, too busy being his for your mind to ever wonder now. Not when he fucked the thoughts back out of them once he got you back in his bed at night. 

Gojo got everything he ever wanted.

Treasured each second of it. Trained you to forget about those silly notions of a life where you didn’t belong to with him. 

Years slipped by. The kids grew older. Traded teething toys for wooden trains for trinkets. But over time, you slowly started to fall for him. To appreciate and respect his protectiveness instead of recoiling from it. Reaching out and rolling over to curl next to him in bed. Pressing kisses to his cheek and smiling at him when he paid you compliments. 

Your love wasn’t as intense as his. Didn’t consume and cling for more. But it was there.

And that was all he ever wanted.

But not everything stays buried. All it took was a Tuesday. Coming home from a trip to the market to pick up your eldest’s favorite snack food just to find an unfamiliar carriage by the gates. 

A stranger was sitting in your parlor room, across from you and your son, but the mood was far from somber, none of you smiling as he stepped foot in the room.

“Who’s this?” Gojo chirped, striding over to plop a hand down on his son’s shoulder, the ends of his dark hair now reaching his fingers, faintly tickling them. 

The man was more like a boy, barely of age, if he had to guess. Well-dressed though, broad like he’d been raised on steaks instead of scraps. Pale pink hair and innocent features all screwed up in disbelief, pointedly staring at the boy that was technically his nephew. 

“This is Yuji,” you answered, but your voice was strained, tight. “His brother used to work in my family’s stables.” 

“Oh,” Gojo said, forcing a smile.

“He passed away two months ago. Influenza,” Yuji added, and the pain pinching his brows together was obvious, but the only emotion racing through Gojo’s veins was relief. “He asked me to deliver something.” 

That was short-lived. 

Because in your hand was an open letter, one with handwriting he didn’t need to recognize. Gojo looked at your face and only found betrayal there, disdain.

“They moved before we were wed,” you coldly said. “But I suppose you knew that already.” 

“That was a long time ago,” Gojo shrugged, feigning innocence.

You wanted to scoff. To scream. 

But you held it in. 

“Yuji, I’m happy to see your doing well, but I think you should go,” you spoke slowly, choosing your words carefully. “C-can I ask something?” He blinked, still looking at your son. Like he had connected the dots, figured out who his real father was. 

“My wife requested you leave,” Gojo stopped him before he could. 

Yuji listened – even if he looked like a kicked puppy dog walking back out to his waiting carriage. You waited for your son to return to his room before you turned to Satoru with that sharp fury he’d fallen for back when he was a kid.

“You paid him to leave me,” you accused. Correctly. 

“Was I supposed to let you destroy our life?” He hummed, raising a brow and settling a hand on his hip. Besides, wasn’t losing a finger penance enough? Punishment for not paying enough attention that you’d gotten such a silly idea in your head in the first place? 

“My life,” you tried to sound strong, but he saw the way you were already shaking. 

What was the point in fighting when Choso was already dead?

Gojo outlived him. All you had was him now. All you ever had was him. 

“He chose to leave,” Gojo reminded you. “I didn’t force him to do anything.” 

Choso had won the duel after all. He just put his brothers before you. Although, he supposed his decision might have been different if he knew he knocked you up.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” You demanded, but he was already mentally wagering how long you’d hold onto the anger.

“You didn’t tell me whose he was.” Gojo twisted it back around, fixing the blame on you instead. 

“You knew before I had him,” you flinched as you realized it, like you couldn’t face the truth in front of you. 

“Of course,” he retorted. “I just never cared.” 

“Why?” You whispered.

Choso was never going to be more than your past. Gojo was always going to be your future. 

“Because you’re mine.” 

AN: (show some love, reblog and comments are appreciated) This request by this anon who made me think that this could be a hit! Writing this made me feel so much better—there is something so healing about exploring a love that doesn't just survive a tragedy, but starts over because of it.It’s about the soft textures of devotion—the way a person can become your home even when your mind has forgotten the address.

I think we often focus on the spark of meeting for the first time, but there is something so much more profound about the second first time. I hope reading this makes you feel as grounded and comforted as I felt while writing it. Thank you in advance for choosing this story to read nd thank you anon baby🤍🤍 (hope ive done justice to your request) and thank you for going on this journey with Jungkook and me! 🤍!! Also requests are open but please be patient with me 🫶🏼 also i found the pics from a moodboard but i dont really remember the account name!! Pls forgive me but if you see the images! Reach me 💐

The world was a blur of sterile white and the rhythmic, mocking hiss-click of a ventilator.

You existed in a heavy, velvet darkness for a long time. There was no time there, only a distant, low humming. But then, a voice began to pull you toward the surface. It was a beautiful voice—deep, melodic, and thick with a kind of desperate tenderness. It was the only thing that felt solid in the void.

“I found that book you wanted,” the voice whispered, the vibration of it warming the back of your hand. “ The one with the pressed flowers on the cover. I’m going to read it to you today, love. Just like I did yesterday. I’m not going anywhere.”

Your eyelids felt like they were weighted with lead. You fought the gravity of sleep, pushing through the fog until, finally, the world cracked open.

Light flooded in—harsh, clinical, and blinding. You groaned, the sound catching in your dry, scorched throat. Immediately, the room shifted. The shadow beside you moved with a sudden, frantic energy.

"Hey... hey, look at me," the voice said, closer now.

As your vision cleared, a face came into focus. He was breathtakingly handsome, but he looked like a man who had been hollowed out by grief. His eyes were rimmed with red, his skin pale under the harsh fluorescent lights. He was clutching your hand so tightly, his knuckles white, as if his grip alone was the only thing keeping you on this earth.

For a moment, he didn't speak. He just stared at you, his chest heaving, a single tear escaping and tracing a path through the exhaustion on his face.

"You're back," he breathes, a broken laugh escaping his lips. "God, you're back. I’ve got you, baby. I’ve got you."

He leaned in, his forehead almost touching yours. You could smell him—a faint, comforting scent of sandalwood and something like rain—but it triggered nothing. You looked into his dark, shimmering eyes, searching for a spark of recognition, a flicker of a name, a memory of a kiss.

There was nothing. Your mind was a vast, empty hallway.

You felt a surge of cold panic. You instinctively pulled your hand out of his. The movement was sharp, a rejection that echoed in the quiet room.

"Who..." Your voice was a ghost of a sound. "Who are you?"

The man froze. The relief that was radiating off him turned into something else—something jagged and cruel. It was as if you’d reached into his chest and physically squeezed his heart. You saw the exact second the light in his eyes shattered into a million pieces.

He didn't move. He stayed bent over the bed, his hand still hovering in the air where yours used to be. The silence stretched, agonizingly long, filled only by the steady, indifferent beep of the heart monitor.

"It's me," he whispered, his voice trembling so hard it barely carried. "It's... it's Jungkook."

You searched your brain, desperate to find him there. Jungkook. The name was beautiful, but it sounded like a word from a language you’d never learned.

"I'm sorry," you whispered, tears of frustration beginning to prick your eyes. "I don't... I don't know a Jungkook. Am I supposed to know you?"

You saw him swallow hard, his Adam's apple bobbing. He closed his eyes for a long moment, and you saw his jaw tighten as he forced the pain down, burying it somewhere deep where you couldn’t see it. When he opened his eyes again, the raw agony was gone, replaced by a wall of terrifying, beautiful strength.

He forced a small, soft smile onto his face. It was the saddest smile you’d ever seen.

"It’s okay, love," he said, his voice settling into a low, soothing hum. He gently reached for the edge of your blanket, tucking it around your shoulders with practiced, shaking hands. "You’ve been asleep for a long time. Your brain is just tired. Don't push it."

"But why are you here?" you asked, your lip trembling. "Why are you crying?"

He reached out, his thumb hovering just a fraction of an inch from your cheek, making sure not to touch you until he saw you didn't flinch. When he finally brushed away a stray tear, his touch was as light as a butterfly’s wing.

"I'm just happy you're awake, baby," he said softly. He didn't mention the years of your life you've forgotten. He didn't mention the apartment you share or the promises he made you. He just let out a long, shaky breath and sat back down in the hard plastic chair.

He looked at you with a love so intense it felt like a physical weight in the room—a love that didn't ask for anything in return, not even a memory.

"I'm just a friend," he lied, his voice steady even though his heart was screaming. "And I’m going to stay right here until you aren't scared anymore. Is that okay?"

You looked at the stranger named Jungkook. You didn't know him, but as he picked up the book with the pressed flowers and began to read in that velvet voice, the panic in your chest began to fade.

He was a stranger, but he was the only thing that felt like peace.

…

The hospital room was a world built of glass and silence. The sun would crawl across the white floor, measuring the hours you spent staring at the ceiling, trying to find a single thread of a memory to hold onto. Everything was blank. Every corner of your mind was a room with the lights turned off.

And in the corner of that world, there was always Jungkook.

He was there when the nurses came in at 4:00 AM to check your vitals. He was there when the midday sun turned the room into a furnace. He was there when the shadows grew long and the fear of the dark started to creep into your chest. He never asked you for anything. He never asked, “Do you remember this?” or “Does this look familiar?”

He simply existed alongside you, like a guardian of a history you no longer owned.

One afternoon, the silence felt particularly heavy. You watched him from the bed. He was sitting by the window, peeling an orange for you. His movements were slow and methodical. He took great care to remove every bit of the white pith, his long, tattooed fingers working with a gentleness that seemed at odds with his strong frame.

“You’re doing it again,” you whispered. Your voice was getting stronger, less like parchment and more like a melody.

Jungkook looked up, a small, guarded smile touching his lips. “Doing what, love?”

“Staring at me when you think I’m not looking,” you said. You weren't angry; you were curious. The way he looked at you was unlike anything you’d ever experienced. It wasn't just attraction; it was a look of profound, soul-deep recognition. It made you feel seen, even when you felt like a ghost.

Jungkook’s hands paused. He looked down at the orange, his thumb tracing the curve of orange . “I’m just making sure you’re still here,” he admitted, his voice dropping into that low, velvet register that made the air in the room feel warmer. “Sometimes I still think I’m dreaming you’re awake.”

The honesty in his voice was a physical weight. You felt a pang of guilt in your chest—a sharp, cold needle. “It must be hard,” you said softly. “To be the only one who remembers.”

Jungkook finally looked at you. His eyes were dark, swirling with an emotion so intense it made you want to look away, yet so comforting you couldn't. He set the plate of oranges on your bedside table and leaned back, giving you the space he knew you needed to feel safe.

“It’s not hard to love you,” he said, and the simplicity of the statement was devastating. “Whether you remember me or not doesn’t change who you are to me. You are still the person who likes the window open just a crack, even when it’s freezing. You’re still the person who hums when they’re thinking. I don't need you to remember the past to care about you in the present, baby.”

You reached out, your fingers hovering over the plate of oranges. “How do you do it? How are you so... strong?”

Jungkook let out a dry, breathy laugh. He ran a hand through his messy hair, looking exhausted but strangely peaceful. “I’m not strong. I’m just yours. That’s the only thing that didn’t get lost in the accident.”

He stood up then, sensing the conversation was getting too heavy for you. He walked over to a bag he had brought from home—your home. He pulled out a soft, oversized hoodie. It was a faded navy blue, the fabric worn thin in places.

“I brought this,” he said, holding it out but not moving closer until you nodded. “It’s yours. I thought... the hospital gowns are a bit cold.”

You took the hoodie from him. As soon as the fabric touched your skin, a shiver went down your spine. It smelled exactly like him—sandalwood, rain, and a faint hint of laundry detergent. You pulled it over your head, and for a second, the darkness of the fabric felt like a hug. It was the first time since waking up that you didn't feel like you were shivering.

“It smells like home,” you whispered from inside the collar.

You didn't see it, but Jungkook had to turn away for a moment. He bit his lip, his eyes stinging. Hearing you call his scent home while you didn't even know his last name was a beautiful kind of torture. He took a deep, shaky breath, composed himself, and turned back with that same patient, steady expression.

“It does,” he agreed softly.

He spent the next hour showing you things he had brought—not photos of the two of you, because he didn't want to overwhelm you with the ghosts of who you used to be. Instead, he brought small, sensory things. A smooth stone you’d picked up on a beach trip. A specific brand of lip balm you liked. A small, plush bunny that had sat on your nightstand.

He was rebuilding your world, piece by tiny piece, without demanding to be the center of it.

As the sun began to set, painting the room in shades of violet and bruised orange, you felt a sudden wave of exhaustion. The doctors said the brain used a lot of energy trying to heal itself.

“Go to sleep, baby,” Jungkook murmured. He had moved his chair back to its usual spot. He picked up the book with the pressed flowers—the one he had been reading since the day you woke up.

“Will you stay?” you asked, your voice small and vulnerable in the growing shadows.

“Always,” he promised. “I’ll be right here when the sun comes up.”

You closed your eyes, listening to the steady, rhythmic sound of his voice. He wasn't reading a romance or a tragedy. He was reading a book about stars—about how they can be millions of miles apart, yet their light still finds a way to reach the earth.

As you drifted off, you realized that this was what one-sided love looked like when it was pure. It wasn't a burden. It wasn't a debt you had to pay back. It was a gift—a warm, steady light in the middle of a very long, very dark night.

You didn't remember loving him. But as his voice lulled you into a dreamless sleep, you realized that you were already starting to trust him. And maybe, in this new, blank world, trust was even more beautiful than memory.

Jungkook watched your breathing even out. He set the book down and finally let the mask of strength slip, just a little. He reached out, his hand trembling, and very lightly brushed his knuckles against the sleeve of the hoodie you were wearing—his hoodie.

"I'll wait for you," he whispered to the quiet room, a single tear finally falling. "As long as it takes. I'll win you over a thousand times if I have to."

He sat there in the dark, a silent sentry, loving a version of you that didn't know him, and finding it more than enough.

…

The silence of the room was different that night. It wasn't the heavy, medicinal silence of the ICU, but something softer, buffered by the navy hoodie that felt like a warm cocoon around you. You watched Jungkook as he adjusted the small lamp by his chair. The golden light caught the sharp line of his jaw and the softness of his eyes, making him look like a painting of devotion.

You shifted in the bed, the sheets rustling. "Jungkook?"

He was alert in a heartbeat, leaning forward, his hands resting on his knees. "I'm here, love. You okay? Do you need some water?"

"I want to know," you whispered, looking down at your hands. "About us. Not the big things... just, how did it start? I want to know who I was to you."

Jungkook took a slow, grounding breath. You saw his fingers twitch, a silent battle between his urge to reach for you and his promise to give you space. He stayed in his chair, his voice dropping into that low, comforting hum that seemed to steady the very air in the room.

"We weren't kids when we met," he started, a small, genuine smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "I think that’s why it felt so solid. We were adults who already knew the world was a messy place, but then we found each other, and suddenly the mess didn't matter as much."

He leaned back, his eyes looking past you, as if he were watching a movie only he could see.

"It was about two years ago," he murmured. "I was just a guy trying to find his footing, and you were... you were everything. You had this way of walking into a room like you belonged there, but you were so quiet about it. We spent months just being near each other. Coffee shops, long walks where we didn't say much because the silence was enough. I fell in love with the way you listened—not just to words, but to the things people didn't say."

You listened, your heart thumping a soft, steady rhythm against your ribs. It didn't feel like a lecture or a history lesson. It felt like a bedtime story.

"I was terrified to tell you," he laughed softly, a boyish sound that made your chest ache. "I practiced what to say for weeks. Then, one night, we were just standing under a streetlamp, waiting for the rain to stop. I didn't have a grand speech. I just looked at you and realized I didn't want to spend a single hour of my life without you. I told you that I loved you right there, in the middle of the sidewalk, with the smell of wet pavement all around us. You didn't say anything at first... you just stepped into my space and rested your head on my chest. That was your answer."

You found yourself leaning toward him, mesmerized by the way he spoke. There was no pressure in his words, no demand for you to remember that streetlamp or that rain. He was just sharing a beautiful memory of two people you happened to be.

"And then?" you prompted softly.

Jungkook’s expression softened even further, a delicate tenderness washing over his features. He reached out, hesitating for a fraction of a second before gently resting his hand on the mattress near your hip—close enough to offer warmth, but far enough to let you pull away.

"We decided we didn't want to wait," he whispered. "Life felt too short to spend it apart. So, about a month ago... we made it official. Just a small ceremony. Nothing loud. Just us, promising to be each other’s home."

He didn't use the word marriage as a heavy title. He didn't show you a ring or a certificate. He spoke of it as a quiet promise, a natural evolution of that night under the streetlamp. He kept it light, like a feather landing on water, so the weight of it wouldn't crush you.

"A month," you breathed, looking at him with wide eyes. "We were just starting."

"We are always just starting, baby," he corrected gently, his thumb tracing a slow circle on the bedsheet. "Every day is a new start. The accident... it was just a pause. It doesn't change the two years that came before it, and it doesn't change how I feel right now."

He looked at you then, and the sheer strength of his love was staggering. He wasn't mourning the wife he lost; he was completely, utterly devoted to the woman sitting in front of him. He was willing to be a stranger, a friend, a storyteller—whatever role made you feel safe.

"Are you sad?" you asked, your voice trembling. "That I'm not that girl right now?"

Jungkook moved his hand then, finally brave enough to let his fingers graze the back of yours. His skin was warm, and the contact sent a strange, soothing spark through you.

"I'm not sad," he whispered, his eyes locked on yours. "Because the girl I fell in love with is still right here. She’s in the way you tilt your head when you’re curious. She’s in the way you’re being so brave right now. I don't need your memory, love. I have your heart. And I’m perfectly happy winning it over all over again."

The sincerity in his voice was like a balm. The fear that had been tight in your stomach since you woke up finally began to loosen. You didn't remember the wedding or the confession in the rain, but you could feel the truth of his words in the way he looked at you.

He was a man who had been married for a month, yet he was treating you with the patience of a man who had all the time in the world.

"Tell me more," you whispered, sliding your hand just a little closer to his. "Tell me about the coffee shops."

Jungkook’s smile widened, a glimmer of pure joy breaking through his exhaustion. He didn't rush to grab your hand; he let your fingers settle against his at their own pace.

"Well," he started, his voice a low, beautiful tether to a world you were starting to want back. "There was this one place with the squeaky floorboards, and you always insisted on sitting in the chair that wobbled because you said it had 'character'..."

As he talked, the hospital room faded away. There was no trauma, no accident, and no amnesia. There was only Jungkook, his soft words, and the beautiful, one-sided love that was slowly, quietly, becoming a bridge back to yourself.

The nights were the hardest for him, though he never let you see it.

He waited until your breathing slowed and your eyes drifted shut before he allowed the armor of strong Jungkook to crack. He would sit in that same chair, the one he had practically lived in for a month, and let the silence of the hospital swallow him. He would look at the gold band on his own finger—a symbol of a promise that was only four weeks old when the world went dark—and he would breathe through the ache.

But the moment you stirred, the moment you let out a soft sigh in your sleep, he was back. He was the anchor. He was the peace.

A few days later, the doctors spoke about the transition. They talked about home as if it were a medical destination. To you, it was a terrifying concept—a place full of echoes you couldn't recognize. But to Jungkook, it was a place he had been meticulously preparing for your return.

"The discharge papers are signed," he said softly one morning. He was packing a small bag, folding your clothes with a precision that felt like a caress. "We can go whenever you're ready, love. No rush. If you want to stay one more night to feel safe, we stay."

You watched him, your fingers twisting the hem of the navy hoodie. "Will it be... will it be weird? If I don't know where the spoons are? Or which side of the bed is mine?"

Jungkook stopped what he was doing. He walked over to the side of the bed, sinking onto his heels so he was looking up at you, making himself smaller, less imposing. He reached out, and this time, he didn't hesitate to take your hand. His palm was warm, solid, and steady—a contrast to the trembling in your soul.

"It won't be weird, baby," he promised, his voice like a warm blanket. "Because it’s not a museum. It’s just a house. If you put the spoons in the wrong drawer, then that’s where the spoons live now. If you want to sleep on the left side, the right side, or right in the middle, it’s your bed. I’m not bringing you back to a life you have to 'match.' We’re going back to a place where you can just be."

The drive home was quiet. You watched the city blur past the window, the familiar streets feeling like a movie you’d seen once but couldn't quite recall the plot of. Beside you, Jungkook drove with one hand on the wheel and the other resting on the center console, palm up—an open invitation. He didn't look at you with expectation; he just let the soft hum of the radio fill the gaps.

When the car finally pulled into a quiet, tree-lined driveway, your heart did a nervous little dance. The house was beautiful—small, with a wide porch and windows that caught the late afternoon sun.

"We're here," he whispered.

He helped you out of the car as if you were made of starlight. He didn't carry you over the threshold—he knew that might be too much, too fast. Instead, he tucked your arm into his, letting you set the pace.

As the door swung open, the scent hit you first. It wasn't the smell of a hospital. It was the smell of cedar, vanilla, and a hint of fresh laundry. It was the smell of the man standing beside you.

"It's... it's beautiful," you murmured, stepping into the entryway.

The house was filled with soft details. There were plush rugs underfoot, a stack of books on the coffee table that looked well-loved, and a kitchen that felt lived-in and warm. On the walls, there were frames, but as you moved closer, you realized they weren't just wedding photos. There were sketches, dried flowers, and ticket stubs.

"I took down the big photos," Jungkook said from behind you, his voice low and a little shy. "I didn't want you to walk in and feel like you were looking at a stranger’s life. I kept the small things... the things that felt like 'us' before we were 'married.' I thought it might be easier."

You turned to look at him. He was standing by the door, the light from the hallway casting his shadow long across the floor. He looked so vulnerable in that moment—a man who had spent a month building a bridge for you to walk across, not knowing if you’d ever make it to the other side.

"Jungkook," you said softly.

"Yeah, love?"

"Thank you."

He just walked over, and for the first time since the accident, he let himself really hold you. It wasn't a demanding hug; it was a slow, cautious folding of his arms around your shoulders. He rested his chin on the top of your head, and you felt him let out a breath he seemed to have been holding for a lifetime.

"You don't have to thank me for loving you," he breathed into your hair. "It's the only thing I know how to do perfectly."

You leaned into him, closing your eyes. You didn't remember the day you bought this house. You didn't remember the day you moved in. But as you stood there in the quiet of your shared home, wrapped in the strength of his one-sided love, you realized that maybe memory wasn't the most important thing.

Maybe the most beautiful thing was the way he was willing to start the story from page one, every single day, just to make sure you never felt alone in the dark.

"Tell me about the kitchen," you whispered into his chest. "Tell me where we had our first breakfast."

He chuckled, the vibration of it soothing your tired mind. "Well, baby, you tried to make pancakes, and let's just say... we ended up ordering pizza at 9:00 AM."

As he led you toward the kitchen, his hand never leaving yours, the house stopped being a collection of walls and started feeling like a sanctuary. And for the first time, you felt like you were exactly where you were meant to be.

…

The days that followed were a gentle blur of soft light and quiet discovery. Because now, he almost worked from home, the house became a living, breathing map of your shared existence. You began to learn the rhythm of his life—not through old memories, but through the present moment.

You spent your mornings curled up in the oversized navy hoodie, sitting at the small desk in the corner of the living room. You would watch Jungkook out of the corner of your eye while he worked on his laptop. He was so focused, his brow furrowing slightly, his glasses perched on the bridge of his nose.

"Jungkook?" you’d whisper, breaking the comfortable silence.

"Yeah, love?" He would answer instantly, his attention shifting to you as if you were the only thing that mattered in the world.

"What are you doing now? Is that the... the edit for the final layout?"

He would smile, a soft, surprised look crossing his face. "Yeah, baby. How did you know?"

"I don't know," you’d murmur, looking back at your own screen. "It just... it felt like the right word."

Slowly, the blank spaces in your mind began to fill with the colors of the now. You learned that he took his coffee black, but he always made yours with exactly two splashes of cream. You learned that he hummed a specific, low melody when he was stressed, and without thinking, you would find yourself humming the next few notes before he even reached them.

It was in those tiny moments—the completing of a sentence, the knowing that he was about to reach for a glass of water before he did—that the trust truly took root. It wasn't a sudden flood of memories; it was a soul-deep realization that your tracks were aligned. You weren't a stranger learning about a man; you were a heart returning to its rhythm.

One evening, the rain was tapping a soft, rhythmic lullaby against the windowpanes. The house was warm, the air smelling of the vanilla candles Jungkook had lit to make the atmosphere soothing.

You were both sitting on the large, velvet sofa, a laptop resting between you as he explained a project he was working on. He was talking about a specific design choice, his hands moving animatedly as he spoke.

"I was thinking of making the border a bit more—"

"—muted, so the center stands out?" you finished for him.

Jungkook stopped. He turned his head slowly, his dark eyes wide and shimmering with a mixture of shock and pure, unfiltered hope. The silence stretched, but it wasn't heavy. It was electric.

"Yeah," he breathed, his voice barely a whisper. "Exactly that."

You looked at him, and for the first time, the fear was completely gone. You saw the man who had waited for you in a plastic chair for seventeen days. You saw the man who had lied and called himself just a friend so you wouldn't feel pressured. You saw the man who loved you so much that he was willing to let you forget him, as long as you were safe.

Driven by a sudden, fluttering courage, you leaned in. It wasn't a big, dramatic gesture. It was as soft and natural as a leaf falling onto a lake. You pressed a lingering, tender kiss to his cheek.

His skin was warm, smelling of home and sandalwood.

Jungkook froze. He looked like he was afraid to move, afraid that if he breathed, this moment would shatter. Then, very slowly, a smile broke across his face—the most beautiful, radiant smile you had ever seen. He didn't pull you into a frantic embrace; he just rested his forehead against yours, his eyes closing in a moment of pure, silent gratitude.

"That," he whispered, his voice thick with emotion, "was the best part of my day."

That night, for the first time, you didn't ask if he would stay in the chair. You didn't ask for the space you had once needed.

"Jungkook?" you said as you stood by the edge of the large, soft bed. "Can you... can you stay? Here?"

The look of sheer, humble joy on his face was enough to make your heart ache. "Are you sure, love? I don't want to rush you."

"I'm sure," you said, pulling back the duvet. "I want to be close to you."

The bed felt like a only home. He climbed in beside you, moving with a cautious grace. He stayed on his side at first, but you were the one who moved closer. You tucked your head into the crook of his neck, your arm draping over his chest.

He let out a long, shuddering sigh, his arm finally coming around you to pull you flush against his side. It wasn't a sexual touch; it was a protective, grounding cuddle. He was so warm, his heartbeat a steady, heavy drum against your ear.

"Is this okay, baby?" he murmured into your hair, his hand gently stroking your arm in a slow, hypnotic rhythm.

"It's perfect," you whispered.

As you drifted off to sleep, wrapped in the safety of his arms, the one-sided love finally felt like it was becoming a circle again. You didn't have all your memories back, but as he kissed the top of your head and whispered "goodnight, my life," you knew it didn't matter.

The mornings would be soft, and the nights would be quiet, and you would learn to love him all over again—one heartbeat at a time.

The weeks began to melt into one another, the initial fear of the unknown replaced by a magnetic, pull-your-breath-away kind of attraction.

The tension had been building for five weeks, a silent, mounting pressure that turned every shared meal and quiet work session into a test of endurance. Jungkook was a master of restraint, a man who had curated a world of softness to keep you from breaking. But as the days bled into one another, the stranger in your mind was being replaced by a magnetic force you could no longer ignore.

You began to notice the way his muscles shifted under his shirt when he reached for a glass, the way his scent—woodsmoke and clean skin—seemed to coat your lungs every time he walked past. You were no longer just curious about your past; you were starving for a future with the man standing in front of you.

The snap happened on a Tuesday afternoon.

The house was quiet, the only sound being the hum of the refrigerator and the frantic clicking of Jungkook’s mouse. He was hunched over his desk, glasses sliding slightly down the bridge of his nose, completely absorbed in a layout. You stood behind him, pretending to look at the screen, but your eyes were tracing the sharp line of his jaw and the way his throat moved when he swallowed.

"You missed a spot," you whispered, leaning over his shoulder. You didn't realize how close you were until your chest brushed his back.

Jungkook froze. He didn't turn around immediately; he just sat there, his breath hitching. "Where, love?"

"There," you murmured, reaching past him to point at the screen. As you did, your body pressed fully against his shoulder. The heat radiating off him was staggering.

He spun his chair around so fast you didn't have time to move. Your legs tangled with his, and as you stumbled, his large hands shot out to catch you. He gripped your waist, his fingers digging into the soft flesh of your hips, and pulled you firmly between his spread knees.

The air in the room became thick, heavy with the weight of five weeks of unspoken hunger. His dark eyes searched yours, pupils blown wide, his breathing coming in shallow, jagged bursts.

"You're too close," he rasped, his voice a low, dangerous warning. "I'm trying to be good, baby. I'm trying so hard to give you the space you asked for."

"I don't want space anymore," you whispered.

Driven by an instinct that felt older than your memories, you leaned in. You watched his eyes drop to your mouth, his jaw tightening so hard a muscle jumped in his cheek. You reached out, your fingers curling into the hair at the nape of his neck, pulling him that final, agonizing inch.

The moment your lips touched his, the world tilted on its axis.

It wasn't just a kiss. It was an awakening. The second his mouth moved against yours—firm, hungry, and desperate—it was like a lightning bolt struck your mind. A sensory explosion tore through the amnesia. You didn't see a vision; you felt a truth. Your body recognized the exact pressure of his lips, the way his tongue swept against yours, the specific, guttural groan he made deep in his chest.

Your senses came screaming back to life. You remembered this taste. You remembered this heat. You weren't a girl kissing a stranger; you were a wife finally finding her way back to the man who owned her soul.

"Jungkook," you breathed into the kiss, your hands clutching his shoulders as the realization washed over you.

He felt the change in you. He felt the way your hesitation vanished, replaced by a raw, demanding fire. He let out a low growl and hoisted you up, seating you on the edge of the desk. His hands slid under your hoodie, his palms searing hot against your bare skin.

"God, I've missed you," he whispered against your lips, his voice dropping into a dark, velvet huskiness. "Do you have any idea what it’s been like? Watching you every day, wanting to pull you into my lap and remind you exactly who you belong to?"

He trailed his lips down to your ear, his teeth grazing the lobe just enough to make you gasp.

"I was so patient for you, love," he murmured, his breath hot and damp against your skin. "I sat in that chair and watched you sleep, aching to touch you. I let you look at me like a stranger while my heart was screaming. But you're not looking at me like a stranger now, are you?"

He bit softly at the junction of your neck and shoulder, his hands sliding further up your back, pulling you flush against him.

"Tell me you remember how this feels," he dark-talked, his voice a honeyed, sinful crawl. "Tell me you remember the way you used to arch your back when I kissed you right here. I want to hear you make those soft, broken sounds for me again. I want to remind you of every single thing we did in this house before the world went quiet."

His words were a beautiful torture, a soft-dirty melody that made your blood turn to liquid gold. He pulled back just enough to look you in the eyes, his expression fierce and possessive.

"I'm going to take my time with you, baby," he whispered, his thumb tracing your bottom lip. "I'm going to kiss every inch of you until your body remembers my name even if your mind doesn't. You're mine. You were mine then, and you're mine now. Are you going to let me show you?"

You couldn't find your voice, so you simply pulled his head back down to yours, your kiss being the only answer he needed. He swept you off the desk and into his arms, carrying you toward the bedroom with a steady, purposeful stride.

The amnesia was still there in the corners, but it didn't matter. As he laid you down on the bed and crawled over you, his eyes burning with a love that had survived the impossible, you knew the one-sided journey was over. You didn't need your past to know that this man was your future.

"Welcome home, my love," he whispered against your skin. "Now let me remind you why you fell in love with me the first time."

"You have to promise me you'll practice your airball spins every morning," Aang whispered directly into your navel, his voice full of a giddy excitement that made his ears twitch forward. "Your Uncle Sokka is going to try to teach you how to throw a boomerang, but don't listen to him, okay? Airbending is much faster, and you don't have to go chase after it when you miss. And when we visit the Western Air Temple, I am going to show you the exact spot where I used to hide Monk Gyatso’s favorite meditation beads. He never found them, not even once."

You let out a soft, exasperated sigh, your fingers tangling into the soft fabric of his tunic as you tried to nudge his shoulder away, your face twisting into a look of fond annoyance. "Aang, please. The baby cannot hear about your ancient temple pranks right now. They are trying to sleep, and so am I. If you keep vibrating my stomach with your storytelling, they are going to start kicking my bladder again, and I already had to get up three times an hour ago."

Aang let out a muffled, bubbling giggle against your skin, his shoulders shaking with an affectionate amusement that did absolutely nothing to help your aching torso. He shifted his head, looking up at you with a completely unrepentant grin that made him look exactly like the boy who had crashed a fire nation school party years ago. His eyes danced with absolute adoration, his gaze lingering on the flush of your cheeks before he turned his attention right back to your stomach, deliberately ignoring your protests.

"Do not listen to your mother," Aang cooed in a louder, more dramatic stage-whisper, his lips pressing firmly against the center of your bump so his words came out sounding comically distorted. "She is just jealous because we are already plotting our grand adventures. Tomorrow, we are going to learn how to bribe Appa with extra juicy moon-peaches so he flies us over the highest peaks before breakfast. It is a secret club, just the two of us."

You huffed, a genuine laugh breaking through your sleepy scowl as you used both of your hands to firmly push against the side of his face, attempting to slide his head completely off your body. "That is it, out of the bed. You are a terrible influence already, and they haven't even taken their first breath yet. Go sleep on the floor with Momo."

Aang didn't budge an inch, his powerful core keeping him anchored exactly where he was as he easily resisted your weak, exhausted shoving. Instead of retreating, his eyes flashed with pure mischief, his lips pulling back to reveal a wide, teasing smile that warned you exactly what was coming next. He took a sudden, deep breath, his chest expanding against your thigh before he lunged forward, attacking the entire surface of your large bump with a relentless barrage of loud, exaggerated kisses.

The room filled with the obnoxious, wet sound of his lips smacking repeatedly against your skin, each kiss accompanied by a dramatic, slurping noise that echoed loudly off the stone walls. He started from the very top of your stomach, moving in a frantic, circular pattern down to the sides, his face completely buried in your warmth as he made ridiculous, motorboat noises against your flesh. The sudden, ticklish sensation made your entire body convulse, your hands instantly flying up to cup your own mouth to stifle the loud, breathless shrieks of laughter that burst from your throat.

"Aang! Stop! It tickles so bad, please!" you wailed, your toes curling under the sheets as you tried to twist your hips away from his relentless assault, your face turning a deep, vibrant shade of pink. Your eyes were watering from the sheer force of your giggles, your previous exhaustion completely forgotten in the wake of his chaotic affection.

"Never!" Aang shouted between kisses, pulling back for a fraction of a second to reveal a face covered in a wide, triumphant grin, his cheeks flushed and his eyes shining with an immense, dizzying happiness. "This is an ancient Air Nomad ritual for proper development! I cannot stop now, the balance of the world depends on it!"

He dove right back down, landing a remarkably loud, wet pop right on the very center of your stomach, his hands moving to gently squeeze your hips to keep you from squirming away. You lay back against the pillows, your chest heaving as your laughter finally began to die down into soft, breathless chuckles, your hands moving down to rest over the back of his neck. Your fingers stroked the smooth skin of his head, your thumb tracing the edge of his blue arrow as a overwhelming wave of love washed over you, completely replacing any lingering annoyance.

Watching him hover over your unborn child with so much unbridled joy made your heart ache with a sweetness that felt almost too heavy to contain. 

He was going to be an incredible father, a man who possessed the wisdom of a thousand lifetimes but still retained the capacity to turn a bedroom into a playground of pure light. 

Aang finally stopped his assault, resting his chin on the apex of your stomach once more, his breathing shallow as he looked up at you with an expression of such unconditional devotion that it brought a fresh sheen of tears to your eyes.

"I love you both so much," he whispered softly, his hand sliding up to cover yours, his fingers interlocking with yours over the warm, pulsing life you had created together. "I can't wait to meet them."

“Whatcha doing over there mama,” he asks, looking you up and down in your pastel yellow sundress, unashamed as he checks out his wife.

You walk closer, a wicker basket full of ripe apples in hand, wiping a stray tear away with the back of your hand before Megumi could catch a glimpse of it. His hand slides past your waist, resting at the dip in your lower back, holding you close to the two of them.

“I picked this apple just for you mommy,” Megumi says, presenting the apple he chose.

“Why don’t we find out how good it really is, huh Gumi,” you say, taking the apple from him and bringing it up to your mouth.

You take a big bite, mouth flooding with the sweet taste of juice, savoring the freshness of the simple fruit. Before you can finish your bite, Toji places a soft kiss to your lips, licking away the mess, humming in satisfaction.

“Mmm, very sweet. Good job,” he agrees, bouncing Megumi up and down on his arm.

“Daddy, you have to actually taste it to know,” he says, rolling his eyes and huffing ever so slightly.

“Ugh, fine,” Toji replies, returning the attitude but when he turns to you, he’s smirking with content.

Toji takes a big bite, nodding his head, and restating the approval for Megumi’s choice in apples. Megumi watches the two of you, the brightest smiling pulling on his lips, one hand gripping his daddy’s shirt, the other planted firmly against your arm.

“You want a bite too, Gumi,” you ask, extending the apple towards him.

Placing your hand on his back, he takes the apple from your grasp and tries his hardest to take a big bite. You giggle softly, watching him enjoy his pick, memorizing this moment as the low summer sun casts his face in warm shadows while he’s wedged between the two of you.

“Mmm,” he hums, “so good mommy. Can I actually have this one instead?”

Toji bursts out in laughter, his fingers curling at your back to pull you closer towards him, and you can’t help but laugh harder too.

“Of course you can Gumi,” you say, placing a soft kiss on his chubby cheek, rubbing your hand up and down on his back.

Resting your head on Toji’s shoulder, you breathe in and out slowly, letting yourself enjoy the simplicity of your small family. He places a kiss on your hair, smelling all the familiar scents of you, before pulling away and plucking a baby pink flower from a tree.

He pushes your hair behind your ear, placing the flower there, and gives you a satisfied look.

“Don’t you think mama looks so pretty, huh Meg.”

Megumi’s eyes fall on you, the cutest smile spreading from cheek to cheek, his face bunching up in apple juice and baby fat.

“The prettiest mommy there is.”

This time, you can’t even care to stop your tears from falling.

“Are ya sure she has to do this today?”

“‘Tsumu, we’ve already done all the preparation. Let’s just let her try, hm?” 

He grumbles, but moves to his assigned location at the dining table, where your daughter is already sitting, swinging her legs in anticipation of her favorite Omurice lunch. 

You bring the plates of food over to the table and set one down at each of your seats. You give Atsumu a pointed look which he ignores. You clear your throat and give him a hard nudge. 

“Ow,” he complains. He gives you one last pleading look which you leave unanswered. 

He sighs and recites his scripted lines. “Oh honey, what about the ketchup drawings?” he asks you in monotone. 

You tap a finger at your chin, looking up at the ceiling to feign deep thought. “Oh no! I think we ran out of ketchup!” You bring a palm up to cover your mouth, gaping open in dismay. 

“No ketchup drawing? How can I possibly eat Omurice without the ketchup drawing?” 

“Oh no,” you turn to your daughter. “We can’t have Omurice without ketchup can we?” 

“No, we can’t!” your daughter exclaims. 

“Well baby, do you think you can go to the store and get some ketchup for us? Just like how you do it when you go with Mommy.” 

Her eyes sparkle with excitement at the prospect of going out. “Me?” 

“Yep, Daddy and I are so busy, we can’t go. Can we rely on you?” 

“Sure!” she chirps. 

So a few short moments later, you and Atsumu have strapped her little purse on her torso, containing just enough coins to purchase a bottle of ketchup and a card with your phone number on it, just in case. Atsumu laces her shoes up and gives her a kiss on the cheek. You think you see his eyes misting over. 

You speak up. “Just to the store we always go to, okay? Mommy’s counting on you!” This was supposed to have been Atsumu’s line, but you can tell that the dam is about to burst so you help him out.

“You’ll do great,” he chokes out. “I’ll see you when you come home with ketchup so Daddy can have his Omurice. Okay?” 

She nods, enthusiastic and completely unaware of Atsumu’s turmoil. With that, she’s out the door and Atsumu barely waits one minute before he’s following, sticking to his own plan to trail her on her first errand. 

~

The route has been prepped ahead of time. All the neighbors and the local store owners have been informed of your daughter’s first errand to ensure her success. In addition, all of Atsumu’s teammates, old and new, showed up to guide her along. 

So as Atsumu trails behind her toddling figure, hiding comically behind fences and walls, there’s really no need for him to intervene. 

She first passess the local cafe, where Bokuto, Hinata, and Sakusa sit at a table strategically located by the open window facing the sidewalk. As she walks by, she recognizes them instantly, straying from her path to the store. Bokuto sits her on his lap while Hinata listens to her babble and Sakusa buys her an apple juice. After a couple minutes of chatting, Sakusa gently pats her and asks, “so why are you out here by yourself?” 

“Oh!” she clammors out of Bokuto’s arms, suddenly remembering that she was supposed to be out on a mission. “I’m going to the store to buy ketchup for Mommy and Daddy. They’re counting on me.” 

Hinata nods profusely. “You better be off then!”

“You should finish your juice first, though. Adults don’t waste food,” Sakusa tells her. 

She nods, happy to sip the remaining juice from the cup, then sets on her way afoot. 

The trio at the cafe watch her go, shaking their heads when they notice their setter conspicuously following close behind. 

~

Next is Onigiri Miya. 

Well, technically, next was supposed to be the florist on the main street, but the little Miya had seen the street that Onigiri Miya is on and took the turn out of habit. But no matter – you and Atsumu had foreseen this, so a team is at the ready there too. 

Suna sits at the counter seat closest to the door to keep watch. When he sees her rounding the corner, he signals Osamu who comes out from behind the counter to greet her at the door. 

“Heya, baby,” picking up her easily when she runs into her Uncle’s arms. 

“Hi Uncle ‘Samu! Hi Rin-chan!” She greets Suna over Osamu’s shoulder. 

Suna grins, “hey stink.” 

“‘M not stinky!” 

Osamu carries her into the restaurant and deposits her on the counter seat next to Suna’s. He rounds back into the kitchen where he begins shaping a miniature version of her favorite onigiri. She kicks her feet, completely at ease in the restaurant and blissfully forgetful of her task at hand. When the plate is deposited in front of her, she chirps out a quick thank you before digging in. 

After chatting Suna up for a bit, Osamu finally cuts in. 

“So, what are ya doing out here all by yourself?” 

“Dunno!” she giggles. 

Suna coughs a bit, giving Osamu a look which Osamu returns pointedly. 

“Soooo… you decided to have lunch here without your dad and mom?” 

She ponders this for a bit, before lighting up. “Oh yeah! Mommy made Omurice but Daddy forgot to buy the ketchup so I’m here to get it.” 

Osamu’s eyes widen comically. “All by yourself?” 

She nods sagely. “‘M a big girl now. Mommy is countin’ on me.” 

“Well, ya better get going then. Yer silly dad will be waitin’ for ya.” 

She agrees, hopping her to her feet. The two follow her to the door to see her off, holding the door open for her walk through. She gets halfway back the way she came when she turns around and grins toothily at the two. 

“Thanks for the onigiri, uncle! Love ya!” 

Osamu smiles and waves her off. Behind him, Suna holds out his phone, pointing the camera at the little girl’s retreating back, making sure to focus on the suspicious figure donning sunglasses, a mask, and MSBY jackals baseball cap tailing her. He sends it to the group chat warning the next team to watch out for a stalker. 

~ 

Your daughter finds her way back to the intersection on the main road. She needs to take a left to continue her route to the supermarket. As she stands at the crossroads, she frowns, not quite remembering where she needs to go. She takes a right. 

There, she bumps into the legs of Kageyama and Hoshiumi who are stationed at the intersection. 

“Sorry,” she starts, craning her neck to get a better look at her obstacles. 

“No worries,” Kageyama says, taking a step back. 

Hoshiumi then strikes up a conversation with Kageyama, reading out the practiced lines. 

“Hey, we need to go to the supermarket right?”

Your daughter’s ears perk up at that.

“Yeah. It’s that – ” Kageyama points dramatically “– way.” 

“Ohhhh, I see,” Hoshiumi puts a hand up to theatrically mimic covering his eyes from the sun and squints the way Kageyama is pointing. 

Your daughter nods to herself at that and turns around to walk in the correct direction this time. 

When she gets far enough away, Hoshiumi shows Kageyama the text in the group chat. 

“Stalker?” Kageyama reads, scrunching his face. “Should we –”

“Nah,” Hoshiumi cuts him off and points at the stalker in question, going the same way the little girl just went.

“Ah.” Tobio understands, noticing the peek of dyed blond hair from under the baseball cap. 

~

At last, she arrives at the grocery store. This is familiar ground, so she wanders into the store and meanders the aisles, getting distracted by the array of colors in the snack section. She’s running her hands along all the biscuit options, contemplating how she can fit all the items she wants in her two hands when she hears someone clear their throat from above her. 

This time, it’s Aran who waves a gentle hello to her. 

“Aran-kun!” she exclaims, forgetting about the snacks and running up to hug his legs. 

He chuckles and pats her head. 

“Hi there. Are ya looking for something in particular?” 

Once again, she thinks. She’s sure there must be a reason she’s in the store but can’t quite remember. 

“I think so?” 

“Hm, okay. Wanna go shopping with me until you remember what yer looking for?” 

“M’kay!”

She grabs Aran’s hand and swings them as he guides her to the aisle with the condiments. There, she inspects the colorful array of sauces, eyes sparkling. Aran pretends to look for his own items, hovering a hand over the ketchup bottles and waving his fingers in the general area until she remembers. Her eyes hone in on the red bottle and she remembers her poor father, still unable to eat his lunch without ketchup. 

“Aran-kun! I’m here for ketchup!” 

“‘That so? Well, here ya go, then.” He picks up the bottle of the brand he knows you use and plops it right into her hands. 

“Not this one,” she shakes her head. “Mommy wants that one.” 

She points at the bottle next to the one Aran grabbed. They’re identical. 

Unbothered, Aran switches out the bottle in her hands with the one she wants. “Sorry ‘bout that. All good now?” 

“Yep!” 

“Ready to go check out, then?” 

She nods. He continues to walk her to the registers. Once the lines are in sight, she lets go of his fingers and darts over to the nearest line. But not before bowing a polite thank you to Aran. 

At the register, she greets the attendant watching him scan the bottle and showing her the total amount owed. 

“That’ll be 200 yen.” 

She reaches into her purse and pours out all the coins onto the counter, not entirely sure what she needs to offer. The cashier picks out a few coins and deposits the rest back into her coin purse, allowing her to tuck the coin purse back into her bag and zip the purse securely before asking if she wants a bag. 

“Yes, please!” 

With a plastic baggie in hand, she makes her way to the exit. Aran catches her before and tucks a small box of pocky into her bag, pushing a finger to his lips and winking at her. “Keep it a secret from yer mom. Get home safe!” 

She mimics his gesture and nods. With one last bear hug to Aran’s legs, she’s off. 

~

Outside the store, Kita waits for her. She spots his white hair easily. Of all her uncles (excluding Osamu, of course), Kita is her favorite. She runs over to him, bag swinging carelessly behind her. Kita catches her and gives her a little spin before setting her back on the ground. 

“Hiya, Uncle Shin!” 

“Hey there. What’cha got in there?” he asks, pointing at the bag. 

“Ketchup! Daddy forgot to buy more and he can’t eat Omurice without it, so Mommy’s countin’ on me to get it.” 

Kita rests a hand on her head. “That’s real impressive of ya, to come to the store to get it all by yourself.” 

She glows in his praise, rare but genuine. 

“Going home now, Uncle Shin.” 

“Alright,” he responds. “I need something from that way, so I’ll walk ya part ways.” 

She beams and follows Kita in the direction of your home. 

“Uncle Shin?”

“Yeah, bug?” 

“Can I eat my pocky? Aran-kun bought it for me.” 

He crouches down to her eye level. “Can I have some?” he asks seriously. 

“Yeah!” 

“Then, alright. But let’s go sit down at that bench over there, okay? It’s rude to eat and walk.” 

“Okay!” 

So the two take a detour, sitting at the bench to watch the birds hobble by while sharing the box of strawberry pocky. A certain stalker watches in envy from behind the trees. 

Once the box is depleted, Kita wipes her fingers down with some wet wipes he keeps in his pocket and tosses out the trash. They continue on their way, Kita sticking with her until they pass the confusing intersection (where Kageyama and Hoshiumi bow slightly at the sight of Kita) and the cafe (where the MSBY trio nod in acknowledgement). 

When the house is only a couple more feet away, Kita once again crouches down. “Alright, I gotta go my own way from here. Do ya think ya can make it home all by yourself?” 

“Yep, thanks Uncle Shin!”

“Sure. I’m proud of ya, bug.” 

She squirms a bit, overwhelmed by the praise she gets from her favorite uncle. The ketchup bounces in its bag by her side as she skips all the way back home. 

~

After fishing out her own key and unlocking the front door, Atsumu is there to greet her at the genkan, scoping her up and squeezing her tight, the ketchup bag forgotten on the floor.

“There’s my girl!” 

“Daddy!” she laughs. 

“Welcome home,” you greet, tummy warming at the sight of your two Miyas. 

“Mommy!” she squirms in Atsumu’s arms signaling for him to let her down. He obliges and she picks up the plastic bag to wave in your face. “I got the ketchup! Now daddy can eat his lunch!” 

“Wow, great job! And all by yourself!” 

You usher her over to the table as she babbles about her day. 

“I saw Shoyo-chan, Bokkun, Omi-chan, Uncle ‘Samu, Rin-chan, Aran-kun, and Uncle Shin too!”

“Wow, sounds like you had a great day. Did you have fun?” 

“Yep!” 

Atsumu, who has since changed out of his stalker gear, slumps into his seat at the table, back to grumbling about his cold omurice and how it would’ve still been hot if he had quickly gone with his daughter to get it. 

You throw him a bone by asking your daughter, “Did you miss Daddy on your trip?”

“What do you mean?”

You almost choke out a laugh; kids are ruthless sometimes.

“Why would I miss Daddy? He was there the whole time.” 

Atsumu sputters. “What do ya mean? I was at home waiting for ya the whole time.” 

“Daddy’s a liar,” she whispers in your ear. “I saw him, but he was wearin’ some weird clothes. Like covering his face.” 

You break into a fit of giggles. “Your daddy’s really silly, isn’t he?”

Atsumu can hear everything. “Hey!”

“Daddy was following you because he was just a bit worried about you going by yourself. But he’s really proud of you. Right?” 

Atsumu rounds the table to crouch besides your daughter’s seat. “Yeah. But you did so well. I’m so proud of ya.” 

Her eyes light up at the praise. She throws her arms around his neck and wiggles in her seat a bit. 

“Well, great job and since you got the ketchup for us, all your favorite uncles can now join us for lunch too.” 

At that, each of today’s helpers emerge from the kitchen holding their own plates of Omurice, all undecorated. You figure it might be a good time to introduce her to Kageyama and Hoshiumi too, but she’s distracted by Kita and Osamu offering their omelets to her to decorate with the ketchup.

As she goes around the table and draws ketchup hearts and stars on each omelet, you wander over to Atsumu’s side whose eyes are getting watery again, watching her brag to each of them that the ketchup they’re about to eat is her ketchup. 

“What’s wrong, ‘Tsumu?” 

“Nothin,” he hastily swipes at his eyes. “‘M not crying.”

“I never said you were,” you say gently. You wind your arm around his waist and lean into him, rubbing circles into his back. His body closes around you instinctively. 

“She’s just growing up so fast, ya know.” 

“I know.” 

“Soon, she won’t need me – us – anymore.” 

“Aww, ‘Tsumu. Yeah, she’ll grow up but…” 

He looks at you when you trail off.