rina

He turns and if had turned any quicker he would’ve sprained his neck from the whiplash.

The market noise thins down into a distant blur as he notices you.

You standing in front of a painting stall, with your friend’s enthusiastic gestures toward a canvas. Something with a gorilla, maybe? He's not too sure.

You look warm. Wrapped in a thick black coat, your silhouette now softened by layers of clothing, the outfit finished with a red scarf.

That damned scarf.

He remembers the confession all too vividly. You had mustered the courage to walk up to him after a few moments of whispering to yourself. Your shoes had peeked out from the edge, betraying your location.

You walked up to him with a strange and brittle confidence. He'll admit as much. That surprised him, but he knew what was coming. It would have been the seventh one that day and it was only lunch break.

Two milk chocolates. One large dark one. Three white chocolates.

You had confessed so sincerely. Something about having seen him play football during your brother's match. Or was it your sister's?

His memory fails him past this specific point.

He couldn't remember his the exact phrasing of his words that afternoon, He must have sounded cruel, because when he finally glanced up, your face had already dulled and fallen.

This is the only part he remembers vividly.

You looked dejected as you pulled the red scarf closer to your chin, as if it might shield you from his blunt voice. As if it could hide you from his gaze.

He dropped his eyes immediately after, a sense of shame brewing within his chest. He isn't sure why. He's done this a couple of times now. There's a routine to this.

“I understand,” he had heard your voice manage. A stark contrast to your general demeanour in class.

Your footsteps had pattered away, soft and quick, until there was only silence. He had thought, then, that he could finish his book in peace now.

He had managed to read only half a page.

-

Now, in the buzz of the market, your image grows clearer to his sights.

His eyes narrow down, unconsciously, and shamelessly, to your lips.

Bare. Soft. A little glossy, like they’ve just been brushed with lip balm.

What was wrong with him?

Suddenly, he hears Nobara calling over to someone, rather loudly. He's about to turn around and chide her when he watches her stride straight past him and wrap your friend in a hug.

He sighs.

"How have you been?" Nobara beams she asks the girl as he walks up alongside Yuuji.

Your friend mutters something in response, but he barely hears it. His eyes remain fixed on you.

You look up.

There's an immediate scrunch in your face. Then it smooths out, forcing itself into something neutral. Polite.

“Oh, and this is Itadori Yuuji and Megumi Fushiguro. You must’ve seen them around,” Nobara said, gesturing vaguely at the two. “But never mind the losers— who is this?”

She practically beams at you which visibly makes you a little shy.

“I told you about her last time, remember?” your friend says, while you keep manage to your gaze locked onto him again.

He can’t blame you. He hasn’t looked away either.

"Ah, can't believe you guys have been friends for only a year. The restaurant you went to last week looked amazing. Can I come along next week?" Nobara continued on.

You lean toward your friend, whispering in her ears and then suddenly, you step away.

Bowing down, and muttering a soft “See you around,” you take off.

It's not logical at all. And he can't explain what compelled him but he followed you.

-

It was annoying.

It had been a month since your confession and you couldn’t get him out of your head. Well, frankly because he seemed to be everywhere since.

Your plan had been simple.

Step one: get an orange-flavoured chocolate. (It was his favourite. His sister had confirmed it.)

Step two: give it to him.

But everything fell apart after the first step.

You had been so very nervous.

So, you were stalled for time, approaching him not as the lunch break started, but when he sat outside reading his book, thereby interrupting his reading.

Then you had stumbled over words and come across as utterly pathetic. And then of course, you had not even managed to give him the chocolate as you pattered away at the first instance of his rejection.

“I don’t have time for this right now. This is a waste of time. Why waste chocolate on a stranger? Go buy yourself flowers instead."

It hadn't even been that harsh of a rejection, but it had stung. The rejection and the lack of care admittedly got you, which you thought was ultimately good.

You had never intended on a real future here.

You had intended to confess. You had intended to get rejected and then move on. Clean and foolproof. Only you didn't account for the heartbreak.

See, you liked Megumi. It was difficult not to.

It seemed absurd when you really examined it closely. He fought bullies. He held doors without looking at whom he helped. He rarely smiled. And he was handsome. That much was undeniable.

And such things were sufficient qualities for a crush.

Crushes were fun. Crushes were simple, and mostly importantly, crushes would pass. But then, he had to come play hero and save you.

-

It had been a bright afternoon. The sun was pouring mercilessly through the windows, making you drowsy, and heavy-limbed when you heard his familiar voice.

“Well, if it isn’t the one that got away.”

You stopped in your tracks.

Your ex all but grinned in the haughty way you had come to be tired of. It was not longer charming, it was wearisome.

“It’s been a while,” he continued unprompted. “Was it last month? At the fair? Have you been avoiding me since, fair maiden?”

You scrunched your face at him with open disgust.

“Have you struck your head,” you asked tilting your head, “or have you been watching period dramas in your spare time?”

His smile faltered.

“Let's cut to it,” he said. “I want you back.”

Crass as always.

“No, thank you,” you said, immediately and brightly. "Have a nice day."

Then you pushed against your heel to attempt to walk past him to your classroom.

But instead, he swerved, blocking your way. The next thing you know, the corridor wall met your shoulder blades, cool and grainy through the fabric of your shirt.

"What are you doing?" You had spurted, though now you felt strangely scared. "Move aside, idiot."

He didn't reply, instead opting to trail his fingers on the side of your face.

"Come on," he continued. "We had a good thing. Why did you have to go and ruin it?"

You recoiled at his touch, it felt slimy and disgusting. It's strange how something that used to be so familiar can feel this way.

“You mean the relationship where you lied all the time. Yeah, some tragic loss.”

“Don’t exaggerate. Just come ba—”

His words choked off into a grunt, immediately cut off as somebody pulled on his collar and pressed his entire face on the wall right beside you. 

You stumbled back, heart still racing, and saw who it was.

Megumi.

He held your ex’s arm twisted behind his back, expression flat, almost bored. You heard him say, "Apologise to her."

Your ex wheezed out something that sounded like an apology.

Megumi didn’t look impressed. He tightened his grip further, just enough to make the man yelp out loud. You looked around, hoping this doesn't cause a scene and get the teachers involved but there was no one around.

The apology from your ex came out louder this time. It was only then Megumi released him go as he scampered away like a rat being chased, with one arm clutching his other arm.

Megumi turned to you. "Are you fine?"

You blinked. Still processing, still in a daze. "I’m fine."

Megumi looked at you as though studying you. “You should report him,” he said simply.

And then, somehow, you started seeing him everywhere.

You were sure he’d always been around. It was a small cohort, after all. But now you saw him everywhere. He was impossible to miss—on the football grounds, at morning meetings, leaning against the corridor walls between classes. Just… everywhere. All the time.

Eventually, you confessed.

Well. If it could even be called that.

You just wanted it out of your system. It had been months, after all.

You had even caught yourself procrastinating on your homework one evening, staring at the same algebra question for thirty whole minutes because your brain had decided instead to replay a compilation of every visual you stored of him in your brain.

Which, frankly, was embarrassing.

So, you confessed. And it stung. And you've been licking your wounds ever since.

So when you saw him at the market, accompanying Nobara, who had just walked up to your friend. You decided, very quickly just then, that you had somewhere else to be.

Anywhere else.

“My mum just texted,” you blurted. First excuse that came to you. as “She needs me at home. Urgently. Very urgent. Possibly life-or-death. But not actual death. She’s fine. I’ll see you Tuesday.”

And it was fine. Except you’d promised your little sister you’d get her those Snoopy coffee mugs.

She had been talking about them for three days straight. The ceramic ones from the far end of the market, the ones that were shaped like a tiny red doghouse. She had shown you pictures. Sent you reminders. Even drew one in the corner of your notebook when you weren’t looking.

You groaned.

The things you do for love.

So now you were at the stall, hovering in front of the display, scrutinising all the different types of Snoopies.

“Shouldn’t you be home?”

You froze, before you turned.

Megumi stood a few steps away, hands in his pockets, looking mildly puzzled.

“Your friend said your mother needed you.”

You let out a small, awkward laugh. “Right. Well. She, uh… no longer needs me.”

“Oh,” he said simply.

You stared at him.

He stared back.

The vendor cleared their throat softly, the sound was polite but pointed.

Megumi glanced at the mugs, then back at you. “Well,” he said, finally. “Shouldn’t you join us back there, then?”

"Yes, I will," you replied, strained. "Just got distracted by the mugs."

Megumi nodded once, and then he stayed exactly where he was, as if he had quietly decided to guard you until the transaction was complete.

You turned to the vendor again, pointing at the one you wanted packed. Then, the vendor got to work.

You cleared your throat, feeling his eyes on you. "You don’t have to wait, you know. I’m not going to get lost between here and wherever you guys are."

He shrugged. "It’s on the way, and you seem easily distracted."

You said nothing in response.

The vendor handed you the paper bag. It was warm from their hands, the ceramic weight settling into your palm carefully. You thanked them, paid, and turned back to Megumi.

“Mission accomplished. My sister will remain loyal to me for another week,” you said, attempting lightness.

He nodded again.

The walk back wasn’t long. He didn’t talk much. You didn’t either. But it wasn’t awkward in the way you had expected. Just… very quiet.

Your fingers kept brushing against the paper bag as you walked. The ceramic mug shifted slightly inside, solid and reassuring. You imagined your sister holding it, her face lighting up.

You smiled.

And you didn't notice it then, but he had smiled too.

-

After that, as routine went, you saw him around everywhere.

In the corridors, by the stairwell, near the entry gates in the mornings. Everywhere.

Except this time, he talked to you.

They were merely simple greetings.

“Morning,” he said. The first time he greeted you was ordinary. This happened as he walked past you in the corridor.

You were so shocked, you didn't reply. You didn’t even nod. Unless standing perfectly still counted as a response.

You then looked around your vicinity to see if the words were directed to someone else. It wasn't.

Before you could process it any further, Mina grabbed your arm and dragged you into the classroom.

“Spill,” Mina demanded, dropping into her seat.

“There’s nothing to spill, Mina.”

“Oh?” She arched an eyebrow. “Then why is Megumi Fushiguro of all people greeting you in the morning?”

You didn’t answer right away. Your fingertip moved across the wooden desk, following the thin lines in the grain. They curved and twisted under your touch like small rivers.

“We just… ran into each other at the market,” you said. “Maybe he thinks we’re friends now.”

“Would you want to be friends with him?” Mina asked.

You wrinkled your nose. “No. It’s weird, but he seems nice."

“He rejected you,” she reminded you, her voice softer now, protective.

You picked at the corner of your notebook. The paper bent easily under your nail, soft and fragile, like it would bruise if you pressed too hard. “I know.”

“Then why are you defending him?”

“I’m not defending him,” you said, though your voice came out quieter than you intended. “I just mean… he’s not mean. He saved me, remember? He’s not really mean.”

Mina raised an eyebrow. “He did tell you to go buy yourself flowers.”

“He didn’t say it like that,” you muttered. “Or… maybe he did. I don’t know. It was just… a bit blunt.”

She didn't say anything after, just watching people filter into the class after lunch in silence.

“He said good morning,” you said again, out of nowhere.

Mina’s expression softened. It was a rare departure from her usual sharpness, her tone almost tender now. “It’s just good morning.”

“But it's weird.”

The word weird felt right. Not unpleasant, not entirely. Just… out of place.

Mina tilted her head. “I think… you’re overthinking this.”

Maybe you were.

It continued though. The greetings. And eventually you said it back.

A month had passed since your confession, and now replying to Megumi every morning had quietly ingrained its place in your daily routine.

-

Today had been gloomy. A rainy day that held no sign of light. You were in a daze today, having skipped lunch to finish your homework before math class. All you wanted was to rush home to eat a whole hot meal.

You forgot your umbrella at home. It was just one of those days. Nothing was going well. So you had no choice but to rely on your jacket to keep you dry. Your thin cotton jacket that will no doubt get soaked and protect you for mere minutes.

Upon reaching the front gate, you were already drenched, finding brief solace underneath a nearby tree.

"You should check the weather," a voice came from behind you.

You didn't have to turn to know who it was, a voice that was too familiar to you now.

"Morning," you say, turning around to catch the sight of him under an umbrella.

"It's 4 pm," he said, stepping forward to bring you under the umbrella's protection. This was the closest you'd ever been to him. And he looks pretty. Even after a long, and tiring day.

It was a little unfair.

“I know,” you murmured. “It’s… our thing, isn’t it? Saying ‘Morning.’”

"Our thing."

"Yes," you said. "Our thing."

Now you felt a bit vulnerable, as you acknowledged this new dynamic you guys had. It was odd, you had never spoken past the greetings. Not since the day in the market.

"I should go now," you added hastily, readying to hold up your makeshift shield with your now pitifully drenched jacket. "I’ll miss my bus."

"Wait." He caught your arm and then dove his hand into his bag, rummaging for something.

You watched curiously for a few seconds before he pulled out a wrapped sandwich and held it toward you.

"For… for me?" You asked.

He nodded. "You must be tired."

How did he know? Does it show on your face now? Did he just have extra food he could dispose of?

“I… yes,” you said softly. “I am. Thank you.”

Then he placed the umbrella into your hands. “And take this.”

“No,” you protested at once. “I live close. I’ll just run.”

“Take it,” he insisted a bit more firmly now. “My driver’s picking me up.”

“But you’ll have to wait here,” you said. “In the rain.”

He glanced toward the tree. “There’s shelter,” he replied simply. “I’ll be fine.”

“Thank you. I’ll bring it back on Monday. I promise!"

“Or you—” he began, but the rain swallowed the rest of his sentence.

“Sorry?” You stepped closer, leaning in, tilting your head so your ear hovered near his shoulder.

This you remember very vividly despite the haze of the rest of your day. The rain was pouring heavily around you, drumming against the hard pavement. Your shoes had rainwater that had seeped into them. You were cold. Really cold. And your fingers ached.

“Or you could give it back tomorrow,” he said, his breath warm against the shell of your ear.

You pulled back. "But tomorrow's the weekend."

He didn’t answer. He just looked at you.

The rain streamed down his hair, caught on his lashes. He didn’t blink. He really is pretty.

“There's a café near the station,” he said. “They open early.”

"Oh," you said.

He looked away then. “I’m just saying,” he muttered. "If you would want to." Still not looking at you.

Your fingers curled tighter around the umbrella handle. Your heart had begun a strange, uneven rhythm.

“Okay,” you said. 

His head turned back at once.

“Okay?” he echoed.

“Okay.”

“Meet me here then,” he said. “At eleven tomorrow.”

"Okay," you said back, and you could swear you saw him briefly smile for the first time ever.

You were shivering now. Tired down to the bone. But there was something warm blooming underneath those ribs of yours.

“Eat the sandwich,” he called as you turned to leave.

You didn’t look back.

You walked home through the rain, clutching his bunny-themed umbrella above you, the consistent drum of water above no longer quite as cold.

-

Epilogue (Years Later)

He’s standing below your house.

You part your curtain slightly to take in the full visual of him standing near the tree just outside your building. His hands are shoved into the pockets of his dark corduroy coat. His hair is ever still untameable, though it’s a little longer now, falling softly against his forehead. In one hand, he holds his phone connected to earphones. And in the other, barely visible from your angle upstairs, is a bouquet wrapped in brown paper.

You can’t help the smile that creeps up.

It’s February again. The air is less harsh, the sun stays in the sky longer now. The café below your apartment has strung up red paper hearts all across the window.

You set your mug down on the windowsill to grab your coat, and head downstairs without texting him. You don’t need to. He knows you’ve seen him. He always knows.

When you push open the front door, the cold immediately brushes against your cheeks. He looks up immediately.

He just watches you walk toward him.

“Morning,” you say.

It’s 11:48 a.m.

His mouth twitches. “It’s almost noon.”

“That’s practically morning,” you counter, stepping closer.

He tuts softly. “You really should stop drinking coffee after five in the evening.”

You wrinkle your nose. “I’ll do what I want.”

“You’ll do what you want, right into an early death.”

You smirk, “So, you’re saying you’ll be oh so terribly lonely without me.”

He shrugs, expression genuine. “Yeah.”

You blink. This is not the direction you wanted this conversation to go.

Your eyes drop to the bouquet full of red roses.

“Those for someone?” you ask lightly.

He glances down at them, as if surprised by the fact that they're in his hand. “Yeah.”

“Oh.” You nod solemnly. “She’s lucky.”

He frowns at you, just a little. “You’re annoying.”

The café had stilled in that moment. Even the old espresso machine, which was usually hissing and wheezing about, seemed to fall silent. 

Panda’s hand froze mid-air, halfway to his muffin. Toge’s mutter died on his tongue. Even Maki had lifted her gaze, holding an expression that was dangerously close to surprise. Because it is not every day a bride walks into this café. 

Your eyes dart across the room — frantic, urgent, desperate to find someone, and it’s only when your eyes find him that he realises — it’s him. You were searching for him. 

At that realisation, he lurched up to stand at once. It was a little too clumsy, too sudden, as though his seat had grown immediately hot.

He thought he should speak, ask something rational, like what are you doing here? Or say something gentle, like asking if you were okay, but his tongue felt thick and lumpy in his mouth, sodden just as the dirty hem of your white dress. 

So when you began to speak, he almost sighed with relief.

“Yuuta,” you said, his name softened between your lips, and your whole face seemed to ease.

“Oh, it’s so… I’m so happy you’re here. I didn’t know where else to go. I just— I left. I left him, Yuuta. I was standing there, staring at the aisle, at him, at all of it. The expensive flowers. The expensive carpet. The expensive champagne, and suddenly it was like I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t do it. So I ran. I just— I ran.”

Yuuta isn’t sure what he can say to that.

It’s loaded, so he doesn’t know where to start asking questions. He simply stares at you. And then turns back to see his seated friends, as though one of them will ground him away from this dream that he seems to have slipped into. Because it is a dream, right?

But when Panda only gave a low whistle in response, it was the kind that seared the reality of the situation into his brain.

“Now this,” Panda had said, leaning back, “is better than Love Island, my friends.”

He knows now that this is real. And you’ve apparently left a wedding. You had agreed, once, to marry someone else, and then you hadn’t. This is an afterthought he tries to suppress, given everything else that’s staring him stark in the face. But he does think it, even if it were only for a moment.

Maki crossed her arms then, watching you closely. “You’re dripping mud all over the floor,” she comments, but her voice doesn’t come out with any sort of sting, but rather as an observation.

You looked flustered, but ignored the comment as you took Yuuta’s hands, clutching them with a desperation that made his heart stumble out of his chest.

You were cold to touch, and he wonders if he should give you his jacket.

“I don’t want to be who I was,” you confessed now softly. “I was this girl who lived in a bubble. I looked at him, Yuuta, and I thought— this isn’t it. This isn’t my life. This isn’t me at all. And all I could think was… I needed to find a friend. A friend who knows me.”

It’s out of place to hear this confession from a person he hadn’t seen in years now, but everything about this situation was out of place.

You belonged at the end of an aisle, and he belonged here.

You were meant for cathedrals and champagne halls, and he was meant for a chipped mug of coffee and a menial job. Yet, you were here holding his hand. 

It was all out of place. 

—

The group, to Yuuta's surprise, was astonishingly well-composed in the wake of your situation.

Toge and Panda had gone to the counter to get you something warm. Maki, whose name, you would only learn later, had wordlessly stripped a navy shawl from her own shoulders and flung it across yours in a gesture that was brusque.

And then there was Yuuta.

Yuuta was crouched before you, perched on the low table opposite. His body was tilted forward as he stared intensely at you. You didn’t blame him, though the intensity of his stare, mingled with the realisations of what you had just done — of the words you had mumbled to him, of the man you had abandoned, of the people whose names would be lighting up your screen, of the entire state of your life — all of which had suddenly all come boiling to the surface. 

And sitting there, clutching the borrowed shawl tight around your shoulders, you felt the shame and embarrassment rise sharply in your throat.

“Are you okay?” Yuuta tried, the words falling clumsily from his mouth.

And immediately he realised how stupid that sounded. Are you okay? What a ridiculous and pathetic question. Of course, you weren’t okay. People who were okay didn’t abandon weddings midway through. People who were okay didn’t search, wild-eyed, for the face of a boy they hadn’t seen in almost half a decade. People who did this were — undeniably, certifiably — not okay.

He glanced sideways at Maki, who was already looking at him like he was the dumbest man alive.

He gulped. He wanted, very sincerely, to punch himself in the face.

“I just feel like someone has reached down my throat, and has grabbed my small intestine, pulled it out of my mouth, and tied it around my neck.”

The description was grotesque, or even dramatic and childish, but it was the truth of your body.

“If you get me,” you attempted to add, your voice dropping to a meek, apologetic murmur.

And at that, Yuuta really wanted to punch himself in the face. He should be saying something, anything to distract you from your situation — to make your world lighter, but where could he begin? He knew nothing anymore. Not about you, not about the person you had become, not about the life you had just abandoned.

“I am glad to see you, though,” you added softly. “It’s strange. I haven’t seen you in years, but you’re my only true friend I’ve had in such a long time.”

“A friend who wasn’t even invited to the wedding,” Maki remarked. Her voice was sharp, but the remark itself was plain. It didn’t feel accusatory, but more so — observational. 

“Maki,” Yuuta protested, however, as his chest was tightening.

“We did drift apart,” you admitted, eyes not leaving his. “But you would always be my friend, Yuuta. You know that, don’t you?”

He could swear your eyes twinkled just then.

—

You sat with both hands curled around the hot chocolate. The porcelain of the cup radiated a simple and welcoming warmth that you clung to, sip after sip, while they all stared at you. There are questions simmering beneath their tongues, you can feel it, but the warmth of the cup around your palms, the warmth of the drink down your throat left you a bit listless, and comforted — that you didn’t mind. You simply sipped on the drink as they watched you like some exotic creature they were meant to study. You look up now, at the group, and then at Yuuta. “Can I borrow your phone?” you asked, quietly but firmly too. “I need to call my father.”

Yuuta startled, cleared his throat, already reaching for his pocket. “Right. Yeah. Of course.”

You handed him the empty cup, the porcelain had tints of red from your lipstick, and he exchanged it for his phone. You stood up and drifted to the far side of the café, for privacy, he assumes. 

“Who is she?” Panda asked first, his voice sly, delighted by the scandal at hand. “Don’t tell me you were having an affair with an engaged woman. How perverted is that?” He paused, grin widening as he looked at her now. “Kudos, though. She’s pretty.” Yuuta’s brow knit, irritation flashing across his face. “It’s not like that,” he said quickly. “I haven’t seen her in years. She’s just— an old friend. We grew up together. We don’t even talk anymore.” His voice trailed off. It’s all out of place. “And yet,” Maki murmured, arms folded, eyes narrowing in clinical interest, “she runs to you as she leaves her future husband. Isn’t that interesting?”

Yuuta hesitated, words catching. Then, softly, almost pleading, he said, “I mean… look at her. She doesn’t seem like she has a lot of good friends. She probably just needed someone outside of those circles. Her family— they’re the rich kind, you know. They’ve got their own world, their own orbit. I don’t know why she’s here, but I’m assuming she has no one else.”

At that, he could visibly see Maki soften, her shoulders relaxed. You were not the threat afterall. You were just a woman with a family of idiots. 

“That’s… kinda sad,” Panda said in response, voicing what everyone was feeling. And for once, his voice held no joke at all. It was sincere. 

You stood by the window, with the phone pressed to your ear. You almost wish he wouldn’t pick up. You didn’t want to face this reality of yours. This life you lived. You wish you could start a new one here, with Yuuta and his odd group of friends. 

When your father’s voice came through, it was clipped, cool, controlled — as though you had interrupted a board meeting, or worse, humiliated him by existing in the wrong place.

“Where are you?” he demanded, without any effort to establish a preamble. “Come back. Now.”

You swallowed. “I left.”

“I am aware,” he said. “You have thirty minutes. Return.”

“No,” you whispered.

“Speak up,” he urged. He hated it when you mumbled to yourself. Meek. Weak. Small. 

Your voice was trembling, though you forced it to sound steady. “I couldn’t—” You failed. “I could not do it, Papa. I tried. I really tried, but when I looked at him… I wanted to leave, and so, I did.” 

You pressed your hand against the cold glass, the rain outside smearing the city into indistinct lights. Something to steady you, you tried to focus on the colours. 

“I only wanted to apologise to you and Mama. I love you both. And I’m only sorry for that. For abandoning you to deal with this for me. But I never wanted it, and you knew it.” 

You clutched the phone tighter, as though by holding it you might tether yourself to something familiar, but the voice on the other end was not safety. It never was. 

“Goodbye,” you said then. Final. Ending. “I hope you forgive me.”

When you lowered the phone, the café seemed to tilt, the air thinning around you. Your stomach hollowed, your skin prickled. You wanted air. You wanted your bed. 

“Are you alright?” Yuuta’s voice cut through cleanly into the fugue — steady, warm, and concerned.

You turned, slow and uncomposed. Your eyes were rimmed with red, and before you could reason your way through it, you closed the distance between you and him. You all but collapsed into his arms.

He was startled and nearly lost his footing until he steadied himself. Then he steadied you, pulling you upright into his hold. His arms folded around you as his palm pressed to the back of your head in a slow, patting you now. 

“It’s okay,” he murmured. He repeated them anyway, again and again, slowly, until the sound itself became a tether. A mantra. A spell. And the more he said it, the more you began to believe it. 

When your sobs stopped, as the deep tremor in your chest had flattened down and softened, you pulled back. The world may look a little blurrier now, but you felt lighter, too.

—

There wasn’t a lot left to do now. The evening had already begun to fold itself into routine, the kind they all knew by heart. Usually, it was Maki who left first — she had a strict regimen, physical health scheduled into her life with the same precision she levelled at everything else. She stood, gathering her things, then fixed the two of you with that measured, sharp-eyed stare as you held her shawl out to her.

“Thank you for the shawl,” you said, a little awkwardly. 

“You’re welcome,” she replied, matter-of-fact. Then, after a beat: “You’ll be fine. Ask Yuuta for my number if you need a place to stay. My roommate’s moving out, actually, so the timing is sort of perfect.”

Your eyes widened, catching faint light from the café’s low lamps. “Really?”

“Yeah,” Maki said, shouldering her bag. “Just, it’s not a big deal. Just be… cool.”

“I can be cool,” you said, feeling defensive all too suddenly, though grateful at her proposal. You hadn’t mapped this out realistically at all. Where would you stay? How would you pay for things now?

Panda lasted another half hour before lumbering up from the couch, crumbs trailing from his shirt. He clapped Yuuta’s shoulder with a heavy hand that left an ache long after, rolling through Yuuta’s bones.

“You have so much to tell me,” he said, grin spreading wide, teeth flashing. “Can’t wait to see you Monday.”

It sounded less like enthusiasm and more like a threat. Yuuta frowned as Panda winked, shambling out into the drizzle with a parting wave.

That left Toge. He lingered the longest, nursing another cup of tea in silence, his gaze flickering between the two of you. Eventually, he stood, setting his empty mug down with a small click. Yuuta rose automatically, and you followed — nothing really left to do at the café but leave. Still, the act of standing felt imposed, almost abrupt, and guilt nipped at you, the faint sense that you had been a burden this evening.

Outside, the air was damp and cool. Inumaki hesitated by the door, then glanced at you once, at Yuuta, and back again. Without a word, he shrugged off his own coat — a dark woollen thing, faintly scented with smoke and tea — and draped it carefully over your shoulders

“Salmon,” he murmured, tone soft, almost tender.

You turned to look at Yuuta, feeling tended to, but confused nonetheless. 

Yuuta, fumbling for clarity, added, “You can return it next time you see him.”

“Thank you,” you said, still confused but clutching the coat closer around yourself.

Yuuta watched, throat tightening. Something faint and warm filled his chest, blooming against the night chill. “Um, what do you want to do now?” Yuuta asked. His voice was gentle and unassuming, as if the question cost him nothing particular or grave. Like the energy it took to move a muscle at best. 

You blinked, a half-smile breaking through on your face. You expected he’d bid you farewell and wish you good luck on your way. And this would be the end of this.  

You would preside after this evening only as an anecdote, a funny story to be told at parties.

“I don’t know,” you admitted, feeling lighter than you’ve felt in a year. Then, sheepishly, you speak up. “I’m hungry.”

For the first time in a long time, you heard Yuuta laugh. It’s a quiet, incredulous, almost disbelieving laughter. 

You smiled. His laughter always carried this particular alchemy.

It pulled you back, just a little, to an image of a boy — slight and sunburnt, and a girl — bright and unburdened. To summer afternoons that were filled with knee scratches and ice creams, where time had stretched itself out for you and you alone. Where his laughter accompanying your own meant the evening would be well-lived and light. 

Now, you’re here, years later. 

“I have a bike,” he said suddenly. “I can drive us up to the high street.”

You blinked. “You have a bike,” you repeated, tone incredulous, baffled, impressed, but baffled nonetheless. 

Because the Yuuta you remembered — scrawny, awkward, scared of his own shadow Yuuta — had somehow grown into this. Into a man who rode a bike. Into a man whose jacket stretched slightly over the curve of real muscle, whose hands looked steady enough to hold both the handlebars. 

The thought invoked something strange within you.

“Yeah,” he said, reaching up to scratch the back of his neck. 

Still awkward, you concluded with a smile. Still him.

The rain had eased into a mist, soft enough to blur the streetlamps into trembling halos. Yuuta wheeled the bike out from the narrow row where it had been chained, the frame slick with water, the metal gleaming in the half-light. It wasn’t anything glamorous — but a sleek red motorbike, well-worn yet polished, the kind of machine that spoke of quiet care. You noticed it immediately, how clean it was despite the weather, as though he’d taken time to tend to it, to keep it shining.

And yet, seeing him swing his leg over it, steady and confident, made something twist unexpectedly in your chest. A strange contrast to the boy you remembered, awkward and hesitant. This was new, unfamiliar — and it unsettled you in ways you weren’t prepared to admit.

He glanced at you then, his expression caught somewhere between soft pride and embarrassment. “You, uh… you’ll have to hold on.”

The words made your pulse stutter. He said them with such plain practicality, and yet.

So you slid onto the seat behind him, hesitating for a beat before wrapping your arms around his middle. His body was warm even through the fabric of his jacket, the steady rhythm of his breath grounding you against the cool, damp air. You hadn’t realised how cold you’d been until now.

Yuuta stiffened, just slightly, then exhaled, adjusting his grip on the handlebars. “Ready?”

“Mm,” you murmured, your cheek brushing against his shoulder.

And then you were moving. The bike hummed under you, wheels hissing against the rain-dark road. The night opened itself up in streaks of light and shadow — shopfronts shuttered, puddles gleaming, the occasional car spraying water as it passed. The air rushed past, damp and sharp, tugging at your hair, carrying the faintest scent of soap and rain from his collar.

—

There were only a precious few places open at this hour. It was that liminal hour between early night and late evening. This was when the city was pausing for a brief moment to start the night — commuters were seen to be returning to their flats, and the noise emanating from cafés was thinning down to a lull as they started closing down. Yuuta was racking his brain for the different possibilities of cuisine, but the truth is, the options were few and very limited.

Yuuta walked beside you after parking near the stretch everyone colloquially called “food street,” and was turning this task over in his head, as though the very act of deciding on food were a kind of responsibility he must shoulder for you. Almost reverently, for your sake.

His mind ransacked through all the possibilities — the ramen joints with neon lights on side streets, but too shabby, and perhaps too makeshift for you. You would be a pale flare in that kind of place, the white of your dress catching every eye. Worse yet, someone might assume he was your husband and think him a figure so careless enough to drag you here on your wedding night.

Convenience stores, he thought, were too sterile, lit with fluorescent bulbs, though he suspected you hadn’t had the opportunity to have a proper meal all day. He imagined you standing there outside the store in your wedding dress, peeling back a corner of film from a microwaved meal, and recoiled. He wanted to give you a meal that wasn’t pre-sealed in plastic. 

He could cook for you, he thought briefly. But the idea felt awkward, inappropriate. He hadn’t seen you in years. And you were a lady, after all. 

As though he was caught in a well-timed play, his eyes immediately caught sight of red lanterns glowing above a narrow wooden doorway. He had seen this place before, always in passing, and always from the corner of his eye when he was on his way to the laundromat, but never saw a real opportunity to enter. He wasn’t one to eat out often, besides the occasional social obligations he was invited to. He preferred cooking at home. It was a private ritual he liked.

He slowed, then turned to you. Your gaze was already drawn to the lanterns.

“What do you think?” he asked, his voice soft, tentative.

You looked at the doorway, the lanterns, the promise of something warm and sustaining, and then back at him. 

“Honestly,” you replied with a tired smile. “I could eat anything right now. It’s a free game.”

And so, you entered, slipping beneath the lanterns.

The interior was smaller than you had expected. There were long counters of dark wood, and some fake green plants were scattered around the corners. 

There was already a bunch of patrons on occupied tables, people who seemed to be mostly office workers still in suits hunched over their bowls and plates. The air was thick with the fragrance of grilled fish, miso, and the faint scent of the bitterness of charred onion. You would eat well tonight, at least.

At the entrance stood the proprietor, who was a middle-aged man with his hair pulled back into a low knot, and his sleeves rolled neatly to his elbows. He looked up as the two of you entered, and you could tell he attempted to repress his surprise at seeing you in your state. 

“Table for two, then?” he asked, his demeanour reverting to a calm assurance of someone who had seen all sorts of late-night guests pass through his doorway.

Yuuta nodded quickly. “Yes, please.”

The proprietor gestured you toward a small table tucked into the corner. You were grateful you wouldn’t catch the eyes of most of the patrons from here; you were half-shielded. 

Yuuta hovered for a moment, awkwardly, unsure whether to pull the chair out for you or pretend he hadn’t thought of it, and in his hesitation, you had already firmly seated yourself with a heave of sigh, smoothing the damp folds of your dress. He followed, sitting opposite you now — dejected by his lateness.

For a moment, neither of you spoke before Yuuta picked up the menu, eyes skimming without really reading. The truth was, the act of choosing a meal seemed suddenly impossible, just as choosing a place to eat did.

You leaned over your own menu, propping your chin on one hand, watching him. Intently, he would say. 

Finally, he looked up, as though catching your gaze. “Um,” he said, clearing his throat. “They have fried chicken? And, uh, a few noodle bowls. Do you—” he hesitated, “uh, want me to pick, or—”

“Yuuta,” you cut in, grinning before you could stop yourself, “I told you. Anything. I’d probably eat the menu itself if they deep-fried it.”

The waiter arrived with two glasses of iced water, setting them down with a clink. You reached for yours immediately, the cold, sweating glass delicious against your palm, and took a long swig.

“So,” you spoke up, as you propped your chin onto both your hands. “Tell me then.”

Yuuta blinked. “About?”

“About your life, I mean.” 

The clarification didn’t quell any of the weight for Yuuta. 

You’ll admit you did not know how to ask this without sounding intrusive, nor how to stop once you had begun. 

“What do you do now? For work, I mean. Do you have a wife? Is your favourite ice-cream flavour still vanilla?  What made you start riding bikes? I never, in all my life, expected to see you on a motorcycle. You look—” you paused, then smiled at him, “you look cool.”

Yuuta smiled back, a little sheepish. “I work as a physical therapist. I help people with rehabilitation after injuries, surgeries… that sort of thing.” 

You considered this for a moment — and yes, it made sense. A vocation rooted in gentleness, in patience, in touch. If anyone was suited to gently coaxing people back to their bodies, it was Yuuta.

He went on, “I still like vanilla, I guess. I haven’t thought of it much, but I like butterscotch lately. I ride motorcycles because they’re cool, like you said. And because my father used to.” 

A small, boyish tug crossed his mouth at the thought.

“And I don’t have a wife… not yet, at least. ”

You laughed softly at that, not unkindly, but with something between amusement and disbelief over his sheer sincerity. A lesser person, you thought, would have parried, would have given you one answer, or would have given you none at all. Yuuta, in his way, had offered you everything you asked. It was just his nature to do so. 

“Well, butterscotch makes sense. They’re practically the same,” you mused, leaning back in your chair now. Your back feels relaxed against the slope of the chair. 

“They’re not,” he said quickly, not defensive so much as insistent.

“They’re the same,” you grin. 

Then there was a beat. It was not awkward, but suspended rather. 

“And you know,” you added lightly, “the rest… It’s good to know.”

He doesn’t say anything to that. Just sort of acknowledges it the way one lets the silence do. 

And so, the food arrived. 

You squawked it down elegantly as you could. And Yuuta, for his part, managed to manipulate the utensils and plates on the table, quietly, to push more food toward you. Sliding dishes closer to you, turning bowls so they faced your side instead. 

You must have eaten ten times more than he had. And you didn’t complain either, not as the lightheadedness that had strained you all evening began to disappear out, leaving with each full bite.

Eventually, the plates emptied out, leaving the table looking strangely naked. And though you were full, you felt a strange emptiness in realising that the night had come to its natural end as you both made your way outside. 

“So,” Yuuta said, after a moment.“I can call Maki. You could stay with her tonight, if you need someplace to stay. Or… if you have a place, I can take you there.”

“I don’t—” You stopped yourself, almost like you were recalibrating.  “I don’t have a place, and I really do appreciate Maki’s offer. I probably will take it. But…” 

Then, suddenly, you drew inward into yourself and grew shy, in a way he had never quite seen you before. 

“I just… I don’t know her. I’m sure she’s nice, but could I stay with you instead?”

His eyes grew in size over that. His apartment was small. His place is really only meant for one. But he could move, he thought. He could make space somehow.

You hurried to correct yourself. “J—just for tonight, I mean. I feel like I’m all over the place today.”

“O–of course,” he said, almost meekly. “I can take you to my house. For tonight.”

And so you hopped onto his bike again. The ride back became a scrunched rush of sensations — the street signs slid past you in a haze of bright flashes, the wind was needling through your clothes, the soaked weight of your wedding dress billowing against the wind. And without notice, you had managed to nuzzle further and further into Yuuta’s back, drawn by the heat. Something he didn’t miss, not when the contact stopped his breath in small.

— 

By the time you two reached his apartment, the rain had dimmed in its volume, mere dust specks falling at an asynchronous pace. 

Yuuta parked beneath the narrow space for parking outside his building. The engine died, and the sudden quietness settled.

For a moment, neither of you moved. Your arms were still around him.

“We’re here,” he said softly, not daring to be the first to move. 

You blinked, as if coming alive from a dream now, and slowly unwound yourself from him. The absence of your touch left a phantom warmth in its place. Yuuta swallowed against it and swung his leg off the bike, steadying it before offering you his hand.

You took it without hesitation, as you followed him upstairs. 

You climbed the stairs together, your dress grabbed carelessly in one hand. It left faint damp prints all over the cemented steps. He lived on the first floor, so it wasn’t much of a trek, but after the day you’ve had every movement had slowly started to feel like a chore. 

He fumbled slightly with his keys at the door and turned before opening it. “I didn’t know I’d be hosting,” he muttered, embarrassed.

You smiled as you looked down at the state of you. The brown ends of your garb, the wet hair — “I think I’d be the last person to care about that right now, Yuuta.”

The apartment was tiny, as he’d warned you on the ride back home. A neat entryway. A quaint little kitchen to the left. A drab green sofa facing a television. A bookshelf that was, surprisingly, full —  of manuals, novels, rehabilitation texts stacked in a certain order you couldn’t make sense of. 

But it was clean.

And it was warm inside. 

“I’ll uh… make tea. You can take a shower.”

And so, you did. 

The bathroom was filled with steam that cleansed you whole, almost a baptism. Water ran over your scalp and down your spine, rinsing away the day’s dirt and the rain.

When you got out of the shower, wrapped in a dim blue towel, you walked out to the sight of clothes neatly arranged on his bed. 

You dressed slowly — donning pants that fit you just about, and a large hoodie that swallowed you whole. The fabric sat heavy and warm against your skin. It smelled faintly of detergent and something sweet that brought you comfort.

When you stepped back into the living room, he was leaning against the kitchen counter, with two mugs in his hands.

He looked up.

And then his gaze stopped. The hoodie hanging loose at your thighs. The bare legs, and then his eyes shifted away. 

You shifted your feet to cross the room slowly. 

“Thank you,” you said, taking the mug from his hand, your fingers brushing his.

“Careful,” he murmured, watching as you brought the mug to your lips. “...It’s hot.”

You settled onto the green sofa, tucking one leg beneath you, blowing softly over the surface of the tea. He remained where he was, leaning against the counter.

“Are you going to stand there all night?” you asked, one eyebrow arched. 

He felt his throat tighten as he walked up to place himself beside you on the sofa, leaving a careful inch of space between the two of you — a morally measured inch.

He puts the television on, his only saviour against the awkwardness of the silence befalling. There is a channel that’s playing a reality show of some sort — the ones that have giant balls of cushions that contestants seem to be bouncing off of. It’s strange, but it’ll do, he thinks, turning to look at you, to find you oddly invested. 

He smiles. 

You finish your cup eventually, placing it down on the table with a clink as you no longer seem invested in the TV but more so, his face. 

You keep turning to stare at him, and he notices this in his periphery but can’t bring himself to meet your gaze. 

And when he finally does, moments later. “I should get the bed ready for you,” he said, already half-rising.

“Don’t go,” you said, immediately as your hand closed around his.

He stops. 

“What?” he had managed to breathe out. 

Your thumb rubbed against the top of his hand. “Just stay for a bit.”

He sits, noticing how you don’t let go of his hand. You seem enamoured by his hand and its anatomy, running your hands across and over it as though you were a sculptor trying to understand the shape of him. 

He doesn’t say anything, as he sits there feeling every touch of yours — it scorches against his own skin. Marking him whole. 

“We need to sleep,” he said as he felt your movements slowing, though his voice lacked conviction. “Eventually.”

“Must we?” You tilted your head, mischief skimming over your features. “Can we not stay up all night like we used to?”

“I have work,” he says. But what he really wanted to say was he’d stay up all week for you if you had simply asked. 

“Right,” you said, dejected if only for a moment. “I’ll let you go then.”

But neither of you moved.

He doesn’t say anything, but there’s a thought, one that’s been brimming to the surface ever since you walked into the cafe to find him. 

“You left your wedding,” he said, plainly. 

“Yes.” You met his eyes without flinching.

“And you came to me.”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

And then the room seems to contract around him.

“Yuuta,” you say. His name is careful in your mouth. Delicate. 

He waits. His pulse is unpleasantly loud in his ears.

“Don’t you know why?” you said, your eyes low now. 

Something in him breaks just then.

He breathed in before he leaned toward you. It wasn’t sudden, not when he had imagined this for years despite his wits asking him not to. He stopped mere inches from you, as he waited. For you to initiate this, for you to come to him. 

And you did — meeting his lips halfway, pulling him into a kiss. The contact was warm, your lips moved against him languidly, like you both had all the time in the world.

His hand rose at last, tentatively finding its way to what he could grab first — your waist. You drew him closer in reply, your fingers sliding upward, curling up the fabric of his t-shirt sitting on his shoulder. 

The absurd laughter from the television carried on as you continued to kiss, tongues lapping against one another for the very first time. 

He’s sure this is a memory that will etch itself in his brain for eternity to come. 

Yuuta pulled away after a moment, his lips still close enough to brush yours. 

“Are you su—” 

You kiss him again, firmer this time, though still tender. It is an answer, or perhaps a refusal of the question.

“S’okay,” you murmur when you part. Your forehead rests against his.

“You left me,” he says. 

“I did.”

“For years.”

“I did.”

“Don’t ever—” He stops. His heart aches just then as he tries again. “Again—”

“I won’t,” you say. You don’t hesitate. “I won’t ever leave you again, Yuuta.”

You think, distantly, that this feels more binding than anything you might have said at your wedding today, standing in front of your family, standing in front of that stranger for a fiancé. 

“Don’t just say that,” he warned, though his voice had softened, as though he remembered the hurt all over again. 

“I do not,” you answered. “I missed you too much to leave you again.”

He drew you closer this time, to let your head settle beneath his chin, as his cheek rested against your hair.

“I kept thinking about you,” he says eventually. His voice vibrates faintly against your temple. “Even when I tried not to.”

“Yeah?” You say. Curious, wanting to know the deep imprints you had left on him.

“Yeah,” he said. “All through college.”

“Today,” you say carefully. You hear hum in response. 

“When I was getting ready, I was left alone for a moment. The moment before I’d have to go out and walk to the altar,” you continue. “I thought that the dress I was wearing felt too tight, and I never wanted a veil, but my mother wore one, so I had to as well. And I thought about the last time I felt happy — I mean, truly happy — was when I was a teenager.”

Yuuta doesn’t say anything, but you notice his arm enclosing you further into him. He’s warm against your skin. 

“And now I don’t know what I’m doing. I ran,” you said. “And now I’m here with you.”

He exhales slowly, his hand moving along your arm. “You don’t have to decide everything tonight,” he says. “You don’t have to decide the rest of your life tonight.”

You tilt your head up at him. “But I already did one big thing. Life-changing big thing.”

“You just ran from a wedding,” he says gently. 

A small huff of laughter leaves your mouth. “You always did that.”

“Did what?”

“Make things less catastrophic,” you added. “That’s part of why I ran to you today. Well, that and you know.”

“Yeah,” he says plainly. He knows. 

You shift, drawing your knees up slightly, turning toward him more fully. “Are you sure about this?”

“What about?” He asks, surprised. 

“I’m a burden,” you say. 

“You’re never a burden,” he replies immediately. 

“No,” you say, your finger coming up to hush him. “Listen to me, I have no skills outside of sustaining an audience of wealthy people. I have a degree that I didn’t enjoy. And I don’t know what I’m doing. I’m a burden”

“Like I said,” he says then. His hand comes up to brush your hair back. “You don’t have to think about that tonight. And it’s okay, I’ll take care of you until you figure things out.”

“You think I can just… reappear and take up space in your life again?” You ask.

His jaw flexes. “You already have.”

You reach up, smoothing a wrinkle near his collarbone — a meaningless gesture, an excuse to touch him again. “You’re not angry?”

“I’m just happy you’re here with me,” he admits. He thought it was only ever possible in his dreams. Now that you’re here, it was hard to hold any resentment he had built up. 

And you then at some point you’re helping him place the cups back as you sit and watch him make up his bed for you.

You walked up to him now. 

“Thank you,” you say, though you knew the words feel insufficient.

“Of course,” he replies quickly. “Do you need extra pillo—”

He doesn’t get to finish his sentence as you suddenly inched forward to kiss him. Your hand loops around his neck as his hands find your waist. And he keeps kissing you fervently and your mind wanders, onto images of him in college kissing other girls. It’s a silly thing — to be bothered by a version of him that you left and hurt, finding solace in other women. 

You fall onto the bed at some point with him over you, he pulls back. 

“Sorry,” you murmur, smiling up at him. “You were asking me something?”

He laughs, but it catches in his throat. He looks away, as if the ceiling suddenly had a large stain.

“Yuuta,” you rasped. “Look at me, please.”

You moved his face to make him meet your imploring gaze. You found his expression to be open, almost boyish in its vulnerability.

“I don’t know what to say,” he admits, ducking his head into your neck, away from your eye contact again, “You make me nervous…”

You run your hand through his hair, grazing up and down his nape. He likes the sensation. He thinks he could rest here forever. 

It was safe to say that you were aware of your effect on him, whether it was physical, as you feel him against you now, or mental, but hearing it out loud is different. 

“I make you nervous?” You ask, trying to maintain a sense of mischief in your tone, but it simmers down and is overpowered by a genuine curiosity and amazement.

“Yeah,” he says, looking up at you now. “You always have.”

At that, you scrunch your brows. It’s a brief reflex of disbelief. “Not always. We were friends, weren’t we?”

“We were,” he says. We are. “But you made me nervous. You just didn’t see it back then. You always made me nervous.”

“Why?”

“You were so pretty,” he says, strangely unabashed.

“You are,” he says, his hand lifting to brush a strand of hair from your face. His fingers linger there, grazing your temple, your cheek. “You are pretty.”

“So pretty,” he murmured, bending down to kiss your neck now, no doubt tomorrow you’d be blessed with flurries of red kisses all over your neck. 

You clothes didn’t last long on you after that and you soon found yourself bare atop his bedsheets as he licked and sucked his way along the vast skin he had since left exposed. 

He was moving so languidly, but you were wound tight like the string of a bow. 

“Yuuta,” you said then, as you was leaving kissing your stomach. “You’re good at this.”

“Thanks,” he says briefly, too invested in kissing down your abdomen. 

“No,” you say, pulling his head up forcefully now. “You’re really good at this. Had a lot of experience in college, did you?”

He looked up then, just with his eyes to gauge if this was a real concern or if this was you being you. Teasing. 

“Always knew you’d be a possessive one,” he said plainly. 

“The most,” you said with a pout. 

He came back up then, kissing your cheek.

“Good,” he replied softly. “Means you plan on keeping me this time.”

“Hey,” he said again, more softly. “Was that a real question?”

You hesitated. That was answer enough.

“I dated,” he confessed simply, his arm moving to hold your hip. “A little.” Honest as always. 

Your stomach dips.

“But it was never…” He pauses. “It was never you.” Honest as always, you think again.

You frown faintly. “That’s not fair.”

“I’m not just saying this.” His thumb moves absently against your side. “I liked some of them. They were kind. But I always knew it was you.”

“Really?”

“Yeah,” he affirmed plainly. 

“And you?” he says then, coming back down to kiss your stomach. “You were about to marry someone.”

That one lands, as you find him inches away from your clit. 

You swallow.

“He was,” you admit as he was about to press a kiss against your trembling thigh, “Boring.”

And then your knees part, your cunt is fully on display. And you don’t think you’ve ever felt this bare before. You watch in your own awe as Yuuta licks his lips and finally presses his mouth to your clit.

You have an instant reaction, what with the way you buck into his mouth and release a struggling moan. His thumb seems to massage your outer lips, with his tongue trailing up and down your folds. 

His lips suction against the bundle of nerves, with his tongue caressing the nub right after. Rolling up and down as he groans into you.

You can’t hold back the string of moans and whimpers that emerge from your throat, your eyes roll back into your skull, as your legs vibrate, your hands yank on Yuuta's hair, before you find your brain turn to mush. 

He comes back up, his mouth slick as he says, “Think he could do that?” with a smirk. 

Your hand comes up to brush your thumb along his jaw. “You’re enjoying this far too much.”

“You were gone for years,” he says. “Think this is the least I’m allowed.”

“Oh, is this payback then?” you ask.

“Not payback,” he says, his hand coming down to finger your slick pussy. “If you’re enjoying this, can it be considered payback?”

“Yuuta, please,” you whimpered, your hand reaching out for whatever skin of his they could find purchase in.

“Please what?” he asked gently, kissing the corner of your mouth as your hand moved to feel his shoulder blades.

“Need you,” you whined, turning to kiss him. You pulled back, “Now.”

“Need me?” he repeated your words against your mouth.

You nodded.

Yuuta reached down to guide one of your legs up and bent back towards your hip, looping it to rest in the slope around his waist.

He took his cock in hand, moving up and down against your clit a couple of times before he pushed in. 

It was a welcoming burn as he moved a couple of times before you adjusted to the sensation of him inside you.

Your hands slid up to brush against the short strands of Yuuta’s undercut. 

“Is this okay?” He asked, then placed a soft kiss against the corner of your lips, as though soothing you through the stretch.

“More,” you pleaded, pulling him into the crook of your neck.

Yuuta snapped his hips up hard into you, sheathing himself entirely inside of you. A moan tore out of you again. 

“Shit,” Yuuta breathed, eyes squeezing shut as he kept moving. “You’re so pretty.”

You trembled beneath him, your eyes drawing down to the sight of him pulling in and out, in and out, you were mesmerised at the sight of him, sweat sheening as he looked so vulnerable for you.

He set a rhythmic, steady pace, it was almost languid. His movements weren’t quick, but rather, they were deep, pressing you down into the mattress so hard with every move of his hips.

His thumb came down to brush against your clit, gently at first and then a little firmer when he saw the way it made your expression go glassy and unfocused. 

“I’m gonna come,” you declared. “Kiss me.”

And so he did, bending down as he kept his movements steady, kissing you deeply. 

“‘m close too,” he groaned against your lips now, coming up to brush another unfocused kiss against your forehead, as his panting breaths caught on. 

And then you came, your legs trembling as he kept moving. Soon after, he did too, craning down to crash his mouth to yours, his hips stuttering.

Yuuta collapsed beside you, catching his breath as you moved to fall onto his bare chest. Like clockwork, his arms gathered you against him, slowly then drawing circles against your back.

The adrenaline that carried you through the evening has finally begun to dissipate, leaving only a heavy drowsiness in its wake.

Your head droops heavy against his chest.

“You’re exhausted,” he murmurs.

You shake your head weakly in protest. Your fingers have slowed against him. Your breathing has deepened.

“I don’t want to sleep,” you admit softly. “I want to stay up and talk to you all night.”

“There’s always tomorrow,” he replied, voice mirroring your softness, as the circles on your back never falter.

You swallowed.

“I feel like if I close my eyes, I’ll wake up back there.”

He didn’t hesitate. “You won’t.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I do.” His hand flattened briefly against your spine, firm. Present. “You’ll wake up tomorrow to a tray full of breakfast and some flowers.”

That made you lift your head. Just enough to look at him.

“You’re getting me flowers?” You smiled.

“Yeah,” he said. “Now that we’re…” he trailed off, still too timid to admit it.

You tilted your head. “Dating?”

“…Yeah.” The word came out softer than before. “I’ll buy you flowers every day.”

A tired laugh slipped out of you, warm against his skin.

“That’s a bit much,” you murmured, shifting so you could see the small, earnest curve of his mouth.

“Oh?” he said, one brow lifting. “Thought that was the kind of treatment princess was used to.”

You reached up, brushing your fingers along his jaw before leaning in to press a slow kiss to his lips.

“Princess will settle for kisses every day for now,” you said against him. “If that’s okay.”

He hummed softly, the sound vibrating beneath your cheek as you settled back down. His arms tightened, just slightly, as you listened to his heartbeat.

“well, who invites an ex to their wedding?”

“didn't know we broke up," he said, a lilt of humour to his tone.

and he would be excruciatingly, exquisitely right. you weren't exes exactly. exes had anniversaries and friends who picked sides after a break up. you two didn't have a break up. you two had none of these things.

satoru walked up the stairs a little, to take a glance through the windows. inside, your husband was laughing as one of the children clung to his arm triumphantly.

“he seems normal,” he said.

you snorted softly despite yourself. “that’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said about someone i dated. and he is.”

"sorry i'm late," he says. "i had to pick out a gift."

“a gift?”

“what?” he tilted his head innocently. “i can’t support your terrible life decisions?”

you narrowed your eyes. “so, where is my gift then?”

"right here," his finger pointed lazily toward himself.

you tilt your head, crossing your arm with a frown. of course.

for a brief second your mind flits through images of him, in different shades and different lightings. always young.

conjuring up an image of the boy who used to would buy and eat dessert from the same fork with you after bloodstained missions. at the boy who you shared rows on planes neither of you remembered boarding. at the man who kissed you in hotel elevators at three in the morning.

inside, the music changed, shifting into something slower.

i’ll be your dream, i’ll be your wish, i’ll be your fantasy…

the melody spilled through the open terrace as someone turned the volume up.

“will you dance with me?” he asked.

you looked at him for a long moment.

“isn’t that horribly inappropriate?" you asked, almost genuinely.

“it’s only a dance.” he was watching you carefully now. not hint of humour. just waiting.

you should say no, you think. instead, you say. “one song.”

his hand unfolded, now open toward you.

in return, you enclosed your palms in his.

he led you farther down the garden, a little closer to the music, but somehow away from the eyes inside.

gravel crunched beneath his shoes. somewhere nearby, you briefly noticed a bright jasmine blooming so richly against the green.

satoru danced beautifully, effortlessly, and infuriatingly so. as he did most things.

you let him guide you to the music. his body did all the work while you followed his movements with each spin, as your arms now encircled around his neck.

“you were always terrible at this,” he murmured.

you conjure another faint memory of your old cramped apartment after a mission that left all of you downtrodden in spirit. shoko was half asleep on the couch. suguru laughing into his drink. nanami had left right after the mission was over.

dancing that night was his idea of evading the sadness that had started to fill up the room. he had started with shoko, flailing her around the room before she grew tired, and then geto, followed by you.

you, who had scarcely danced before. satoru grabbed onto your wrist and spun you around recklessly through the quaint living room while jazz crackled from the old speaker you've now sold on ebay. you stepped on his feet over and over while he merely grinned back in response.

"must you be mean to me on my wedding night," you chided.

“no.” his mouth brushed near your temple when he spoke. “i’m just wondering how the first dance went.”

"you should've showed up on time then."

“showing up unannounced to your wedding,” he mused, “would be too much even for me.”

"you're here now."

“yes.” his hands settled at your waist, warm even through the silk. “if i’d come earlier, you might’ve left him for me.”

"ha." your laugh came too quickly. “never.”

drawing you closer to him, you rested your cheek against his chest. gojo's hands slid down over slowly to rest against the slope of your waist now.

"you cut your hair." his voice reverberating through his chest as he spoke.

“about a year ago,” you hummed.

"it suits you." he said. "it's nice."

his hand stays warm against your waist as the two of you sway slowly beneath the terrace lights. somewhere inside, someone whistles loudly enough to be heard through the open doors. laughter ensues.

“you know,” he said eventually, “when suguru told me you were getting married, i thought he was joking.”

“everyone seems deeply shocked i’m capable of commitment.”

“no.” he paused. “i just never pictured you with someone else.”

you swallowed slowly. “you told me once you’d never get married.”

you remembered the scene too vividly.

rain against enormous hotel windows.

“i remember,” he replied.

white sheets tangled around your bare limbs, he lay beside you in some expensive hotel bed.

i’m never getting married.

at twenty-three, you had felt this had little to do with you, and everything to do with the future woman that fell for him. and so, you had laughed on his warm chest and fell asleep moments later.

by twenty-seven, you realised he meant it.

“you really meant it," you said.

“i did.”

“and now?”

you were not certain what you wanted to hear. you were not certain what answer would wound you least. whether you wanted him to say yes, he would marry you now, or no, never you, never anyone.

if anything had changed. if nothing had.

but satoru only looked at you with that a sense of clarity and honesty he reserved for when things were ending and real. “i was never going to get married.”

your fingers curled slightly against the back of his neck.

the song neared its end. you could feel its death approaching in the languid sway of his body.

"hey," you said, stepping back, finally detaching from him for what you could only hope was the last time.

he hummed in response, expectantly.

“i’ll send you an invitation to the baby shower.”

"how kind of you," he said with a smile. "i'll see you then."

“and for god’s sake,” you added weakly, feeling your throat closing in now. “you’re rich. you better show up with a better gift.”

his smile widened then, bright, but something only vaguely akin to the boy you used to know.

“with the best gift,” he promised.

the song they danced to if anyone cares!!!

your eyes light up at the sight of him as you pull him by the lapels of his coat into your bedroom.

kento sinks his teeth a little, secretly relishing in the moan it brings out of you. “and is that why you’ve thrown this tantrum?”

“‘s not a tantrum,” you grumble breathlessly, melting beneath his touch. you were weak to the roughness of his large calloused hands; the hands of a man who has fought all his life. “even if it was, who cares? you serve me, kento.”

technically, he didn’t. kento's purpose was to keep your father levelheaded on all matters, to be the voice of reason who’s taken all possibilities into consideration. but then again, he’s still a citizen of this kingdom so you're somewhat right.

"i don't serve you," he grits, running his hands down your sides to lift you onto your vanity. he greedily pushes the dainty hem of your gown higher up your thighs.

and you sigh at this, wrapping your legs around his middle, locking your ankles behind his back. "mmm, yeah yeah. whatever you say."

“are you satisfied?” he grits out, desperate to remain the voice of reason. but he wants nothing more than to ravish you; to make you moan and beg for him to ruin you. his mind is spinning. “everyone is still waiting. the king—your father—will hear of this from the others when he returns.”

“so? they can wait.” you scoff, petulant as ever. it's true, too. everyone will wait for you because your input on international relations is vital. “I’ve missed you terribly. I missed you so much that I even read that boring book you left here.”

you cup his face then, bringing his lips to yours in soft pecks that slowly deepened into a sensual kiss. kento breathes out through his nose, groaning into your mouth as he squeezes harshly at your hips. he kisses you feverishly, succumbing to your seduction once again—reduced to a mere man at the mercy of a beautiful girl.

there’s countless women who are better suited for him. women who aren’t spoiled brats. women who wouldn’t throw a fit and delay important meetings just because she missed him—just because she wants to get fucked. women who don’t purposely sabotage each and every attempt your father has made to match kento with someone.

you tilt your head back as kento leaves open mouthed kisses along your neck once more. he wants to mark you so badly—to claim you as his once and for all. the sounds of your ardor echo in your large bedchambers, these walls always privy to this forbidden union.

A wounded noise escaped him.

"That was one time."

Your eyes remained fixed on the page before you. The paper crackled softly as you adjusted it.

“You flirted with a grocery clerk."

“She sold me good bread.”

“She sold your Mii bread.” You rolled your eyes, though it wasn't lost on you that you were feeling a real annoyance in this matter.

The screen lit his face ghost-blue as he groaned dramatically. “No, no, no— she just said she needs space. What does that mean, baby?”

You turned the page.

"Then give her space."

"But what does it mean?"

“It means,” you said, “even my digital self finds you really annoying.”

He rolled over instantly, strong enough that the mattress dipped beneath his weight. White hair wild and cascading against your blue pillow.

And then, softer he asked. “But she still likes me, right?”

You stared down now over the edges of your paperwork. A man who could stare down curses without blinking. The strongest sorcerer alive looked genuinely troubled by the emotional wellbeing of a digital approximation of yourself. You could laugh in amusement right now.

“I don't know, Satoru,” you said. “She asked for space. Leave the poor girl alone.” And pay attention to me. The thought appeared uninvited, but you weren't the kind of person to say it out loud.

He hummed to himself, unconvinced, turning the console back toward himself. "I don't think she's actually mad."

“You literally just said she asked for space.”

“Yeah, but before that she gave my Mii cold medicine when he got sick.”

"What?" You blinked.

He shoved the screen in your direction.

There, rendered in cheerful little graphics, was a notification.

YOUR SWEETHEART TOOK CARE OF YOU WHEN YOU WERE FEELING DOWN.

A strange irritation unfurled inside you. It was immediate.

Because somewhere between exorcising curses, surviving near-death experiences, Satoru had apparently found a way to miss you inside a video game.

Even when you were sitting right next to him.

You frown, you couldn't believe the feelings you were generating right now.

"Satoru."

"What?"

"Nothing,” you frowned, as you lowered your gaze to the paperwork.

—

He sat upright so abruptly the mattress bounced beneath both of you. The sudden movement had also sent the scattered reports trembling across the blanket.

"Satoru,” you groaned.

"Our Miis had a baby."

You stared at him.

"Wow," you remarked. “Our Miis move fast. It's been twenty minutes."

"We have a son," he announces with almost genuine pride. The way he said it made it sound less like a video game update and more like he had just emerged from an actual delivery room.

You closed your eyes.

"Congratulations."

"No, look."

The mattress shifted beneath his weight as he crawled toward you. Before you could object, he had thrusted the console beneath your nose.

"Here."

A tiny digital child waved enthusiastically from the screen. White hair and bright blue eyes except it was tiny and round-faced.

The thing was a miniature version of him, as though someone had compressed Satoru into a pocket-sized creature and softened away any sharp features he had.

The creature waved again, and for one horrifying second, you thought it was actually kind of cute.

"Oh my god," he whispered. Completely enamoured. "Look at his little face."

"Satoru."

"What?"

"Turn it off already, Satoru." You gestured vaguely toward the paperwork littering the bed. "You've barely touched a single one of your reports."

He looked scandalised almost instantly. "Turn off our son, you say?"

"Our son isn't real."

The digital child chose that exact moment to blow a heart toward the screen. Tiny sparkles exploded around its head. A little chiming sound followed.

You had a heart after all, damn it.

The game had clearly understood emotional manipulation. And unfortunately for you, so did Satoru.

Satoru gasped. One hand flew to his chest. "He loves us."

"He is just code."

"That's an incredibly cruel thing to say about your child."

An amused sigh escaped you despite yourself as you dropped your head back against the headboard. Tired.

The pillow was cool where sunlight hadn't touched it. The cotton smelled faintly of detergent and the expensive shampoo Satoru insisted on using.

Your eyes drifted back toward the screen he held. Your eyes narrowed as the child was still waving.

"Oh my god, Satoru. Did you name him Gojo Junior," you rolled your eyes. "Remind me to never give you reign over our actual child's name."

His smile had gone strangely still, and there was a pause before he spoke up.

"Our actual child, you say." He repeated carefully.

Heat flooded your face instantly. "No, I meant—"

His grin widened. "That we're going to have actual children in the future?"

"No."

"And you have their names picked out already?"

"I said, child," you groaned again at your misstep. "I only meant—”

"I can settle on a single child," he says, and you think, genuinely. "One child is reasonable."

"I wasn't negotiating,” you groaned. “I didn't say anything. Leave me alone.”

"You most definitely did say it."

Your face immediately felt hot. Your boyfriend was now staring at you like you'd just handed him a marriage certificate and big fat ring with it.

"Satoru."

"Yes, sweetheart?" God, he could be so smug.

"Don't."

"Don't what?" His grin widened, his teeth shining as white as his hair.

"You know exactly what."

"I know that my lovely girlfriend accidentally admitted she's planning our future."

"I did not."

He sat up straighter then, suddenly deep in thought. “Huh.”

You narrowed your eyes. “Huh what now?"

"No, I'm just thinking."

"That's never good,” you say.

"Would they have your eyes?"

You blink twice. “Think your family would kill me if they don't have your eyes,” you say genuinely.

He considered this seriously. Then looked at you. "But yours are prettier."

You snorted. "They're plain."

"Prettier."

"They're not."

"They are too."

You frown, trying to look out the unassuming window. "Hopefully our child inherits my common sense."

"Rude,” he says, feeling scandalised yet again.

"It wasn't meant to be."

"It absolutely was."

The tiny digital child chose that exact moment to clap enthusiastically.

As though participating in the discussion. As if agreeing with you.

Your mouth twitched despite yourself.

"There it is,” Satoru said then.

You glanced back at him, softly now. "What now?"

"You’re smiling.” He pointed at your face, almost genuinely, with an almost childish satisfaction.

You think that's the ability Satoru had, to make things so light.

Yesterday, you had watched the blood stain his uniform. You had watched exhaustion strike black beneath his eyes. You had tried to listen to Shoko and the higher ups while you were pretending not to be afraid yourself. Pretending to be grown and brave.

Yet now he sat before you arguing over a digital child.

"You're smiling so much," he said. "You do love our child after all."

You rolled your eyes again, though this time in jest. Your affection barely hidden now.

A wounded noise escaped him.

"That was one time."

Your eyes remained fixed on the page before you. The paper crackled softly as you adjusted it.

“You flirted with a grocery clerk."

“She sold me good bread.”

“She sold your Mii bread.” You rolled your eyes, though it wasn't lost on you that you were feeling a real annoyance in this matter.

The screen lit his face ghost-blue as he groaned dramatically. “No, no, no— she just said she needs space. What does that mean, baby?”

You turned the page.

"Then give her space."

"But what does it mean?"

“It means,” you said, “even my digital self finds you really annoying.”

He rolled over instantly, strong enough that the mattress dipped beneath his weight. White hair wild and cascading against your blue pillow.

And then, softer he asked. “But she still likes me, right?”

You stared down now over the edges of your paperwork. A man who could stare down curses without blinking. The strongest sorcerer alive looked genuinely troubled by the emotional wellbeing of a digital approximation of yourself. You could laugh in amusement right now.

“I don't know, Satoru,” you said. “She asked for space. Leave the poor girl alone.” And pay attention to me. The thought appeared uninvited, but you weren't the kind of person to say it out loud.

He hummed to himself, unconvinced, turning the console back toward himself. "I don't think she's actually mad."

“You literally just said she asked for space.”

“Yeah, but before that she gave my Mii cold medicine when he got sick.”

"What?" You blinked.

He shoved the screen in your direction.

There, rendered in cheerful little graphics, was a notification.

YOUR SWEETHEART TOOK CARE OF YOU WHEN YOU WERE FEELING DOWN.

A strange irritation unfurled inside you. It was immediate.

Because somewhere between exorcising curses, surviving near-death experiences, Satoru had apparently found a way to miss you inside a video game.

Even when you were sitting right next to him.

You frown, you couldn't believe the feelings you were generating right now.

"Satoru."

"What?"

"Nothing,” you frowned, as you lowered your gaze to the paperwork.

—

He sat upright so abruptly the mattress bounced beneath both of you. The sudden movement had also sent the scattered reports trembling across the blanket.

"Satoru,” you groaned.

"Our Miis had a baby."

You stared at him.

"Wow," you remarked. “Our Miis move fast. It's been twenty minutes."

"We have a son," he announces with almost genuine pride. The way he said it made it sound less like a video game update and more like he had just emerged from an actual delivery room.

You closed your eyes.

"Congratulations."

"No, look."

The mattress shifted beneath his weight as he crawled toward you. Before you could object, he had thrusted the console beneath your nose.

"Here."

A tiny digital child waved enthusiastically from the screen. White hair and bright blue eyes except it was tiny and round-faced.

The thing was a miniature version of him, as though someone had compressed Satoru into a pocket-sized creature and softened away any sharp features he had.

The creature waved again, and for one horrifying second, you thought it was actually kind of cute.

"Oh my god," he whispered. Completely enamoured. "Look at his little face."

"Satoru."

"What?"

"Turn it off already, Satoru." You gestured vaguely toward the paperwork littering the bed. "You've barely touched a single one of your reports."

He looked scandalised almost instantly. "Turn off our son, you say?"

"Our son isn't real."

The digital child chose that exact moment to blow a heart toward the screen. Tiny sparkles exploded around its head. A little chiming sound followed.

You had a heart after all, damn it.

The game had clearly understood emotional manipulation. And unfortunately for you, so did Satoru.

Satoru gasped. One hand flew to his chest. "He loves us."

"He is just code."

"That's an incredibly cruel thing to say about your child."

An amused sigh escaped you despite yourself as you dropped your head back against the headboard. Tired.

The pillow was cool where sunlight hadn't touched it. The cotton smelled faintly of detergent and the expensive shampoo Satoru insisted on using.

Your eyes drifted back toward the screen he held. Your eyes narrowed as the child was still waving.

"Oh my god, Satoru. Did you name him Gojo Junior," you rolled your eyes. "Remind me to never give you reign over our actual child's name."

His smile had gone strangely still, and there was a pause before he spoke up.

"Our actual child, you say." He repeated carefully.

Heat flooded your face instantly. "No, I meant—"

His grin widened. "That we're going to have actual children in the future?"

"No."

"And you have their names picked out already?"

"I said, child," you groaned again at your misstep. "I only meant—”

"I can settle on a single child," he says, and you think, genuinely. "One child is reasonable."

"I wasn't negotiating,” you groaned. “I didn't say anything. Leave me alone.”

"You most definitely did say it."

Your face immediately felt hot. Your boyfriend was now staring at you like you'd just handed him a marriage certificate and big fat ring with it.

"Satoru."

"Yes, sweetheart?" God, he could be so smug.

"Don't."

"Don't what?" His grin widened, his teeth shining as white as his hair.

"You know exactly what."

"I know that my lovely girlfriend accidentally admitted she's planning our future."

"I did not."

He sat up straighter then, suddenly deep in thought. “Huh.”

You narrowed your eyes. “Huh what now?"

"No, I'm just thinking."

"That's never good,” you say.

"Would they have your eyes?"

You blink twice. “Think your family would kill me if they don't have your eyes,” you say genuinely.

He considered this seriously. Then looked at you. "But yours are prettier."

You snorted. "They're plain."

"Prettier."

"They're not."

"They are too."

You frown, trying to look out the unassuming window. "Hopefully our child inherits my common sense."

"Rude,” he says, feeling scandalised yet again.

"It wasn't meant to be."

"It absolutely was."

The tiny digital child chose that exact moment to clap enthusiastically.

As though participating in the discussion. As if agreeing with you.

Your mouth twitched despite yourself.

"There it is,” Satoru said then.

You glanced back at him, softly now. "What now?"

"You’re smiling.” He pointed at your face, almost genuinely, with an almost childish satisfaction.

You think that's the ability Satoru had, to make things so light.

Yesterday, you had watched the blood stain his uniform. You had watched exhaustion strike black beneath his eyes. You had tried to listen to Shoko and the higher ups while you were pretending not to be afraid yourself. Pretending to be grown and brave.

Yet now he sat before you arguing over a digital child.

"You're smiling so much," he said. "You do love our child after all."

You rolled your eyes again, though this time in jest. Your affection barely hidden now.

A wounded noise escaped him.

"That was one time."

Your eyes remained fixed on the page before you. The paper crackled softly as you adjusted it.

“You flirted with a grocery clerk."

“She sold me good bread.”

“She sold your Mii bread.” You rolled your eyes, though it wasn't lost on you that you were feeling a real annoyance in this matter.

The screen lit his face ghost-blue as he groaned dramatically. “No, no, no— she just said she needs space. What does that mean, baby?”

You turned the page.

"Then give her space."

"But what does it mean?"

“It means,” you said, “even my digital self finds you really annoying.”

He rolled over instantly, strong enough that the mattress dipped beneath his weight. White hair wild and cascading against your blue pillow.

And then, softer he asked. “But she still likes me, right?”

You stared down now over the edges of your paperwork. A man who could stare down curses without blinking. The strongest sorcerer alive looked genuinely troubled by the emotional wellbeing of a digital approximation of yourself. You could laugh in amusement right now.

“I don't know, Satoru,” you said. “She asked for space. Leave the poor girl alone.” And pay attention to me. The thought appeared uninvited, but you weren't the kind of person to say it out loud.

He hummed to himself, unconvinced, turning the console back toward himself. "I don't think she's actually mad."

“You literally just said she asked for space.”

“Yeah, but before that she gave my Mii cold medicine when he got sick.”

"What?" You blinked.

He shoved the screen in your direction.

There, rendered in cheerful little graphics, was a notification.

YOUR SWEETHEART TOOK CARE OF YOU WHEN YOU WERE FEELING DOWN.

A strange irritation unfurled inside you. It was immediate.

Because somewhere between exorcising curses, surviving near-death experiences, Satoru had apparently found a way to miss you inside a video game.

Even when you were sitting right next to him.

You frown, you couldn't believe the feelings you were generating right now.

"Satoru."

"What?"

"Nothing,” you frowned, as you lowered your gaze to the paperwork.

—

He sat upright so abruptly the mattress bounced beneath both of you. The sudden movement had also sent the scattered reports trembling across the blanket.

"Satoru,” you groaned.

"Our Miis had a baby."

You stared at him.

"Wow," you remarked. “Our Miis move fast. It's been twenty minutes."

"We have a son," he announces with almost genuine pride. The way he said it made it sound less like a video game update and more like he had just emerged from an actual delivery room.

You closed your eyes.

"Congratulations."

"No, look."

The mattress shifted beneath his weight as he crawled toward you. Before you could object, he had thrusted the console beneath your nose.

"Here."

A tiny digital child waved enthusiastically from the screen. White hair and bright blue eyes except it was tiny and round-faced.

The thing was a miniature version of him, as though someone had compressed Satoru into a pocket-sized creature and softened away any sharp features he had.

The creature waved again, and for one horrifying second, you thought it was actually kind of cute.

"Oh my god," he whispered. Completely enamoured. "Look at his little face."

"Satoru."

"What?"

"Turn it off already, Satoru." You gestured vaguely toward the paperwork littering the bed. "You've barely touched a single one of your reports."

He looked scandalised almost instantly. "Turn off our son, you say?"

"Our son isn't real."

The digital child chose that exact moment to blow a heart toward the screen. Tiny sparkles exploded around its head. A little chiming sound followed.

You had a heart after all, damn it.

The game had clearly understood emotional manipulation. And unfortunately for you, so did Satoru.

Satoru gasped. One hand flew to his chest. "He loves us."

"He is just code."

"That's an incredibly cruel thing to say about your child."

An amused sigh escaped you despite yourself as you dropped your head back against the headboard. Tired.

The pillow was cool where sunlight hadn't touched it. The cotton smelled faintly of detergent and the expensive shampoo Satoru insisted on using.

Your eyes drifted back toward the screen he held. Your eyes narrowed as the child was still waving.

"Oh my god, Satoru. Did you name him Gojo Junior," you rolled your eyes. "Remind me to never give you reign over our actual child's name."

His smile had gone strangely still, and there was a pause before he spoke up.

"Our actual child, you say." He repeated carefully.

Heat flooded your face instantly. "No, I meant—"

His grin widened. "That we're going to have actual children in the future?"

"No."

"And you have their names picked out already?"

"I said, child," you groaned again at your misstep. "I only meant—”

"I can settle on a single child," he says, and you think, genuinely. "One child is reasonable."

"I wasn't negotiating,” you groaned. “I didn't say anything. Leave me alone.”

"You most definitely did say it."

Your face immediately felt hot. Your boyfriend was now staring at you like you'd just handed him a marriage certificate and big fat ring with it.

"Satoru."

"Yes, sweetheart?" God, he could be so smug.

"Don't."

"Don't what?" His grin widened, his teeth shining as white as his hair.

"You know exactly what."

"I know that my lovely girlfriend accidentally admitted she's planning our future."

"I did not."

He sat up straighter then, suddenly deep in thought. “Huh.”

You narrowed your eyes. “Huh what now?"

"No, I'm just thinking."

"That's never good,” you say.

"Would they have your eyes?"

You blink twice. “Think your family would kill me if they don't have your eyes,” you say genuinely.

He considered this seriously. Then looked at you. "But yours are prettier."

You snorted. "They're plain."

"Prettier."

"They're not."

"They are too."

You frown, trying to look out the unassuming window. "Hopefully our child inherits my common sense."

"Rude,” he says, feeling scandalised yet again.

"It wasn't meant to be."

"It absolutely was."

The tiny digital child chose that exact moment to clap enthusiastically.

As though participating in the discussion. As if agreeing with you.

Your mouth twitched despite yourself.

"There it is,” Satoru said then.

You glanced back at him, softly now. "What now?"

"You’re smiling.” He pointed at your face, almost genuinely, with an almost childish satisfaction.

You think that's the ability Satoru had, to make things so light.

Yesterday, you had watched the blood stain his uniform. You had watched exhaustion strike black beneath his eyes. You had tried to listen to Shoko and the higher ups while you were pretending not to be afraid yourself. Pretending to be grown and brave.

Yet now he sat before you arguing over a digital child.

"You're smiling so much," he said. "You do love our child after all."

You rolled your eyes again, though this time in jest. Your affection barely hidden now.

A wounded noise escaped him.

"That was one time."

Your eyes remained fixed on the page before you. The paper crackled softly as you adjusted it.

“You flirted with a grocery clerk."

“She sold me good bread.”

“She sold your Mii bread.” You rolled your eyes, though it wasn't lost on you that you were feeling a real annoyance in this matter.

The screen lit his face ghost-blue as he groaned dramatically. “No, no, no— she just said she needs space. What does that mean, baby?”

You turned the page.

"Then give her space."

"But what does it mean?"

“It means,” you said, “even my digital self finds you really annoying.”

He rolled over instantly, strong enough that the mattress dipped beneath his weight. White hair wild and cascading against your blue pillow.

And then, softer he asked. “But she still likes me, right?”

You stared down now over the edges of your paperwork. A man who could stare down curses without blinking. The strongest sorcerer alive looked genuinely troubled by the emotional wellbeing of a digital approximation of yourself. You could laugh in amusement right now.

“I don't know, Satoru,” you said. “She asked for space. Leave the poor girl alone.” And pay attention to me. The thought appeared uninvited, but you weren't the kind of person to say it out loud.

He hummed to himself, unconvinced, turning the console back toward himself. "I don't think she's actually mad."

“You literally just said she asked for space.”

“Yeah, but before that she gave my Mii cold medicine when he got sick.”

"What?" You blinked.

He shoved the screen in your direction.

There, rendered in cheerful little graphics, was a notification.

YOUR SWEETHEART TOOK CARE OF YOU WHEN YOU WERE FEELING DOWN.

A strange irritation unfurled inside you. It was immediate.

Because somewhere between exorcising curses, surviving near-death experiences, Satoru had apparently found a way to miss you inside a video game.

Even when you were sitting right next to him.

You frown, you couldn't believe the feelings you were generating right now.

"Satoru."

"What?"

"Nothing,” you frowned, as you lowered your gaze to the paperwork.

—

He sat upright so abruptly the mattress bounced beneath both of you. The sudden movement had also sent the scattered reports trembling across the blanket.

"Satoru,” you groaned.

"Our Miis had a baby."

You stared at him.

"Wow," you remarked. “Our Miis move fast. It's been twenty minutes."

"We have a son," he announces with almost genuine pride. The way he said it made it sound less like a video game update and more like he had just emerged from an actual delivery room.

You closed your eyes.

"Congratulations."

"No, look."

The mattress shifted beneath his weight as he crawled toward you. Before you could object, he had thrusted the console beneath your nose.

"Here."

A tiny digital child waved enthusiastically from the screen. White hair and bright blue eyes except it was tiny and round-faced.

The thing was a miniature version of him, as though someone had compressed Satoru into a pocket-sized creature and softened away any sharp features he had.

The creature waved again, and for one horrifying second, you thought it was actually kind of cute.

"Oh my god," he whispered. Completely enamoured. "Look at his little face."

"Satoru."

"What?"

"Turn it off already, Satoru." You gestured vaguely toward the paperwork littering the bed. "You've barely touched a single one of your reports."

He looked scandalised almost instantly. "Turn off our son, you say?"

"Our son isn't real."

The digital child chose that exact moment to blow a heart toward the screen. Tiny sparkles exploded around its head. A little chiming sound followed.

You had a heart after all, damn it.

The game had clearly understood emotional manipulation. And unfortunately for you, so did Satoru.

Satoru gasped. One hand flew to his chest. "He loves us."

"He is just code."

"That's an incredibly cruel thing to say about your child."

An amused sigh escaped you despite yourself as you dropped your head back against the headboard. Tired.

The pillow was cool where sunlight hadn't touched it. The cotton smelled faintly of detergent and the expensive shampoo Satoru insisted on using.

Your eyes drifted back toward the screen he held. Your eyes narrowed as the child was still waving.

"Oh my god, Satoru. Did you name him Gojo Junior," you rolled your eyes. "Remind me to never give you reign over our actual child's name."

His smile had gone strangely still, and there was a pause before he spoke up.

"Our actual child, you say." He repeated carefully.

Heat flooded your face instantly. "No, I meant—"

His grin widened. "That we're going to have actual children in the future?"

"No."

"And you have their names picked out already?"

"I said, child," you groaned again at your misstep. "I only meant—”

"I can settle on a single child," he says, and you think, genuinely. "One child is reasonable."

"I wasn't negotiating,” you groaned. “I didn't say anything. Leave me alone.”

"You most definitely did say it."

Your face immediately felt hot. Your boyfriend was now staring at you like you'd just handed him a marriage certificate and big fat ring with it.

"Satoru."

"Yes, sweetheart?" God, he could be so smug.

"Don't."

"Don't what?" His grin widened, his teeth shining as white as his hair.

"You know exactly what."

"I know that my lovely girlfriend accidentally admitted she's planning our future."

"I did not."

He sat up straighter then, suddenly deep in thought. “Huh.”

You narrowed your eyes. “Huh what now?"

"No, I'm just thinking."

"That's never good,” you say.

"Would they have your eyes?"

You blink twice. “Think your family would kill me if they don't have your eyes,” you say genuinely.

He considered this seriously. Then looked at you. "But yours are prettier."

You snorted. "They're plain."

"Prettier."

"They're not."

"They are too."

You frown, trying to look out the unassuming window. "Hopefully our child inherits my common sense."

"Rude,” he says, feeling scandalised yet again.

"It wasn't meant to be."

"It absolutely was."

The tiny digital child chose that exact moment to clap enthusiastically.

As though participating in the discussion. As if agreeing with you.

Your mouth twitched despite yourself.

"There it is,” Satoru said then.

You glanced back at him, softly now. "What now?"

"You’re smiling.” He pointed at your face, almost genuinely, with an almost childish satisfaction.

You think that's the ability Satoru had, to make things so light.

Yesterday, you had watched the blood stain his uniform. You had watched exhaustion strike black beneath his eyes. You had tried to listen to Shoko and the higher ups while you were pretending not to be afraid yourself. Pretending to be grown and brave.

Yet now he sat before you arguing over a digital child.

"You're smiling so much," he said. "You do love our child after all."

You rolled your eyes again, though this time in jest. Your affection barely hidden now.

A wounded noise escaped him.

"That was one time."

Your eyes remained fixed on the page before you. The paper crackled softly as you adjusted it.

“You flirted with a grocery clerk."

“She sold me good bread.”

“She sold your Mii bread.” You rolled your eyes, though it wasn't lost on you that you were feeling a real annoyance in this matter.

The screen lit his face ghost-blue as he groaned dramatically. “No, no, no— she just said she needs space. What does that mean, baby?”

You turned the page.

"Then give her space."

"But what does it mean?"

“It means,” you said, “even my digital self finds you really annoying.”

He rolled over instantly, strong enough that the mattress dipped beneath his weight. White hair wild and cascading against your blue pillow.

And then, softer he asked. “But she still likes me, right?”

You stared down now over the edges of your paperwork. A man who could stare down curses without blinking. The strongest sorcerer alive looked genuinely troubled by the emotional wellbeing of a digital approximation of yourself. You could laugh in amusement right now.

“I don't know, Satoru,” you said. “She asked for space. Leave the poor girl alone.” And pay attention to me. The thought appeared uninvited, but you weren't the kind of person to say it out loud.

He hummed to himself, unconvinced, turning the console back toward himself. "I don't think she's actually mad."

“You literally just said she asked for space.”

“Yeah, but before that she gave my Mii cold medicine when he got sick.”

"What?" You blinked.

He shoved the screen in your direction.

There, rendered in cheerful little graphics, was a notification.

YOUR SWEETHEART TOOK CARE OF YOU WHEN YOU WERE FEELING DOWN.

A strange irritation unfurled inside you. It was immediate.

Because somewhere between exorcising curses, surviving near-death experiences, Satoru had apparently found a way to miss you inside a video game.

Even when you were sitting right next to him.

You frown, you couldn't believe the feelings you were generating right now.

"Satoru."

"What?"

"Nothing,” you frowned, as you lowered your gaze to the paperwork.

—

He sat upright so abruptly the mattress bounced beneath both of you. The sudden movement had also sent the scattered reports trembling across the blanket.

"Satoru,” you groaned.

"Our Miis had a baby."

You stared at him.

"Wow," you remarked. “Our Miis move fast. It's been twenty minutes."

"We have a son," he announces with almost genuine pride. The way he said it made it sound less like a video game update and more like he had just emerged from an actual delivery room.

You closed your eyes.

"Congratulations."

"No, look."

The mattress shifted beneath his weight as he crawled toward you. Before you could object, he had thrusted the console beneath your nose.

"Here."

A tiny digital child waved enthusiastically from the screen. White hair and bright blue eyes except it was tiny and round-faced.

The thing was a miniature version of him, as though someone had compressed Satoru into a pocket-sized creature and softened away any sharp features he had.

The creature waved again, and for one horrifying second, you thought it was actually kind of cute.

"Oh my god," he whispered. Completely enamoured. "Look at his little face."

"Satoru."

"What?"

"Turn it off already, Satoru." You gestured vaguely toward the paperwork littering the bed. "You've barely touched a single one of your reports."

He looked scandalised almost instantly. "Turn off our son, you say?"

"Our son isn't real."

The digital child chose that exact moment to blow a heart toward the screen. Tiny sparkles exploded around its head. A little chiming sound followed.

You had a heart after all, damn it.

The game had clearly understood emotional manipulation. And unfortunately for you, so did Satoru.

Satoru gasped. One hand flew to his chest. "He loves us."

"He is just code."

"That's an incredibly cruel thing to say about your child."

An amused sigh escaped you despite yourself as you dropped your head back against the headboard. Tired.

The pillow was cool where sunlight hadn't touched it. The cotton smelled faintly of detergent and the expensive shampoo Satoru insisted on using.

Your eyes drifted back toward the screen he held. Your eyes narrowed as the child was still waving.

"Oh my god, Satoru. Did you name him Gojo Junior," you rolled your eyes. "Remind me to never give you reign over our actual child's name."

His smile had gone strangely still, and there was a pause before he spoke up.

"Our actual child, you say." He repeated carefully.

Heat flooded your face instantly. "No, I meant—"

His grin widened. "That we're going to have actual children in the future?"

"No."

"And you have their names picked out already?"

"I said, child," you groaned again at your misstep. "I only meant—”

"I can settle on a single child," he says, and you think, genuinely. "One child is reasonable."

"I wasn't negotiating,” you groaned. “I didn't say anything. Leave me alone.”

"You most definitely did say it."

Your face immediately felt hot. Your boyfriend was now staring at you like you'd just handed him a marriage certificate and big fat ring with it.

"Satoru."

"Yes, sweetheart?" God, he could be so smug.

"Don't."

"Don't what?" His grin widened, his teeth shining as white as his hair.

"You know exactly what."

"I know that my lovely girlfriend accidentally admitted she's planning our future."

"I did not."

He sat up straighter then, suddenly deep in thought. “Huh.”

You narrowed your eyes. “Huh what now?"

"No, I'm just thinking."

"That's never good,” you say.

"Would they have your eyes?"

You blink twice. “Think your family would kill me if they don't have your eyes,” you say genuinely.

He considered this seriously. Then looked at you. "But yours are prettier."

You snorted. "They're plain."

"Prettier."

"They're not."

"They are too."

You frown, trying to look out the unassuming window. "Hopefully our child inherits my common sense."

"Rude,” he says, feeling scandalised yet again.

"It wasn't meant to be."

"It absolutely was."

The tiny digital child chose that exact moment to clap enthusiastically.

As though participating in the discussion. As if agreeing with you.

Your mouth twitched despite yourself.

"There it is,” Satoru said then.

You glanced back at him, softly now. "What now?"

"You’re smiling.” He pointed at your face, almost genuinely, with an almost childish satisfaction.

You think that's the ability Satoru had, to make things so light.

Yesterday, you had watched the blood stain his uniform. You had watched exhaustion strike black beneath his eyes. You had tried to listen to Shoko and the higher ups while you were pretending not to be afraid yourself. Pretending to be grown and brave.

Yet now he sat before you arguing over a digital child.

"You're smiling so much," he said. "You do love our child after all."

You rolled your eyes again, though this time in jest. Your affection barely hidden now.

A wounded noise escaped him.

"That was one time."

Your eyes remained fixed on the page before you. The paper crackled softly as you adjusted it.

“You flirted with a grocery clerk."

“She sold me good bread.”

“She sold your Mii bread.” You rolled your eyes, though it wasn't lost on you that you were feeling a real annoyance in this matter.

The screen lit his face ghost-blue as he groaned dramatically. “No, no, no— she just said she needs space. What does that mean, baby?”

You turned the page.

"Then give her space."

"But what does it mean?"

“It means,” you said, “even my digital self finds you really annoying.”

He rolled over instantly, strong enough that the mattress dipped beneath his weight. White hair wild and cascading against your blue pillow.

And then, softer he asked. “But she still likes me, right?”

You stared down now over the edges of your paperwork. A man who could stare down curses without blinking. The strongest sorcerer alive looked genuinely troubled by the emotional wellbeing of a digital approximation of yourself. You could laugh in amusement right now.

“I don't know, Satoru,” you said. “She asked for space. Leave the poor girl alone.” And pay attention to me. The thought appeared uninvited, but you weren't the kind of person to say it out loud.

He hummed to himself, unconvinced, turning the console back toward himself. "I don't think she's actually mad."

“You literally just said she asked for space.”

“Yeah, but before that she gave my Mii cold medicine when he got sick.”

"What?" You blinked.

He shoved the screen in your direction.

There, rendered in cheerful little graphics, was a notification.

YOUR SWEETHEART TOOK CARE OF YOU WHEN YOU WERE FEELING DOWN.

A strange irritation unfurled inside you. It was immediate.

Because somewhere between exorcising curses, surviving near-death experiences, Satoru had apparently found a way to miss you inside a video game.

Even when you were sitting right next to him.

You frown, you couldn't believe the feelings you were generating right now.

"Satoru."

"What?"

"Nothing,” you frowned, as you lowered your gaze to the paperwork.

—

He sat upright so abruptly the mattress bounced beneath both of you. The sudden movement had also sent the scattered reports trembling across the blanket.

"Satoru,” you groaned.

"Our Miis had a baby."

You stared at him.

"Wow," you remarked. “Our Miis move fast. It's been twenty minutes."

"We have a son," he announces with almost genuine pride. The way he said it made it sound less like a video game update and more like he had just emerged from an actual delivery room.

You closed your eyes.

"Congratulations."

"No, look."

The mattress shifted beneath his weight as he crawled toward you. Before you could object, he had thrusted the console beneath your nose.

"Here."

A tiny digital child waved enthusiastically from the screen. White hair and bright blue eyes except it was tiny and round-faced.

The thing was a miniature version of him, as though someone had compressed Satoru into a pocket-sized creature and softened away any sharp features he had.

The creature waved again, and for one horrifying second, you thought it was actually kind of cute.

"Oh my god," he whispered. Completely enamoured. "Look at his little face."

"Satoru."

"What?"

"Turn it off already, Satoru." You gestured vaguely toward the paperwork littering the bed. "You've barely touched a single one of your reports."

He looked scandalised almost instantly. "Turn off our son, you say?"

"Our son isn't real."

The digital child chose that exact moment to blow a heart toward the screen. Tiny sparkles exploded around its head. A little chiming sound followed.

You had a heart after all, damn it.

The game had clearly understood emotional manipulation. And unfortunately for you, so did Satoru.

Satoru gasped. One hand flew to his chest. "He loves us."

"He is just code."

"That's an incredibly cruel thing to say about your child."

An amused sigh escaped you despite yourself as you dropped your head back against the headboard. Tired.

The pillow was cool where sunlight hadn't touched it. The cotton smelled faintly of detergent and the expensive shampoo Satoru insisted on using.

Your eyes drifted back toward the screen he held. Your eyes narrowed as the child was still waving.

"Oh my god, Satoru. Did you name him Gojo Junior," you rolled your eyes. "Remind me to never give you reign over our actual child's name."

His smile had gone strangely still, and there was a pause before he spoke up.

"Our actual child, you say." He repeated carefully.

Heat flooded your face instantly. "No, I meant—"

His grin widened. "That we're going to have actual children in the future?"

"No."

"And you have their names picked out already?"

"I said, child," you groaned again at your misstep. "I only meant—”

"I can settle on a single child," he says, and you think, genuinely. "One child is reasonable."

"I wasn't negotiating,” you groaned. “I didn't say anything. Leave me alone.”

"You most definitely did say it."

Your face immediately felt hot. Your boyfriend was now staring at you like you'd just handed him a marriage certificate and big fat ring with it.

"Satoru."

"Yes, sweetheart?" God, he could be so smug.

"Don't."

"Don't what?" His grin widened, his teeth shining as white as his hair.

"You know exactly what."

"I know that my lovely girlfriend accidentally admitted she's planning our future."

"I did not."

He sat up straighter then, suddenly deep in thought. “Huh.”

You narrowed your eyes. “Huh what now?"

"No, I'm just thinking."

"That's never good,” you say.

"Would they have your eyes?"

You blink twice. “Think your family would kill me if they don't have your eyes,” you say genuinely.

He considered this seriously. Then looked at you. "But yours are prettier."

You snorted. "They're plain."

"Prettier."

"They're not."

"They are too."

You frown, trying to look out the unassuming window. "Hopefully our child inherits my common sense."

"Rude,” he says, feeling scandalised yet again.

"It wasn't meant to be."

"It absolutely was."

The tiny digital child chose that exact moment to clap enthusiastically.

As though participating in the discussion. As if agreeing with you.

Your mouth twitched despite yourself.

"There it is,” Satoru said then.

You glanced back at him, softly now. "What now?"

"You’re smiling.” He pointed at your face, almost genuinely, with an almost childish satisfaction.

You think that's the ability Satoru had, to make things so light.

Yesterday, you had watched the blood stain his uniform. You had watched exhaustion strike black beneath his eyes. You had tried to listen to Shoko and the higher ups while you were pretending not to be afraid yourself. Pretending to be grown and brave.

Yet now he sat before you arguing over a digital child.

"You're smiling so much," he said. "You do love our child after all."

You rolled your eyes again, though this time in jest. Your affection barely hidden now.

A wounded noise escaped him.

"That was one time."

Your eyes remained fixed on the page before you. The paper crackled softly as you adjusted it.

“You flirted with a grocery clerk."

“She sold me good bread.”

“She sold your Mii bread.” You rolled your eyes, though it wasn't lost on you that you were feeling a real annoyance in this matter.

The screen lit his face ghost-blue as he groaned dramatically. “No, no, no— she just said she needs space. What does that mean, baby?”

You turned the page.

"Then give her space."

"But what does it mean?"

“It means,” you said, “even my digital self finds you really annoying.”

He rolled over instantly, strong enough that the mattress dipped beneath his weight. White hair wild and cascading against your blue pillow.

And then, softer he asked. “But she still likes me, right?”

You stared down now over the edges of your paperwork. A man who could stare down curses without blinking. The strongest sorcerer alive looked genuinely troubled by the emotional wellbeing of a digital approximation of yourself. You could laugh in amusement right now.

“I don't know, Satoru,” you said. “She asked for space. Leave the poor girl alone.” And pay attention to me. The thought appeared uninvited, but you weren't the kind of person to say it out loud.

He hummed to himself, unconvinced, turning the console back toward himself. "I don't think she's actually mad."

“You literally just said she asked for space.”

“Yeah, but before that she gave my Mii cold medicine when he got sick.”

"What?" You blinked.

He shoved the screen in your direction.

There, rendered in cheerful little graphics, was a notification.

YOUR SWEETHEART TOOK CARE OF YOU WHEN YOU WERE FEELING DOWN.

A strange irritation unfurled inside you. It was immediate.

Because somewhere between exorcising curses, surviving near-death experiences, Satoru had apparently found a way to miss you inside a video game.

Even when you were sitting right next to him.

You frown, you couldn't believe the feelings you were generating right now.

"Satoru."

"What?"

"Nothing,” you frowned, as you lowered your gaze to the paperwork.

—

He sat upright so abruptly the mattress bounced beneath both of you. The sudden movement had also sent the scattered reports trembling across the blanket.

"Satoru,” you groaned.

"Our Miis had a baby."

You stared at him.

"Wow," you remarked. “Our Miis move fast. It's been twenty minutes."

"We have a son," he announces with almost genuine pride. The way he said it made it sound less like a video game update and more like he had just emerged from an actual delivery room.

You closed your eyes.

"Congratulations."

"No, look."

The mattress shifted beneath his weight as he crawled toward you. Before you could object, he had thrusted the console beneath your nose.

"Here."

A tiny digital child waved enthusiastically from the screen. White hair and bright blue eyes except it was tiny and round-faced.

The thing was a miniature version of him, as though someone had compressed Satoru into a pocket-sized creature and softened away any sharp features he had.

The creature waved again, and for one horrifying second, you thought it was actually kind of cute.

"Oh my god," he whispered. Completely enamoured. "Look at his little face."

"Satoru."

"What?"

"Turn it off already, Satoru." You gestured vaguely toward the paperwork littering the bed. "You've barely touched a single one of your reports."

He looked scandalised almost instantly. "Turn off our son, you say?"

"Our son isn't real."

The digital child chose that exact moment to blow a heart toward the screen. Tiny sparkles exploded around its head. A little chiming sound followed.

You had a heart after all, damn it.

The game had clearly understood emotional manipulation. And unfortunately for you, so did Satoru.

Satoru gasped. One hand flew to his chest. "He loves us."

"He is just code."

"That's an incredibly cruel thing to say about your child."

An amused sigh escaped you despite yourself as you dropped your head back against the headboard. Tired.

The pillow was cool where sunlight hadn't touched it. The cotton smelled faintly of detergent and the expensive shampoo Satoru insisted on using.

Your eyes drifted back toward the screen he held. Your eyes narrowed as the child was still waving.

"Oh my god, Satoru. Did you name him Gojo Junior," you rolled your eyes. "Remind me to never give you reign over our actual child's name."

His smile had gone strangely still, and there was a pause before he spoke up.

"Our actual child, you say." He repeated carefully.

Heat flooded your face instantly. "No, I meant—"

His grin widened. "That we're going to have actual children in the future?"

"No."

"And you have their names picked out already?"

"I said, child," you groaned again at your misstep. "I only meant—”

"I can settle on a single child," he says, and you think, genuinely. "One child is reasonable."

"I wasn't negotiating,” you groaned. “I didn't say anything. Leave me alone.”

"You most definitely did say it."

Your face immediately felt hot. Your boyfriend was now staring at you like you'd just handed him a marriage certificate and big fat ring with it.

"Satoru."

"Yes, sweetheart?" God, he could be so smug.

"Don't."

"Don't what?" His grin widened, his teeth shining as white as his hair.

"You know exactly what."

"I know that my lovely girlfriend accidentally admitted she's planning our future."

"I did not."

He sat up straighter then, suddenly deep in thought. “Huh.”

You narrowed your eyes. “Huh what now?"

"No, I'm just thinking."

"That's never good,” you say.

"Would they have your eyes?"

You blink twice. “Think your family would kill me if they don't have your eyes,” you say genuinely.

He considered this seriously. Then looked at you. "But yours are prettier."

You snorted. "They're plain."

"Prettier."

"They're not."

"They are too."

You frown, trying to look out the unassuming window. "Hopefully our child inherits my common sense."

"Rude,” he says, feeling scandalised yet again.

"It wasn't meant to be."

"It absolutely was."

The tiny digital child chose that exact moment to clap enthusiastically.

As though participating in the discussion. As if agreeing with you.

Your mouth twitched despite yourself.

"There it is,” Satoru said then.

You glanced back at him, softly now. "What now?"

"You’re smiling.” He pointed at your face, almost genuinely, with an almost childish satisfaction.

You think that's the ability Satoru had, to make things so light.

Yesterday, you had watched the blood stain his uniform. You had watched exhaustion strike black beneath his eyes. You had tried to listen to Shoko and the higher ups while you were pretending not to be afraid yourself. Pretending to be grown and brave.

Yet now he sat before you arguing over a digital child.

"You're smiling so much," he said. "You do love our child after all."

You rolled your eyes again, though this time in jest. Your affection barely hidden now.