SHAESHAEBOO

He didn’t snap. It’s so much worse than that. At least in the eyes of the arrogant boy who got bested by, what he assumed to be a grade two curse because of how pudgy and stupid it looked. The thing that caught him lacking looked like a fucking blob fish that struggled with crippling anxiety, how the hell was he supposed to know that it could mess with timeof all things? 

One moment he’s laughing at the way it looks, the next he’s in the complete dark. 

That was the first time he’s smiled in months, by the way. 

“Huh?” Satoru huffs out, trying to look around before eventually realizing that he has a blindfold on, and rips it off in annoyance. “Don’t tell me that thing knocked me out,” he begins to grumble to himself. It’d explain why he had a blindfold on… but then he realized he was in a completely different outfit, one that you didn’t put on someone who was currently in rest and recovery. 

He highly doubts Shoko would even change him, anyway, at least not for this. 

“Oh hey, you’re home.” 

Home? 

He looks around, and all he knows is this isn’t the dorm he’s continued to stay in after graduation, purely due to the fact that he was already out on missions for up to 18 hours each day. Not to mention that the penthouse he was currently standing in was too clean to be his. Too warm. Way too comfortable.

You already knew there was something deeply off in those first few seconds of looking into his eyes. This wasn’t your husband— this was the hot mess you met and still fell in love with all those years ago. 

You tilt your head to the side, more curious than cautious, “Everything alright?”

“Yeah,” he snorts, literally the worst liar ever. “Why wouldn’t it be?”

“I don’t know,” you hum, holding eye contact long enough to leave him feeling a bit unsettled. “You tell me.”

First of all, who the fuck do you think you are speaking to him like that?

Second, who even are you?

Something big and shiny on your finger catches his attention, then he looks at his own hand that has an equally shiny band around his ring finger. 

Fuck.

“Honey–”

Satoru physically cringes at the pet name, giving himself away once again. 

“I’m not Satoru,” he blurts out, rubbing his eyes in frustration. “I mean, I am, but I’m not— FUCK– some fuckin’ curse blasted me into the future, and I need to go back.”

Well, that was quick. He’s always quick to fold under pressure when it comes to you— it’s something he’s unaware of though, as he fights back the urge to start pacing back and forth. 

There’s a light smack from your mouth when you go to open it, only for the words to never even come, let alone die out. Nothing about this surprises you. This is not the craziest thing that’s happened since you’ve met Satoru. 

Your lips thin into a smile as you take a deep breath, knowing you had no choice but to accept your new circumstances. 

“Okay.”

“Okay?” He raises a brow at how you just… accepted it.

“Yeah… I believe it.” You respond flatly, then point at him, casually motioning your finger up and down. “Your attitude kinda sucked when we first met.”

He grimaces, taken aback by the statement. “No, it doesn’t–”

“You also liked to argue, too.”

“Okay— whatever,” he waves a dismissive hand, not at all interested in hearing what else you had to say. At this point, it just sounded like you wanted to shit on him, something he actually doesn’t have any fucking time for right now. “You’re a sorcerer… right?” 

“No.” 

“Christ.” Satoru sighs, turning on his heel. “You’re fuckin’ useless—“

You scoff, more humored than offended. “Where are you going?” 

“To figure this shit out!” he snaps, throwing his arms out as he turns around to face you. 

“Okay,” you shrug, still way too calm for Satoru’s liking, as it pisses him off even more. “If you don’t get it all figured out tonight, you can always come back. We have a guest room.” 

“Yeah, thanks.” He huffs out a bitter laugh, as if that was the dumbest suggestion he’s ever heard. “I appreciate the offer.” 

– 

“Yaga” Satoru storms into the principal’s office, ignoring all his cursed stuffed animals, but noticing what he’s done with his hair. “What the fuck happened to you?”

The principal's brows pinch together, wishing he had locked the door to his office. Satoru fucked with him enough today by showing up to a meeting 20 minutes late with some sugary frap in his hand, and now he’s storming into his office, insulting him out of nowhere. 

“Actually, nevemind.” Satoru waves a hand to stop him from even answering his question, reminding himself not to get sidetracked right now. “Look, I need your help. I got sent into the future by some curse, and I need to get back.”

Yaga inhales sharply. “What are you even talking about?”

“Exactly what I just said! I’m from 2009! Not whatever age I am now—”

“31.”

Satoru throws up a little in his mouth. “Send me back.” 

Yaga lets out a long, disappointed sigh. It’s always something with Satoru. Always. Having to deal with the younger version of him was a painful reminder that he’s been dealing with his bullshit for well over a decade now. Nothing surprises him anymore.  

“Let me see if some other windows would be willing to help look through the library. I’m sure you’ll be able to find information on what kind of curse you got hit with.”

“Thank you,” Satoru groans, still not very pleased by everyone’s reactions thus far, but grateful that he can at least get somewhere with Yaga… unlike a certain somebody. 

Hours later, he finds himself at the school’s dusty, unkept library. It looks worse than it originally looked before he walked in. Books sprawled everywhere. Research papers were scattered all over the tables and floor. Assistants running around in every direction, more than half of them terrified at the total 180 in Satoru’s attitude. 

“W-we can’t find anything,” Ijichi says, too old to be acting this scared in Satoru’s opinion. 

He hums, elbows still resting on his knees, not bothering to sit up. “Hey, Ijichi?”

Ijichi gulped loudly, managing to annoy the world’s strongest sorcerer even more. “...Yes?” 

“How are you even more incompetent now than you were before?”

“I tried my best! I swear!”

“Well, it’s not good enough— I’m still here!” he snaps at the nervous wreck of a man. Thank fucking god Ijichi listened to him and just became a window. He sucks at it too, but at least it’s easier for this dumbass to avoid death. “God— what the fuck am I supposed to do now?!”

“This is just one of the libraries, there’s more! And some in Kyoto too, that we’ll have the Kyoto branch check out.”

“Do whatever you need to do. I’m just letting you know right now that if I'm not back by tomorrow, you better watch the fuck out.”

The threat is followed by complete dead silence, aside from a certain someone's breath catching in horror.

“Me?!” Ijichi squeaks out.

The sorcerer doesn’t bother answering that and instead walks away, grumbling something insulting under his breath, just in complete and utter disbelief over how Ijichi truly hasn’t changed. 

—

You figured your husband would eventually come back, so you set some food aside for him, and now you’re sitting at the dinner table, trying not to laugh at the pout on his face as he picks at his dinner with the chopsticks in his hand. 

“Is the food good?”

“Sure.”

“I can warm that up for you, if you want?” you ask, barely trying to hide your amusement. 

“No thanks,” he curtly responds before shoving another piece of karaage into his mouth. He’s known to have a sweet tooth, but chicken karaage’s probably his favorite food, savory wise. You almost want to tell him that he’s allowed to enjoy food even if his day hasn’t gone the way he had planned. “I’d appreciate it if you stopped staring.” 

Your lips twitch, threatening to break out into a fit of laughter. “Right, sorry.”

“Mommy…? Is Daddy home yet?” 

Oh great. As if the day couldn’t get any worse— now there’s a child.

“Yeah,” you respond in a tentative tone, shooting Satoru a look that screams ‘behave or else’, and even though you are currently a stranger to him, it intimidates him enough to behave for the time being. 

A little girl, no older than 4 years old, walks into the kitchen and Satoru’s eyes nearly bulge out of his head upon seeing his daughter. It’s pretty obvious she’s his with her baby blue eyes and stark white hair. Her facial features are entirely yours, though. It’s strange to see.

“Hey… kiddo—” he awkwardly says, not really sure how to address the little girl. You clear your throat, mouthing ‘princess’ when he looks at you, because your daughter also happens to have her dad’s attitude. “I mean princess.”

It’s hilarious how unnatural it sounds right now when he was the one who started calling her that the moment you two took her home from the hospital. 

“You pomis to wead bedtime stowie,” she starts to pout— same exact way he does.

“Did I?” He gives the girl a sympathetic look, albeit fake. 

“Yeah,” she frowns as she walks up to you, giving him the world’s nastiest side eye. “Liar.”

Why is that the one word she’s able to enunciate correctly? She didn’t even stutter.

“Yeah— I was a little busy with work today,” he murmurs, as if she knew what that even meant. With the glare she was giving him, he doubted she’d even care if he broke down what work and the importance of it was. “Maybe mommy can read to you tonight?”

Sai wasn’t having that. 

Satoru spent the end of his night reading her favorite book to her. Multiple times. He almost asked if it was some form of punishment for not upholding a promise he didn’t technically make himself, but decided against it in fear that she’d make him read it one more time. Sai fell asleep… eventually. Despite there being no way to prove it, he knows that the little girl forced herself to stay up out of pure spite. 

But still, he finds himself smiling as he thinks about his nightmare of a future, not wiping it off quickly enough when you lightly knock on the guest bedroom door.

“Here’s some jammys for the night.” You smile back as you walk up and hand him a pair of sweats and a white t-shirt, both neatly folded up. “Figured you wouldn’t want to sleep in your work clothes.”

“Oh uh— thanks.” He clears his throat and forces out a laugh, pushing through the embarrassment of getting caught smiling to himself. 

You’re giving him that look again. The one that’s mixed with amusement and a bit of fondness, where you look like you’re about to start making fun of him, but never do. Satoru would rather die than admit it makes him nervous. 

“What?” 

There’s a small pause as your smile grows. “Do you like your kid?”

“She’s weird.”

“Yeah, no— you wouldn’t believe who she got that from.”

“Fuck off.” A laugh easily slips through his lips this time, unable to stay serious at the thought of her inheriting even just a quarter of the traits he had as a child. Then it grows quiet again as he realizes she probably has the freedom to be a kid. 

He wants to ask, but you beat him to it with a statement that answered the question he had in mind. 

“Your duties as her father don’t end just because you managed to time travel by the way,” you say playfully, though he knows you’re being dead serious. 

He can only guess what other horrors that little girl will subject him to for the rest of his time here. To put it simply, she’s not afraid of Dad. 

For once, somebody doesn’t look at him as a god to fear. 

—

It’s been over a month. 

Ijichi and the rest of the windows are just as useless as they were when they first started trying to find answers. All that’s changed is that Nanami knows, and doesn’t seem to be too thrilled about the fact that he is now involved.

But still, the search for the fix to his predicament continues, turning every library and warehouse upside down. That’s all they could really do— aside from asking the elders for assistance of some sort. 

Over his dead body. 

Knowing they’d most likely do more harm than good, everyone’s agreed to keep this all a little secret from them.

So all that’s left to do, or rather forced to do, is to be patient. It’s hard. Satoru doesn’t do patient— he’s the type to snap his fingers and have a solution magically appear right before his eyes. You can only imagine how difficult it’s been for him to accept that he can’t immediately get what he wants right now.

Not to mention the fact that he had to continue working throughout all of this, but that wasn’t very surprising. 

Now, what was surprising was learning that he has his weekends completely to himself. If anything, he assumed he’d just work more as time went on, but no. Turns out he threatened to kill the higher-ups if they didn’t let him have that when you two got married. 

Satoru looks over your body once. 

Twice. 

He totally understands his future self. 

He looks again for a third time, and you just so conveniently turn around, showing off your cute, frilly little apron covered in flour streaks. 

It’s Sunday— you’ve been baking sweet treats all morning, and he wishes he had been a little nicer to you. Especially a couple of days ago when he snapped at you. 

You had found him sitting alone on the balcony, head in his hands from yet another day of failure. 

“Hey… any good news?”

“No,” he said impatiently. “If there was, I wouldn’t fucking be here right now.” 

“Fair enough.” Your voice took a dip as you looked at the ground, allowing yourself to feel a little hurt for a moment before trying to lift the mood again. “Well… me and Sai stopped by your favorite bakery and got you the cookies you like if you wanted some—“

“No— no,” Satoru cut you off. “I don’t want your fucking cookies. I don’t want to do a family movie night where all we watch is Ms. Rachel. I don’t want to read some book about a mouse trying to become a fucking painter over and over again. I don’t want ANY of it. I want to fucking go home— what part about that do you not get?”

You tried to stand as straight as possible despite your shoulders growing heavier, pushing against the small frown threatening to carve itself across your face. You forgot how mean he used to be, at least during that first year of dating him. It only stings more because the man you married would never raise his voice like that, and you remind yourself that this isn’t him.

After a long pause, he looked up at you and immediately felt guilt wash over him.

“I didn’t mean that,” he tried to meet your eyes as he began to backtrack. “I’m sorry, I just— fuck. I didn’t mean any of that—”

“It’s fine.” You forced yourself to look at him again and smile. “I’ll uh… give you some space.”

The one thing about Satoru is that he doesn’t apologize. Like ever. So, one could only imagine how painfully awkward it was later that night when he knocked on your bedroom door to say he was sorry. It didn’t help that you were in a paper-thin silk slip, skin glistening from the lotion you rubbed all over it— he spent half his time trying not to stare at your tits. Had you been anyone else, it wouldn’t have felt as genuine. 

But thank fuck he apologized, you probably would’ve spent all day ignoring him. 

You raise a brow, and his cheeks start to pink. “What are you staring at?” 

“Nothing, you just–” he awkwardly gestures at your entire body, “there’s flour all over you.” 

It almost sounds like he’s offended by it. He kind of is. You keep your foot on his fucking neck— he doesn’t even know why he came out here. 

“Oh, right— 'cause messes have always bothered you,” you lean over the island ever so slightly. The pink on his cheeks darkens as you do, unable to control his eyes from drifting down to your cleavage. And while he’s not exactly ashamed of looking— you are his wife after all— he can’t help but be a little flustered. 

He’s always had a thing for milfs.

Especially when said milf is talking about messes— he knows a couple of places he could make a mess on right now. 

“Nah,” he rests his elbows on the marble counter as a playful grin stretches across his face. “This is nothing compared to how I like it.”  

You tilt your head, a small laugh escaping you as you rest your chin over your palm, curious to see where this conversation will get you. 

“How do you like it?” you ask, as if you didn’t already know how filthy and depraved he could get when he’s alone in a room with you. 

And you fucking miss that. 

He opens his mouth to respond. 

Then you hear your daughter whimpering about waking up alone. It’s nothing new, and you revert back to mom mode as you watch her turn the corner and waddle towards you. 

Satoru, on the other hand, is not used to this. The slightly bruised laugh he lets out just barely masks his desire to fucking scream. What a fucking cockblock— no wonder you only have one kid. 

His kid completely ignores his existence as she wraps herself around your leg, continuing to whimper despite no actual tears streaming down her cheeks. “I had a nightmawh.”

Meanwhile, there’s Satoru, who has yet to wake up from his very own nightmare. He internally sighs, then attempts to grab her attention because it doesn’t feel very good watching her give it all to you. “You wanna share a muffin with daddy?”

It’s starting to sound more natural.

“Y-yeah,” she sniffles. 

Minutes later, she’s sitting on his lap, absolutely demolishing the blueberry muffin they ended up splitting— a complete 180. He couldn’t be mad, even if he tried. 

His little girl was a dream. 

—

Month two. Ijichi is still as useless as ever. He stopped complaining to you about him, though. You noticed he doesn’t talk about going back to his original timeline all that much anymore.

It’s not like Satoru’s given up hope, he’s just more present, as if he finally realized that wallowing in self-pity wasn’t going to send him back any faster. He’s unknowingly more like his future self— laid back, not a care in the world. 

He’s even sleeping in for once. It’s not that hard though when Sai’s gone for the day. She seemed to care more about getting the hell out of the house with her grandparents than greeting her father a good morning. You didn’t push her to, either— figuring Satoru needed the sleep. He always does. 

It’s too bad that his phone started blowing up at around 10:00 am. Unfortunately for you, he left his phone in the living room, leaving you to get up and grab it since the master bedroom was the closest room to it. With how thick the walls are, you doubt he’d even hear it.

With a long sigh, you rise from bed, rubbing the sleep off your eyes as you snatch the stupid phone off the coffee table. 

The snores coming from Satoru reach your ears before you even open the door. You have to hold back a laugh as you walk in and take a look at him. Face down, his long limbs sprawled over the bed, messy white hair sticking out in all directions. 

You reach out and place a gentle hand on his shoulder, surprised infinity is off. 

“Toru?” He stirs a bit, and you cautiously attempt to wake him up again. “Toru— someone’s been trying to call you for the past 10 minutes now.”

He lifts his head, eyes still sealed shut as he murmurs, “Who?” 

“Uhh,” you look at the screen, unsure of who it might be. “Your contact name for them is nerd.” 

You know it’s not Ijichi because his contact name is “courage 🐶” in his phone. Someone else must've annoyed Satoru for him to change yet another contact. 

Satoru shoves his head back into the pillow and groans before taking the phone off your hands.

It’s Nanami. He, of all people, should know now is not the time to be blowing up his phone right now because he is fucking sleeping. It’s a Saturday for fucks sake. 

Satoru sighs and accepts the call, grumbling into the phone. “What?”

Nanami cuts straight to the chase, as he would rather be doing anything else right now. 

“How long are you planning on hiding your secret from the higher-ups?” he asks in a clipped tone. 

Satoru rubs his eyes, too tired to return the same sense of urgency his friend seems to have at the moment. “Forever.”

“Don’t give me that.” A vein pops up on the side of the usually stoic man’s forehead. “They asked me about you this morning. They know something’s up. I can’t keep covering for you if it means my own safety’s on the line.”

“You really haven’t changed, have you?” It’s more of a statement than a question.

“What the fuck is that supposed to mean—“

“You’ll be fine,” Satoru cuts him off. “They’re always up my ass anyway. I doubt they’re even suspicious. They just don’t know how to mind their own fuckin’ business. Seriously. You’re worrying over nothing right now.”

“I swear to god Gojo, if you—“

“Kay’ good night.” 

Click.

Nanami’s probably fuming right now, but he’ll get over it. Satoru wanted to enjoy this. Lying in a comfy bed, surrounded by nothing but peace and quiet. He closes his eyes and stretches a bit, then rests his hands behind his head. 

He would’ve forgotten that you were still sitting at the edge of the bed had you not lightly cleared your throat. One eye opens to look at you, then closes. The last thing he wants to do is share the reason why Nanami had been blowing up his phone all morning. 

“Just because you can’t see me doesn’t mean I’m not here.” You cross your arms. “What was that all about?” 

“Nothin’,” he easily says. “Just Nanami being Nanami— the guy’s a fuckin’ stickler for no reason.” 

“That’s a little rude, no?” you chastise him. 

“So is waking me up.” 

“Sai wakes you up all the time, though.”

“Sai’s a ball of sunshine,” he says, quickly coming to her defense. “Not a grown man with depression— where is she by the way?” 

“She’s spending the afternoon with my parents.” 

Both eyes open this time, and stay open. “Why didn’t you go with them?”

“No way,” you wave a hand. “I need a break, too.” 

“Yeah, no— I’m sure,” he agrees, feeling flustered all the sudden. 

And Satoru being Satoru, he doesn’t do a very good job of hiding it, once again forgetting that you can read him better than anyone else can.

You smile, scooching closer, “You good there?” 

“Yeah, m’fine,” he murmurs, trying not to shift around too much.

“I can take care of that, you know.” 

“What?” 

“That.” You look down at the boner he’s been trying to hide since finding out it’s just you two here.

“That’s not—“ His brain straight up short-circuits. “You don’t think that’s weird?” 

“No.” You continue to inch forward, getting closer to him. “Do you think it’s weird?”

“No— never,” he shakes his head, answering a little too fast. “Fuck— won’t future me get mad?” 

“Not at all. The most he’d probably do is make me show him what we did.” 

“Make you show him?” he repeats after you in disbelief. 

“Is that a problem?” 

“No, that’s— that’s fuckin’ hot.” 

Minutes later, you’re leaning forward with your hand wrapped around his base, and his breath catches as you start to slowly pump his cock. 

“Feel good?” 

His lids lower as he hums, “yeah— keep going.”

You lean forward, letting a string of spit fall from your lips to the tip of his cock, letting it mix with the precum that was already beading down from it. The wet sounds of you stroking him begin to grow, making the heat in between your legs start to pool.

“Can I sit on it?” You look up at him, batting your lashes as you innocently ask. 

“Please,” he blurts out, just about ready to start begging you to.

You’d be lying if you said you weren’t just as eager as him after all the weeks spent pretending like you don’t notice the way he stares at you. Lustfully. The slip you’re wearing happens to be extra short today, so you forego stripping down and practically pounce on him. Your soaked panties grazing over his rock-hard length as you straddle him, letting yourself get comfortable while Satoru grows impatient. 

His hands find themselves planted on your hips and pull you down. A low groan escapes him as he grinds you against him. “God— fuck me. Please.”

“Well, since you’re being so sweet—”

You reach down, hooking a finger into the fabric of your panties, pulling them to the side. He’s already lining himself up with your entrance, teasing your hole as he runs his tip through your folds, collecting all the slick. His lips part as he watches in awe at how damn wet you are. 

His head tips back as you lower yourself, groaning and rambling to himself as if you weren’t there to hear it all. 

"Fuck. You’re so hot.” His words come out strained as he watches you start to take him inch by inch, slowly working yourself open. “So fuckin’ tight, too.” 

“Mmm— forgot how big you are.” Your voice is all soft and breathy from the fullness, nails slowly digging into his abs as you bottom out.

It takes a minute to adjust— it has been 3 months after all. But then you finally roll your hips, and Satoru almost starts singing praises at how good you are at that—  lifting your hips all the way up and throwing them back, taking all of him. 

"Fuck yeah– just like that," he breathes, fingers digging into the flesh of your hips. "Feels so fucking good."

You murmur back a measly, “kay,” already dizzy from the stretch. You’re able to keep up the pace on your own for a bit, until you feel his grip on you tighten and the sounds of skin slapping against his start to grow as he starts to help you out. 

You wouldn’t exactly call it help though, not when he ended up doing all the work— holding you steady while he practically bounces you on his cock, pulling more and more moans out of you as the head of his cock repeatedly kissed your sweet spot with almost no effort. 

"You take it so good," he groans, pupils blown wide as he starts to feel himself lose control, snapping his hips up a little harder than the last. He wants more, he always wants more— so he pulls you forward and pulls your straps down far enough for your tits to spill out. "Perfect fuckin’ tits. Been thinking about these for weeks."

You let out a surprised gasp as he pops a nipple in his mouth with no warning. You fully believe him with the way he starts sucking and swirling and flicking his tongue over your sensitive bud, all while snapping his hips up harder. 

He pulls back with a pop, looking up at you for approval. “Was that good?”

“Mhm.” There’s a fucked out expression on your face as you weakly nod. “Harder.”

“You want me to fuck you harder?”

“Yeah.” 

Something in him snaps. Eager to please you, he flips you over and folds you underneath him— grabbing the back of your knees and pinning them to your chest so he can drive his cock into you deeper. 

“Better?”

He drives his hips forward again, knocking the air out of your lungs. “God— yes.”

“I can’t— fuck— can’t believe you’re all mine, can’t believe I get to have you,” he starts to ramble as the sounds of him absolutely pounding into you fill the room. “You’re so fuckin’ perfect— all of you.” 

He crashes his lips into yours— the kiss is messy, powered by hunger. Satoru’s always been overwhelming, but it’s been years since it’s been this emotionally intense. He fucks you like he needs you, like he’s been waiting for you all his life. 

Your walls begin to squeeze and flutter around his cock, pulling another groan out of him. “You close?”

“Yeah,” you whine, feeling the pressure begin to coil. “Keep going.”

He’s close too, you can tell by how sloppy his thrusts have grown, no longer trying to control himself as he starts chasing after both of your releases. He shoves his face into the crook of your neck and fucks you faster, harder— balls slapping against your ass with each lewd wet squelch. 

Your orgasm hits you hard after one particularly rough thrust. Scratching at his back as a cry tears through you, and it only goes straight to his dick, not even realizing just how overstimulated you are from the way he drills into you. 

“Fuck.” It’s just one word that comes out of his mouth after realizing how hard he’s about to fucking cum. He bites into your shoulder as his balls start to tighten, squeezing his eyes shut as he braces himself. 

When it happens, it’s a lot. He shoves himself deep inside of you, unaware of all the weight he puts on you as hot spurts of cum begin to flood your walls. Slowly grinding against you, letting your tight pussy milk the rest of him. 

You’re wrecked by the end of it. You both are— lids tired and heavy, bodies sore and out of breath.

And in the end, you just let yourself fall asleep, unaware of the soft kiss pressed against your temple as he watched you.

—

It’s month three, and Satoru doesn’t want to go back. 

What was the point? It’s not like he had anyone or anything to go back to. Jujutsu Society never crumbled from him getting shot into the future. Would it really be that bad if he just never went back and continued on with his life from here?

He hasn’t uttered a word about it out loud, but the way he completely stopped asking Yaga and Ijichi for updates was telling of where he was at mentally.  

Acceptance. 

He likes his life here. 

You’ve come to your own conclusion after these last three months.

No wonder why he was so hot and cold when you were trying to get to know him. Satoru got a little taste of genuine comfort, only for it to be ripped away from him sometime before you two actually met. It explains all the times you wondered why he even tried with you, despite being too emotionally inept to even be in a relationship. He probably went through the beginning of your relationship thinking you could disappear at any second. 

With that being said, he can’t stay here. As much as you’d love to continue being the source of comfort for this version of Satoru, he needs to experience the last year he spent alone before meeting you. He needs to feel cautious around you. He needs to try and fail at opening up a handful of times before getting comfortable with the idea of truly being vulnerable with a person. Getting over that element of fear he had towards getting close to others is what made him a husband and father— he couldn’t just skip that part of his life. 

You have no idea how you’re going to tell him that, though. You’re not one to kick a sick puppy, especially one as cute as him. He’s so happy here with you and Sai that the thought of doing so makes your chest ache. 

He’s having a tea party with Sai right now, limbs way too long to sit in the little stool she pulled up for him to sit in. He drinks imaginary tea from the plastic pink cup she hands him, and your chest aches some more. You force yourself to look away before the tears start. 

You’d do the next 11 years all over again if you could.

“Hey, Honey?” Satoru calls out to you.

There’s a pause before you whip your head around— it’s been months since he’s called you that. There’s nothing but warmth and fondness in his eyes as his gaze meets yours. “Why is Nanami’s number saved under ‘nerd’ in my phone?”

He’s back.

“I don’t know,” you laugh, despite the tear falling down your cheek. “You tell me.”

—

Satoru didn’t want to believe it when everything around him went dark once again. It’s not until his feet touch the ground with a soft thud and he finds himself back in his messy, cold dorm when reality slapped him across the face.

Something between a sob and a gut-wrenching scream rips from his throat. Grabbing the round shades he had hoped he’d never have to fucking wear again, he rips them off his face and sends it crashing into the wall, breaking into a hundred little pieces. He doesn’t stop. Doesn’t give himself a chance to even breathe or think before raising his hand and releasing a purple orb with just a flick of his fingers. 

Impulsive. Reckless. Deadly. 

Satoru was fucking devastated. 

Nobody knew what triggered him that night. All they knew was that the east wing of the school looked like it had been hit by an asteroid by the time he calmed down. He didn’t speak to anyone for a good two weeks following the incident. Everyone wants to think he was lucky the explosion didn’t have any casualties, but then they remembered who he was: Satoru fucking Gojo. 

God’s don’t get punished, nor do natural disasters— it’s hard to tell which one he was at this point. 

One Year Later

“If it’s that small of a curse, why are you sending me there?” Satoru continues to argue with one of the new managers over the phone. 

It wasn’t that small of a curse. It was a grade one. But still, given the sorcerer’s title as a special grade, he was overqualified for the job. 

“I’m sorry, we just don’t have anyone available to take on the case at the moment.” The young woman continues to apologize over the phone. “I think we might have a grade 3 available for the job. I- I can check—”

“Save it.” Satoru cuts her off. He wasn’t that heartless to push the case off to some 15 year old. That’s exactly how Haibara died. “Send me the address.” 

The mission was nothing short of an inconvenience for him. He liked a challenge when exorcising curses, and the damn thing didn’t even put up a fucking fight. He traveled 2 hours to get here just for that? Unbelievable. 

He wasn’t ready to leave and sit on a train for another 2 hours just yet, so he decided to walk around the town for a bit. 

It was a cute place, a little quiet. Kinda boring. That’s never a bad thing, though. Lots of mom and pop shops, a few coffee shops scattered around, one of which he decided to try. A little sugar’s always good, at least to him. 

The smell of vanilla and roasted coffee beans hit him as he walked into the place. There was a decent amount of customers inside. Not too much to feel crowded, but enough to stay busy. He keeps his eyes on the menu the entire time. The line moves fast, and he figures out what he wants just in time. 

“And what can I get started for you today?”

His eyes are still on the screen, reading the item off the menu.

“Can I get a white chocolate mocha frappuccino, with an extra pump of…” his words die out, and his eyes widen as he finally looks at the girl taking his order. “Hey.”

“Hi.” You laugh at the way this stranger loses his train of thought. “Extra pump of white chocolate syrup?”

“Yeah.” He exhales, unable to rip his eye off you as you write the words down on the plastic cup with a sharpie. 

“Name for the order?”

“Go– Satoru,” he corrects himself. “It’s Satoru.”

He’s a little awkward, but you still find him quite charming and smile. “Alright, Satoru. Your order should be ready in about 10 minutes.”

“Awesome. Thanks,” he nods rather pathetically, then goes to sit in an empty corner of the shop with only one thought in mind: 

He has 10 minutes to come up with what to say to get your number. 

you curl up tighter, pulling the blanket around your shoulders like it might protect you.

“i know you’re in there,” he says, a sigh threading through his words. there’s no irritation, just quiet worry. “please open the door.”

you can’t. your body won’t let you.

the silence stretches thin. you imagine him on the other side, probably pacing, running a hand through his hair the way he always does when he’s anxious. he’s always been patient, but there’s a crack in his tone when he speaks again, something real and pleading.

“i need to see you, okay?” his voice softens. “i can’t just leave you alone right now.”

the weight of his words hits something inside you, deep and hurting. your breath stops, a hiccup breaking past your fingers.

he hears it, you know he does.

“hey,” he says, gentler now. “you don’t have to say anything. just… please open up. i swear i’m not here to judge you or—whatever you’re thinking, it’s not that. i just need to make sure you’re okay.”

you hesitate, staring at the doorknob through blurry eyes. your hand shakes as you reach for it, pausing right before you touch the metal. what if he looks at you differently? what if that softness he always has in his eyes is gone now?

but then you hear it again, his voice, softer than you’ve ever heard it. “you don’t deserve to be alone through this, love.”

and that’s what does it.

you twist the knob. the door creaks open an inch.

he’s standing there in the hallway, hair messy, knuckles red and split. he looks wrecked in a way that’s unfamiliar. breathing hard, jaw tight, eyes glinting with something between anger and heartbreak. his gaze lands on your face and softens instantly.

you look like you’ve been crying for hours, because you have. your cheeks are blotchy, your lashes clumped together, lips trembling. you can’t even look at him properly, your gaze darting to the floor.

he exhales, stepping closer. “oh, honey...”

his hand comes up slowly, like he’s afraid to startle you. “can i come in?”

you nod, barely.

he steps inside, closing the door behind him with a quiet click. and before you can process what’s happening, his arms are around you, strong and steady, pulling you against his chest.

you melt.

the second his warmth hits you, the dam breaks again. your body shakes with another round of sobs, your hands clutching the fabric of his shirt. he smells like clean soap and faint smoke, and under it all, something that’s just him.

“shh,” he murmurs, lowering his head to your ear. “it’s okay, baby. i've got you.”

his hand rubs slow circles on your back, his voice a low hum against your hair. “you’re okay. you’re fine, i promise you.”

you can barely breathe through the tears, but you nod anyway, pressing your face harder into his chest.

you expected him to be angry, to demand explanations, to pull away. instead, he just holds you tighter, one big hand cradling the back of your head like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he lets go.

“you’re shaking,” he whispers. “hey, hey, it’s alright. you don’t have to say anything. i know.”

his shirt is damp from your tears. your hands are trembling against him, your breaths coming in ragged little bursts.

“suguru, i—” your voice breaks, small and wrecked. “aren't you grossed out, disappointed?”

he leans back just enough to look at you. his eyes search yours, and for a second, you swear you see his heart break a little.

“nothing you do could ever disappoint me, y/n,” he says simply. “you didn’t do anything wrong.”

you blink up at him softly.

he smooths a tear from your cheek with his thumb, voice barely above a whisper. “you hear me? nothing. he’s the one who crossed a line, not you.”

your throat closes up again, but the tears come slower this time.

he lifts you up before you can react, one arm under your knees, the other supporting your back. you let out a small sound of surprise, gripping his shirt, but he just hushes you softly.

“c’mere,” he says, carrying you over to the couch. he sits down first, then shifts until you’re curled up against him, tucked into the curve of his body.

it’s automatic, the way you push your face into his chest again, your legs draped over his lap. he holds you like you’re made of glass, something he’s scared to break.

his thumb rubs gentle strokes along your arm. “breathe with me, yeah?” he murmurs. “slow. in through your nose.” he exaggerates a deep inhale, waiting for you to follow. “good. now out.”

it takes a few minutes, but eventually, your breathing evens, your fingers stop trembling.

you feel his heartbeat under your cheek, steady and warm.

“gojo never deserved you,” he says after a while, voice low. “what he did was fucking disgusting.”

you flinch, but he squeezes your shoulder gently. “you don’t have to talk about it. i just—i can’t believe it.” his jaw flexes as he exhales through his nose. “i was at home when i found out. toji told me, said yuki probably already told you. i just... i saw red.”

you glance up at him, eyes still glassy. “huh… what did you do?”

he hesitates for a second, looking away. “i confronted him.”

“confronted,” you echo softly. “or…”

he gives a little half-laugh, shaking his head. “yeah, okay. i might’ve done more than that.”

you blink at him, and for the first time all night, something like amusement bubbles up in your chest. “wait. you—” you wipe at your eyes, sniffling through a watery laugh. “you roughed him up?”

a faint blush colors his cheeks, and he shrugs like it’s no big deal. “he deserved it. smashed his phone, too.”

you actually laugh now, the sound small but real. “suguru, you can’t just hit people—”

“i can when it’s him,” he interrupts, voice gentle but firm. “he’s been treating you like shit for months. and then this?” he shakes his head, a sharp edge to his tone. “no. someone had to clock his shit.”

you giggle, then stare at him, your heart twisting. he’s sitting there with a split lip, a faint bruise already forming along his cheekbone, and somehow, he still looks beautiful. solid. like nothing could touch him except what’s happening to you.

“thank you,” you whisper. “for not, you know... judging me.”

his brows furrow. “judge you? sweetheart, why would i judge you?”

you shrug, staring down at your hands. “it's just... everyone’s gonna think i'm some nasty slut and i—”

“stop,” he says softly, tilting your chin up until your eyes meet his. “people can think whatever the hell they want. they don’t know you, y/n, i do. your friends do. they're who matter.”

there’s something about the way he says it that makes your chest flutter.

“you’re good, you know that?” he murmurs. “you’re kind. too forgiving sometimes, but that’s just who you are. and you didn’t deserve any of this shit.”

you blink fast, trying not to cry again. “you shouldn’t have to clean up his mess.”

“maybe not,” he says, brushing a stray tear from your cheek. “but i really, really want to.”

you don’t even have words for that. the sincerity in his voice is so heavy it fills the whole room with a sense of love and connection like you'd never felt before.

you rest your head back on his chest, letting his heartbeat drown out the noise in your mind. his hand moves slowly through your hair, combing through the tangles with quiet patience.

the two of you fall silent for a while, the only sound is the steady rhythm of his breathing, the faint creak of the couch when he shifts to pull you even closer.

“you’re not alone in this, okay?” he whispers. “not while i’m here.”

your fingers curl against his shirt, holding on a little tighter.

“i know, suguru. you're seriously the best thing ever. i mean that.”

he presses a kiss to the top of your head. “good,” he murmurs. “i want to be that person for you.”

your face gets hotter at the sudden contact, but you chalk it up to him trying to be friendly and grip his chest tighter with a sigh. the room is silent, your breath mingling as he stroked your back better.

the reality of satoru spreading around your photos is still fresh, but having such a steady man like suguru on your side made the sting feel more like a subtle prick. he didn't know how deeply rooted he now was in your head, and little did you know he felt the exact same way.

~

it’s been a week since shit hit the fan. since gojo’s face met suguru’s fist, since the whole frat fizzed with gossip that died almost as fast as it started. the world didn’t burn down like you thought it would, instead, it just… settled. the air softened.

gojo’s been keeping his head down. he doesn’t talk about the fight, doesn’t mention you, doesn’t even try to make jokes about it like he usually would. people still whisper sometimes, what happened? who threw the first punch? did gojo really do that?, but suguru makes sure it doesn’t go further. he gives them that look, the kind that makes them shut up mid-sentence.

and you… you’ve been breathing, steadier this time.

the first few days after that night were rough. crying until your chest ached, waking up and feeling that lump in your throat that wouldn’t go away. but suguru never left. every time your phone buzzed, it was him. every time you needed to talk, or not talk at all, he was there.

walking you to class in the mornings with a coffee in hand, waiting outside the lecture hall just to walk you back. when you went to parties, he was always there too, leaning against the wall near you, making sure nobody said anything out of line.

it didn’t feel forced either. he just… fit. naturally. like he’d always been meant to be the one orbiting around you, keeping you safe, laughing with you, being there.

you’d catch yourself looking at him sometimes when he wasn’t paying attention—when he was rolling his sleeves up, or typing on his phone, or zoning out during a movie night—and your stomach would twist, because he wasn’t just your friend anymore, not really. he was becoming your person, the one who felt like home.

by friday, the connection between you two has started to fray with something new. comfortable, but electric.

you’re laid out on your bed, aimlessly scrolling through your phone, when it buzzes with a text from him.

[suguru] 4:58p.m: there’s a party at naoyas tonight, come with me.

you grin a little at how direct he is. no question mark, no explanation. just assuming you’ll go because… well, you probably will. you type back: sure, wanna come over and get ready w me?

[suguru] 5:00p.m: of course

you smile at your screen, cheeks warm, and toss your phone onto the blanket beside you.

an hour later, there’s a knock at your door—two soft taps, his usual. you call out for him to come in, and the door creaks open as he steps through, tall and easy, carrying a small bag and a six-pack of cruisers dangling from his fingers.

“thought i’d bring some pregame drinks,” he says, kicking the door shut behind him. “figured you’d wanna start early.”

he’s wearing a simple black tee and gray sweats, hair tied half-up, and it’s unfair how good he looks doing absolutely nothing.

you prop yourself up on your elbows, a grin spreading across your face. “you’re enabling me.”

“someone’s gotta,” he says, smirking as he hands you one of the bottles.

you take it, cracking it open, the faint fizz breaking the air. “you’re a really shitty influence.”

“maybe” he says, dropping onto the edge of your bed, “yet you still text me to come over every time you need to get ready.”

you laugh, sipping the drink. “yeah, well, maybe i just like your company.”

“hm,” he hums, taking a swig of his own. “yeah, i’m sure that’s it.”

you roll your eyes and grab your makeup bag, dragging it closer as you sit cross-legged beside him. the light from your vanity lamp paints both of you in a soft glow, the room humming quietly with your favorite playlist in the background.

“so,” you say, pulling out your concealer, “who’s showing up?”

he shrugs. “the usual. toji, nanami if yuki convinces him, maybe shoko. probably some new pledges trying too hard to impress everyone.”

“ew,” you say, grimacing. “freshman boys terrify me.”

he snorts. “yeah, facts. they all act like if speed and andrew tate fucked and had a kid.”

you burst out laughing mid-eyeliner stroke, nearly smudging it. “oh my god, stop. you’re gonna make me mess this up.”

“oh brother that wasn't even that funny,” he says, leaning back on his palms. his eyes flicker over you, watching you carefully blend and swipe and concentrate. there’s something sweet in his expression, affection so soft it looks like he's gazing at a cute cat.

“you’re staring,” you tease, catching him through the mirror.

he doesn’t even look away. “yeah, and?”

you freeze for half a second before shaking your head with a small laugh. “you're a weirdo creep freak.”

“you love it,” he says, smiling into his bottle.

you throw a makeup sponge at him, which he dodges easily, laughing.

“alright buddy, what about you? you gonna flirt your way through the night?”

“me? nah,” he says, glancing at you. “don’t really feel like it lately.”

you hum. “hm. someone caught your eye?”

“maybe,” he says quietly, looking down at his drink.

you don’t ask who. you don’t have to. the room feels suddenly heavy with something unspoken, and you focus on your mascara instead, pretending not to notice the way your heart starts thudding faster.

half an hour passes like that, just fun conversation and laughter between sips. you start gossiping about everyone you know.

“did you hear shiu’s up charging his shit by like, 70 percent?” you ask, laughing.

“yeah,” he groans. “he sold me 4 grams for $120, swear to god.”

“you’re kidding,” you gasp, laughing so hard you almost spill your drink.

“wish i was. who the fuck shows up to a party and makes people pay for weed, especially that much, holy shit.”

you laugh louder at that. “that’s, oh my god... that’s actually bad.”

“yeah, i don’t buy from him anymore. learned my lesson.”

the two of you keep talking, voices overlapping, trading stories, teasing, laughing until your cheeks ache. he’s sitting across from you now, both of you cross-legged, knees almost touching. his hair’s fallen loose around his face, and there’s a glint in his eyes that makes you forget what you were saying mid-sentence.

you glance at your phone and blink. “uh, suguru?”

“yeah?”

“the party started an hour ago.”

he looks up, then bursts out laughing. “you’re kidding.”

he looks at you, then at the untouched makeup bag still half-zipped beside you, then at the empty bottles littering the nightstand. “we literally spent two hours talking.”

you laugh once more, the smile on sugurus face egging you on “wow, that's kinda embarrassing for us lowkey.”

he falls back onto your bed, laughing into his hands. “nah it's fine, i had more fun talking than going to some shitty party.”

“so real,” you agree, lying back beside him.

you guys stay quiet for a bit. you’re just breathing, staring at the ceiling, still giggling every few seconds. his shoulder brushes yours, and it feels electric.

you turn your head to look at him. he’s smiling at the ceiling, hair splayed out on your blanket, one arm tucked behind his head.

“maybe,” you say softly, “we just skip the party?”

his eyes slide to yours. “oh yeah?”

you shrug, trying to sound casual. “i mean, we’re already comfy. and tipsy.”

“true,” he says, lips curving into a small grin.

“plus,” you add, “we’ve got drinks here. and snacks. and less pain in the ass people.”

“you’re really selling it,” he says, sitting up to grab another cruiser. “so what, we make a night of it?”

you smile, nodding. “hm. stay over, okay?”

he pauses for a second. it’s subtle, but you see it, the flash of surprise in his eyes, the quick glance toward the floor like he’s thinking about what this means. he’s never stayed the night. never. he always leaves around midnight, gives you that kind smile and a see you tomorrow, and you always pretend it doesn’t sting a little when he goes.

but now, he just smiles back. slow, genuine, a little shy.

“yeah,” he says softly. “i’ll stay.”

you grin, feeling something flutter deep in your chest. “sweet.”

he watches you for a second, the faint light catching the gold in his eyes. the room feels heavier, quieter, like every breath matters.

“y’know,” he murmurs, “i think i like it better here anyway.”

“what, my room?” you tease.

“nah,” he says, voice low. “just like, with you, i guess.”

your face burns, and you can’t look at him for a second. “you’re so full of shit,” you say weakly, but you’re smiling.

“am i?”

you bite your lip, fiddling with the hem of your shirt. “yeah, whatever.”

you both fall quiet again, the kind of silence that feels stiff but not uncomfortable. his fingers tap lightly on his bottle, yours play with your blanket, and you can feel his eyes on you even when you don’t meet them.

the party is long forgotten. your makeup half-finished, your drink warm in your hand, but none of that matters. what matters is the way suguru’s looking at you right now, like you’re something fragile and beautiful and he’s terrified of breaking it.

and maybe you feel the same way.

because somewhere between the laughter, the shared secrets, and the easiness of his presence, something in both of you changed.

you’re not sure when it happened, maybe that night he held you on the couch, maybe the morning he brought you coffee and didn’t say anything about the bags under your eyes. maybe right now, with the room glowing faintly from your bedside lamp, the music still soft in the background, and suguru smiling like he’s exactly where he’s supposed to be.

the cruisers are long gone by now. the bottles sit empty on your nightstand, catching the soft light from your lamp, and the air feels thick with laughter and half-drunken warmth. you’re both lying across your bed, well, suguru’s half sitting against the headboard, and you’re sprawled somewhere between his lap and his chest, giggling into the space where his shoulder meets his neck.

you can’t even remember what the joke was, just that whatever he said set you off so badly you almost choked on your drink. suguru’s grin hasn’t faded since, his cheeks a little flushed, his voice raspier than usual from laughing too much.

“you’re such a lightweight,” he teases, reaching over to steal the cruiser from your hand.

“am not,” you protest, trying to grab it back but missing by a mile.

“you literally just said—” he snickers, mimicking your voice, “—‘do you think naoyas secretly gay and that's why he hates women so much?’”

“that’s a valid question!” you whine, hitting his chest lightly.

“is it, though?”

“yeah,” you say, grinning up at him. “because now you’re thinking about it.”

he laughs again, a real one this time, the kind that makes his head fall back a little. you watch him for a second, dizzy in a way that has nothing to do with the alcohol. his smile reaches his eyes, and the sound fills your whole chest, warm and tight.

you end up shifting closer without even thinking about it, your head finding its place against his chest. his hand comes up automatically to rest on your back, tracing slow lines that make you shiver in a good way.

“you comfy?” he asks, voice low.

“mmhmm,” you hum, eyes fluttering closed.

“good.”

you stay like that for a while, talking about nothing and everything—professors, shitty dorm food, random gossip. it’s easy, comfortable, like you’ve known each other for years.

eventually you prop yourself up on your elbows so you’re leaning over him, the alcohol buzzing through you in lazy waves. he looks up at you, and the space between you feels way too small, like you can feel his breath against your skin.

“you’re so warm,” you mumble, a small smile tugging at your lips.

he huffs a laugh, brushing a strand of hair out of your face. “that’s probably the alcohol talking.”

“nah,” you say softly. “it’s you.”

his fingers pause for a second before he lets out a slow exhale. “you’re a flirt when you drink, y’know that?”

you grin. “yeah? how so?”

“you say things that fuck with my head.”

you blink, half teasing, half serious. “good.”

the silence that follows is tense, but not uncomfortable. just heavy.

you trace small shapes on his chest with your finger, barely thinking about it. circles, lines, nonsense patterns. the room feels as if it's closing in.

“he used to hate when i drank,” you say suddenly, voice quieter now.

his hand stills on your back. “gojo?”

you nod, looking down at where your finger’s drawing on his shirt. “yeah. said i got too clingy. said it made me ‘embarrassing.’”

suguru’s jaw ticks, just slightly.

you laugh weakly, but it’s not really funny. “guess i was too stupid to notice how bad it was getting.”

“hey,” suguru cuts in, voice firm but gentle. “don’t do that.”

you look up at him, blinking. “do what?”

“call yourself stupid,” he says, gaze steady. “you weren’t. he treated you like shit. that’s on him.”

you swallow, staring at him. “you’d never do that, huh?” you say after a beat, a quiet little question tucked between the words.

his eyes soften, but there’s a flicker of something else there too. guilt, maybe. something heavy.

“no,” he says quietly. “i wouldn’t.”

you smile, tipsy and sad all at once. “you’d be such a good boyfriend.”

he exhales, long and stuttered, and for a minute you think he’s going to say something, but he doesn’t. instead, he just looks at you. really looks at you.

it’s not just alcohol anymore, it’s everything that’s been building up between you for weeks—the looks, the touches, the late-night talks, the way his voice always goes soft when he says your name.

you’re still hovering over him, your hands pressed lightly to his chest, and his gaze flicks between your eyes and your lips like he’s fighting himself.

“you shouldn’t say stuff like that,” he murmurs finally.

“why not?” you ask, voice low.

“because,” he says, the faintest smile ghosting over his mouth, “it makes me wanna do something i probably shouldn’t.”

your heart skips. “hmm? like what?”

he doesn’t answer, not with words anyway. instead, his hand slides up your back, fingers curling around the base of your neck, and before you can even process it, he’s pulling you down into a kiss.

it’s soft at first, testing, but when you don’t pull away—when you melt into it—the kiss deepens.

his lips move against yours with a kind of hunger that makes your head spin. slow at first, then heavier, deeper. he tastes like sugar and alcohol and something that’s just him, warm and hot.

your hand finds the side of his face, the other gripping the fabric of his shirt as you shift, straddling his hips without even thinking about it. his breath catches against your mouth, but he doesn’t stop you. his hands settle firm on your waist, like he’s still trying to remember where the lines are.

you pull back just enough to look at him, your lips parted, eyes hazy. “suguru,” you whisper.

he looks up at you, his chest rising and falling fast, eyes dark. “yeah?”

“this feels…”

“wrong?” he offers quietly.

you hesitate. “no. maybe. i don’t know. it feels… good. but—”

he cuts you off with another kiss, one that leaves you breathless.

you’re both lost in it after that. everything smooshes together—the soft sounds, the way your fingers tangle in his hair, the quiet little noises that escape you when he bites your lip gently.

his hands start to wander, skimming up your sides, tracing over your ribs, resting just beneath the hem of your shirt. the touch makes your stomach flutter, and you can feel the heat building between you, heavy and dizzying.

you grind down against him without meaning to, and his breath stutters, his hands tightening on your hips.

you both freeze for a second, staring at each other.

and then you move again, just slightly as you test the waters.

his eyes squeeze shut, a low moan escaping his throat, and for a while it feels like everything might just spiral.

your hand slips down his chest, slow and teasing, until your fingers brush over the waistband of his sweats. he groans softly when your palm presses against his length, but almost immediately his hand shoots out, catching your wrist.

“shit, baby, wait,” he says, voice rough.

you blink, confused, your breathing ragged. “hmm?”

he swallows hard, his grip still gentle but firm. “you’re drunk.”

“so are you,” you murmur, trying to move again, but he shakes his head.

“yeah, but i’m sober enough to know this isn’t the time.”

you frown, your voice small. “you... you don’t want me?”

his eyes widen. “what? no—god, that’s not it.”

“then what is it?”

he sighs, running a hand through his hair. “if i was gonna do anything like… that… with you, i’d want you sober. i want you to remember it. want you to actually want it. not just because of a few drinks.”

you blink at him, your chest tightening.

he hesitates before continuing, voice lower now. “and… there’s a part of me that feels like it wouldn’t be fair to you. you’ve been through so much, and i’ve been… there. too much, maybe. i don’t ever want you to feel like i took advantage of that, there is definitely a power imbalance here.”

you stare at him for a moment, the tension in your chest twisting into something softer. “suguru, i really want this,” you whisper. “i’m really into you.”

he smiles a little, brushing your hair out of your face. “i know, sweetheart. i want it too. more than i should.”

he leans up, pressing one last kiss to your lips—slow, deliberate. then he wraps his arms around you, pulling you down until your head’s tucked against his chest.

“but not tonight,” he murmurs against your hair. “the most i’m doing with you tonight is this.”

you stay still for a moment, your heart pounding in your chest. then you nod against him, your voice muffled. “okay.”

he exhales, relaxing beneath you, one hand rubbing slow circles on your back.

you lie there together in the quiet, both of you buzzing with too much emotion and not enough sense. your head’s still spinning from the kiss, but there’s a safety in his hold that steadies you.

“you’re too good to me,” you whisper after a while.

he hums softly. “nah. just trying to be better than he was.”

you smile, half-asleep against him.

the room falls quiet except for the steady rhythm of his heartbeat under your ear.

it’s messy, and complicated, and probably too soon—but in that moment, wrapped up in suguru’s arms, it feels like the first thing that’s been right in a long time.

you can feel his heartbeat under your ear, slow and steady, the kind of rhythm that makes you feel safe even when everything else in your life feels like chaos.

for a long moment, neither of you speak. it’s like both of you are afraid that if you say something, the whole fragile peace of the night will break. but then you tilt your head up, just slightly, your chin resting on his chest as you look at him.

“suguru?” you whisper.

his eyes flicker down to you, soft and a little tired, but still so full of warmth. “yeah?”

you bite your lip, debating if you should even say it. but the words come out anyway, clumsy and quiet. “i really like you.”

his hand stills against your back. his brows knit for a second, and you watch his lips part like he’s about to say something, but he doesn’t right away. instead, he just stares at you for a few seconds, and you can see it—the way his entire chest loosens, the way his whole expression softens like something inside him finally exhales.

“i thought you might... but... are you 100 percent sure?” he asks, almost like he doesn’t believe it.

you nod, feeling your throat tighten. “yeah. i mean—i know it’s messy, and fast, and it’s probably stupid, but i do. i like you a whole lot.”

a small smile pulls at the corner of his mouth. he looks almost shy for once, eyes darting away as he runs his hand through his hair.

“you’re sure this isn’t the alcohol talking?” he says softly, teasing just enough to ease the tension, but there’s a shake in his laugh that gives him away.

you grin faintly. “nuh uh. i liked you before the cruisers.”

that makes him laugh properly, his head falling back against the pillow. when he looks at you again, his gaze lingers longer, gentler.

“i like you too,” he admits quietly. “like… really like you.”

you blink, stunned for a second, and then your face breaks into the smallest smile. “yeah?”

“yeah.” he breathes out a small laugh, shaking his head. “you’re—god, you’re everything, y’know that? you’ve been through hell and you’re still here, still you. i don’t even think you realize how amazing that is.”

your chest tightens, warmth spreading through you so fast it almost hurts. “you’re gonna make me cry again,” you mumble, half laughing.

he laughs too, but it’s quiet and fond, his thumb brushing over the curve of your waist. “please don’t. i’ve had enough of seeing you cry this week.”

“can’t promise anything,” you tease, voice soft. “you say nice things too often.”

he hums, smiling a little, and for a while, you just look at each other. his eyes are dark but kind, and even though the air between you is thick with exhaustion and leftover tension, it feels okay. like there’s finally space to breathe again.

then the silence changes. the both of you stop smiling, your thoughts starting to loop back to everything you’d been ignoring. gojo. the timing. the guilt. the mess this could turn into if anyone found out.

you can see it happen in his face—the flicker of hesitation, the shift in his gaze. and you know he sees it in yours too, because you both look away at the same time, eyes darting toward the ceiling like it might hold the answer.

“this is complicated, huh,” you whisper after a long pause.

“yeah,” he says, voice quiet. “too complicated.”

you play with the fabric of his shirt, your fingers tracing small lines that don’t mean anything. “feels good though.”

he looks down at you again, lips twitching into a faint, sad smile. “yeah. it does.”

for a second, you both fall silent again. there’s too much to say—about gojo, about what this means, about the guilt you both feel creeping in around the edges—but neither of you want to ruin the tiny bubble of calm that’s formed between you.

you both laugh quietly, the kind that comes out tired and genuine, and you shift until you’re lying closer, your forehead pressed against his chest. his arm tightens around you instinctively, pulling you in like he can’t help it.

“for the record,” he murmurs after a minute, “i've been crushing on your for abit now. like… dangerously so.”

you smile against his chest, your voice muffled. “oh yeah? go figure, me too.”

“this is kinda fucked,” he teases softly.

“and you love it,” you mumble back.

he chuckles, the sound vibrating through his chest under your ear. “yeah. i really do.”

you both go quiet again after that, the weight of what just happened still lingering, but softer now. the tension has turned into something warm and sleepy.

you feel his hand start tracing lazy patterns on your back again, and your eyelids grow heavy.

“we’ll figure it out,” he says quietly, more to himself than to you.

“we will,” you mumble, already halfway asleep. “just… not tonight.”

“not tonight,” he echoes, pressing a soft kiss to the top of your head.

you sigh, content, sinking further into him until you can barely tell where you end and he begins. his heartbeat is steady beneath your ear, his warmth wrapping around you like a promise.

whatever comes tomorrow—whatever mess waits for both of you—you’ll face it then. but for now, in the quiet glow of your room, it’s just you and suguru, the both of you tangled together, hearts beating a little too fast for comfort, whispering into the dark the truth you’ve both been trying to ignore: you really, really like each other.

~

the morning light spills lazily through your blinds, your head’s pounding a little, an ache that throbs behind your eyes, but the first thing you notice isn’t the hangover. it’s the weight underneath you.

you blink blearily, your vision adjusting, and when it clears—oh god. you’re lying on top of suguru.

he’s still asleep, one arm slung around your waist, his fingers resting against the small of your back. his chest rises and falls under you, slow and calm, and you can feel every breath against your skin. his hair’s messy as hell, a few strands falling into his face, and his lips are parted slightly, soft and pink. you can’t help staring. he looks so peaceful like this, so unfairly good-looking it makes your stomach twist.

your mind flashes back to last night, the laughter, the kisses, the quiet confessions that slipped out between giggles. you’d both been drunk, but you remember it clear as day. the way he said he liked you. the way you said it back.

a small, stupid smile tugs at your lips. you melt a little against him, your cheek pressed to his chest. he’s warm, his skin soft under your fingertips as you trace faint lines over his shirt.

you tilt your head up, just enough to study his face again. even asleep, he looks too good. the sharp lines of his jaw, the curve of his mouth, the dark stubble on his chin. he’s always been handsome, but right now, he’s something else entirely.

you breathe out a quiet laugh and, without really thinking, you lean up and press a soft kiss to his lips. just once. then again, a little slower.

his lips move under yours before he’s even awake.

then, suddenly, you feel it.

something firm pressing against your thigh.

you freeze. your brain takes a second to catch up, but when it does—holy shit.

he’s hard. really hard.

you glance down and nearly choke on your own breath. there’s no mistaking what’s pushing against you. and the worst part? he’s massive.

you go still, heat flooding your face so fast it’s dizzying. your first instinct is to pull your leg away, to give him some space, but before you can fully move, his arm tightens around you, pulling you right back down into him.

you gasp, your palms braced on his chest.

his eyes flutter open, still hazy with sleep. when he realizes how close you are, how tangled together you both are, his expression flickers from confusion to embarrassment in seconds.

“shit,” he mutters, his voice low and rough from sleep. “sorry. i didn’t—”

“it’s fine,” you cut in quickly, your voice soft but rushed. “you’re fine.”

his brows lift slightly. “you sure?”

you nod, trying to look composed even though your heart’s doing backflips. “yeah. really. i’m just… happy you’re here. next to me.”

his expression softens at that, all the tension leaving his shoulders. he smiles sleepily, the kind that makes your chest feel light.

“yeah?” he murmurs, his thumb brushing slow circles over your hip. “so... you don’t regret last night?”

you shake your head, the corners of your mouth turning up. “not even a little.”

he exhales, almost like he’s relieved, and his hand slides up your back in a gentle stroke.

“i’m sorry if i upset you last night,” he says quietly after a moment, his voice low. “for stopping things. i just didn’t want to do anything you’d regret."

you bite your lip, your heart tugging at the sincerity in his tone.

“you didn’t upset me,” you tell him softly. “i’m actually really grateful you stopped. i do dumb stuff when i’m drunk. i would’ve felt awful if things went too far.”

his eyes search yours, dark and steady. “yeah?”

“yeah.” you smile a little. “you’re… kinda the only person who’s ever stopped me from doing stupid drunk shit.”

he chuckles quietly, brushing a strand of hair from your face. “guess i’ll take that as a compliment.”

“you should.”

you both laugh softly, the sound quiet and comfortable. his hand lingers on your face for a moment too long, thumb grazing your cheek. the air feels warm between you again, the kind of quiet that buzzes with something unspoken.

after a pause, his voice drops lower. “can i ask you something?”

you nod. “yeah.”

“did you really mean what you said last night?” his eyes flick down, then back up at you. “about having feelings for me, i mean.”

your breath catches a little at how serious he sounds.

you nod almost instantly. “of course i meant it.”

he blinks, like he wasn’t expecting that quick of an answer. “you’re sure?”

you smile softly. “suguru, i like you. i liked you before last night. i just… didn’t realize how much until you were right there.”

he stares at you, his expression unreadable. then, slowly, his hand comes up to cradle the side of your face.

“come here,” he murmurs.

you lean down as he meets you halfway, pressing his lips to yours in a slow, gentle kiss that feels different from the ones last night, softer, realer. you sigh against him, your hands resting against his chest as he deepens it just slightly.

when you pull back, you’re both smiling, your noses brushing.

“that’s all i needed to hear,” he whispers.

you rest your forehead against his. “good.”

he lets out a quiet laugh, pulling you back down until your cheek rests over his heart again. his hand stays tangled in your hair, the other resting low on your back.

you let yourself melt further into his chest as he strokes you back. every few minutes, you shift slightly, adjusting against him, and each time his arms tighten like he’s afraid you’ll slip away.

you don’t mind. not one bit.

after a few minutes, he speaks again, voice low and sleepy. “this feels really nice.”

“yeah,” you mumble, smiling into his shirt. “it does.”

“kinda wish we didn’t have to move all day.”

“then don’t.”

he chuckles quietly. “that's real tempting.”

you tilt your head up to look at him again. “you’re comfy, y’know.”

he smirks a little, eyes still half-lidded. “that’s a first. most people call me heavy.”

you grin. “noo! you’re perfect, just very muscular.”

that makes his ears go a little pink, and you swear your heart stutters just watching him.

he looks at you for a long second, then presses another kiss to your forehead, murmuring against your skin, “you’re gonna be the death of me.”

you laugh quietly, tracing your fingers over his chest again, his heartbeat steady beneath your touch.

and for the first time in what feels like forever, the morning doesn’t feel heavy or sad. it’s warm. light. easy.

the morning drags on like it’s trying to make up for how slow last night felt.

you tilt your head up and catch him staring at you, his dark hair falling into his eyes, the faintest smirk curving on his lips.

“you’re staring, again,” you mumble.

“yeah,” he says, like it’s the easiest truth in the world. “you’re cute when you’re sleepy.”

you roll your eyes but your face heats up anyway. “you’re such a sap.”

“and you like it.”

“…yeah.”

he laughs quietly, the sound rumbling against your chest, and it’s so soft that your heart twists in your ribs. there’s a tiny pause where he’s just watching you again, and then, in that gentle voice that always sounds like honey in the morning, he says, “you should come get coffee with me today.”

you blink. “coffee?”

“yeah,” he says, brushing his thumb across your jaw. “and pastries. there’s this french place a few blocks down. i’ve been wanting to take you.”

you pause, eyes wide. “you... wanna take me out?”

he smiles, lazy and sure. “yeah, like a real date.”

for a second, you don’t even know what to say. you’re so used to being the one who asks, the one who plans things, who overthinks. hearing him say it so casually, like it’s obvious he’d want to spend his day with you, makes your heart do this weird flip.

“a real date,” you repeat softly, trying to play it cool even though your grin’s impossible to hide. “wow. that’s… adorable.”

he laughs again, and it’s low and genuine. “you sound surprised.”

“i’m just—no one’s really asked me before. not like that.”

his hand slides up your side until it rests under your chin, tilting your face toward him. “then i guess it’s about time someone did.”

you feel your face go hot, and he kisses your forehead, just a light press that somehow feels like more.

the two of you stay there for what feels like forever, wrapped in that half-sleepy warmth. it’s easy, natural, like breathing. every time you shift, his hand finds a new spot to rest—your shoulder, your waist, your thigh—and each touch feels grounding.

eventually he sighs, eyes still closed. “alright,” he murmurs. “you should go get ready before i change my mind and keep you here all day.”

you laugh quietly and pull back a little, brushing your thumb against his cheek. “you’d never.”

“yeah, okay,” he admits with a grin. “but i do wanna see you all dressed up. so, go.”

you stretch, yawning as you get up. he sits up too, rubbing a hand through his hair. “i’m gonna clean up real quick. you take your time.”

“sure thing,” you hum, already smiling like an idiot as you dig through your closet.

half an hour later, when he walks back into your room, your heart skips. he’s changed into a black shirt that fits too well and hangs just right over his frame, hair still damp from washing.

“damn,” you say before you can stop yourself.

he grins. “you look pretty too, sweetheart.”

you roll your eyes again, but the way he says it—low and certain—makes your knees feel weirdly weak.

he grabs the keys from your desk and waves a hand. “c’mon. before the morning rush hits.”

the walk to the cafe is quiet but not awkward. the sun’s warm, the air smells faintly like summer and vanilla, and every few steps, suguru’s hand brushes yours. you glance up at him once, and he’s already looking at you, smirking like he caught you thinking about him.

“you really like to stare, huh?”

“only when it’s you,” you shoot back.

his grin widens. “flirting already?”

“maybe i’m just returning the energy.”

“fair enough.”

the cafe is tucked into a side street, one of those places that looks like it came straight out of a movie. the windows are open, music plays softly, and everything smells like sugar and espresso. you take one look at the glass counter filled with pastries and let out an actual gasp.

“oh my god.”

he laughs, pulling the door open for you. “i knew you’d like it.”

you step inside and immediately press your hands to the glass, scanning everything. “there’s too many options,” you groan. “how do i pick?”

“you don’t,” he says easily. “we’ll get a bunch and share.”

“that’s the cutest thing anyone’s ever said to me.”

he snorts. “you’re easy to please.”

“and you’re a showoff,” you tease, bumping his shoulder.

you both end up with a tray full of croissants, fruit tarts, and little pastries you can’t even pronounce. suguru orders two coffees and pays before you can argue.

“you didn’t have to—”

“i wanted to,” he says, and there’s that same soft look again, the one that always makes your chest flutter.

you find a small table near the window, and he pulls your chair out before sitting across from you. you notice how his knees brush yours under the table, how he keeps leaning forward like he can’t stand being too far away.

he talks easily, like he always does, asking about your classes, your plans for the weekend, laughing at every dumb thing you say. the more you talk, the more you realize how good this feels—normal, intimate, like you’ve known him your whole life.

but every now and then, while you’re telling a story or taking a sip of coffee, you catch him drifting. his eyes soften, but his mind’s somewhere else.

he’s thinking about it again. about gojo. about the thing he still hasn’t told you.

it eats at him quietly while you laugh about something small, the guilt scratching under his ribs. you’re sitting there with powdered sugar on your fingers, smiling at him like he’s your whole world, and it makes him feel like the worst kind of liar.

he opens his mouth once, ready to just say it—to tell you that he knew about the cheating, that he didn’t say anything because he thought it wasn’t his place—but when he meets your eyes, something in him falters.

you look too happy. too cute.

he swallows, forcing a smile. “hey,” he says suddenly, changing the subject. “wanna take some photos? you look way too good not to.”

your head perks up immediately, excitement flashing across your face. “for real?”

“yeah,” he says, already reaching for his phone. “instagram-worthy, right?”

“you know me too well.”

“i do my best.”

you pose playfully while he takes the photos, and he swears he’s never seen anyone look better. you’re laughing between shots, pretending to pout, leaning over the table to grab a bite of pastry, and he just keeps snapping, wanting to capture every second.

“lemme see,” you say, reaching for the phone when he lowers it.

he scrolls through the pictures, showing you a few, and you squeal. “oh my god, i love these. you’re, like, really good at this.”

“i have a good subject.”

“smooth.”

he grins, leaning back in his chair, watching as you save a few of the pictures for later. he doesn’t even realize he’s smiling until you glance up at him, cheeks pink, and smile back.

the date stretches long after that, more coffee, more laughing until your cheeks hurt, a few more soft moments where neither of you say anything because it’s enough just to sit there.

by the time the sun starts dipping, you’re walking home again, fingers brushing until suguru finally takes your hand properly. you don’t say anything. you just walk like that, your hands fitting together too perfectly.

when you reach your apartment door, he turns to face you.

“had fun?” he asks, his voice quiet.

you grin. “more than fun. best date i’ve ever been on, actually.”

he laughs softly. “that’s a low bar, huh?”

“shut up,” you giggle, swatting his arm.

he’s still smiling when he leans down, pressing a kiss to your lips. it’s gentle at first, then deeper, warmer. you feel yourself melt into it instantly.

you move closer, hands on his chest, and he sighs against your mouth, pulling you in by the waist. for a second, you both forget about everything else.

when you start to kiss him harder, his hand finds your cheek, stopping you. “hey,” he murmurs against your lips, smiling softly. “not tonight.”

you pout, cheeks flushed. “you sure?”

he nods. “i wanna take this slow. i wanna take care of you, properly.”

the way he says it makes your stomach squeeze. no one has ever wanted to 'take thighs slow' with you. “okay,” you whisper. “i like that.”

he smiles, presses one last kiss to your forehead, and steps back. “goodnight, pretty girl.”

“goodnight, suguru.”

when you finally get inside, you collapse on your bed with a grin so wide it almost hurts. you scroll through your phone, looking at the pictures from earlier, and your heart swells. you pick one, the one of your hand across the table, fingers interlocked with his, and post it.

caption: best day.

you tag him, but hide it in the bottom corner, just subtle enough for it to be your soft launch. within minutes, the post blows up.

comments flood in:

yuki: um hello?? who’s that hand 👀

utahime: YOU’RE GLOWING???

nanami: real subtle.

you can’t stop smiling, biting your lip as you read them all.

~

you’re walking through campus the next morning, the air crisp and the sun way too bright for how little you slept. you’ve got a coffee clutched in one hand and your tote bag slung over your shoulder, earbuds in but not playing anything. it’s one of those days where you’re just coasting, brain still fuzzy from last night and all the thoughts about suguru that refuse to chill out.

you spot choso leaning against the wall near the social studies building, his usual all-black outfit making him stand out against the crowd of students in beige and denim. he gives you a little nod when you walk up, quiet as always.

“you look like you didn’t sleep,” he says, side-eyeing your coffee.

you snort. “yeah, thanks for the observation.”

“rough night?”

“no,” you say quickly, then pause, biting your lip. “well… not rough. just… busy.”

he gives you this look like he knows exactly what that means.

“ah,” he hums, smirking faintly. “busy with suguru, huh?”

you nearly choke on your drink. “how— what— who told you that?”

choso shrugs, shoving his hands into his pockets. “no one. i saw your instagram post. pretty sure everyone else did too.”

you groan, hiding your face in your hands. “oh my god, it was just a hand.”

“a hand wearing very recognizable rings,” he says dryly. “everyone knows suguru’s style. dude’s been wearing the same silver set since freshman year.”

you lower your hands and sigh. “so you’re saying people know.”

“i’m saying anyone with eyes knows.”

you grimace. “great. that’s exactly what i needed.”

he chuckles under his breath. “don’t stress it. people were already guessing after the party last week. you two weren’t exactly being subtle.”

you can’t help but smile a little. “yeah, well, i guess we’re not hiding it anymore.”

he glances at you, his tone turning casual again. “anyway, a couple of us are hitting a party tonight. you should come.”

you raise an eyebrow. “a party? you, willingly socializing?”

“yuki’s dragging me,” he says, shrugging. “figured i’d offer before she texts you herself. bring suguru if you want. the more, the merrier or whatever.”

you nod slowly, pretending to think about it, even though you already know you’ll say yes. “yeah, okay. sounds fun.”

“cool,” he says simply, pushing off the wall. “text me later. i’ll send you the address.”

“got it.”

he starts walking toward the building, then looks over his shoulder. “oh, and for real, the post was cute.”

you groan again, but you’re laughing this time.

.

that night, you’re standing in front of your mirror, fixing your makeup while suguru lounges on your bed, scrolling through his phone. he’s wearing a black button-up, sleeves rolled up, hair tied back loosely, and the sight of him like that makes it a miracle you’re still focused enough to do your eyeliner.

“you sure you wanna go?” he asks, glancing up at you. “we could just stay in. order takeout, watch a movie.”

you smile at his reflection in the mirror. “tempting. but choso invited us. and yuki will probably text me fifteen times if i don’t show.”

“true,” he says, setting his phone down. “alright then. let’s go make an appearance.”

the drive to the party is smooth, the growl of the car and the quiet music filling the space between your conversations. the windows are down, wind brushing through your hair, and suguru’s hand rests on your thigh the entire time, thumb tracing little circles absentmindedly.

you’re halfway there when he says, almost too calmly, “haven’t talked to satoru since that night.”

you glance over at him, watching the way his jaw flexes.

“probably for the best,” you say softly. “he doesn’t deserve your energy. or mine.”

he nods, but you can tell there’s still something behind his eyes. “yeah. he’s been quiet. some of the boys asked about it—about us, too. i just told them to mind their business for now.”

you smile faintly. “that’s a good answer.”

“wasn’t exactly subtle, though,” he admits, smirking. “they’ll figure it out soon enough.”

“let them,” you say, leaning back in your seat. “i’m not hiding anything.”

he glances over at you then, smiling that small, proud smile of his. “good.”

.

the partys loud, the colored lights flash across the living room, and people are spilling out into the yard.

you can feel the shift in energy as you step inside with suguru—heads turning, eyes following, it’s not subtle at all. you and suguru together are the kind of thing that makes people talk.

he’s got his arm draped around your waist, hand resting comfortably on your hip, and for once it doesn’t feel like a claim. it feels easy, protective in the softest way.

someone you recognize from your communications class walks past and does a double take. “holy shit, y/n? and geto?”

“hey,” you say, grinning.

they laugh. “wow, he’s lucky.”

suguru doesn’t miss a beat. “i know,” he says smoothly, smirking down at you.

you elbow him in the side, but you’re laughing.

as the night goes on, you lose count of how many people greet you, how many double takes happen. suguru takes it in stride, cool as ever, never letting go of you.

eventually, you spot choso on the couch with yuki, who’s holding a red cup and grinning like she owns the place. you tug suguru’s hand and pull him over.

“hey,” yuki greets, eyes lighting up when she sees you two together. “finally! the campus power couple arrives.”

you laugh. “we’re not a couple.”

she rolls her eyes. “sure, and i’m the pope.”

choso smirks into his drink. “told you people were talking.”

you shoot him a look. “yeah, yeah.”

suguru sits down next to you, his thigh pressed against yours, his arm draped lazily over the back of the couch.

yuki leans forward, grinning. “for real though, you guys are cute. like, disgustingly cute. it’s yuck.”

you can’t help but blush a little. “thanks, i think?”

“you think?” she laughs. “girl, please. the way he looks at you, half the room’s jealous.”

you glance at suguru, who’s smirking into his drink like he heard every word. “you’re loving this, aren’t you?” you murmur.

“a little,” he admits, leaning closer. “you make me look really good.”

you nudge him but you’re smiling, cheeks hurting from how much you’ve laughed tonight.

it’s easy for a while—just the four of you talking, teasing, panic! at the disco flowing faintly in the background. suguru’s fingers trace slow patterns on your thigh while he listens, chiming in occasionally, perfectly relaxed...

then, the rooms while vibe switches up.

gojo walks in.

he’s wearing his usual too-casual smirk and a shirt that probably costs more than your rent. there’s a blonde girl clinging to his arm, someone you’ve never seen before. she’s giggling too loud, the kind of laugh that sounds put on.

he’s trying too hard to look nonchalant.

he greets a few people, that same fake grin plastered on his face, but the second his eyes land on you and suguru, the mask cracks.

you’re curled up against his ex-best friend on the couch, his hand resting comfortably on your thigh, his thumb brushing against your skin. the two of you are laughing at something yuki said, oblivious to the rest of the room for a second too long.

still, you feel it—the weight of gojo’s gaze.

suguru notices it too, yet he doesn’t look away. instead, he leans in closer to you, murmuring something in your ear that makes you giggle, and his hand tightens on your thigh, firm and claiming.

it’s not for show, it’s for reassurance. but it works as both.

gojo’s jaw ticks, his smirk falling. he scoffs, saying something to the blonde, who glances at you before tugging him toward the kitchen.

suguru watches him go, a faint chuckle slipping out. “guess someone’s not taking it well.”

you shrug, sipping your drink. “he can choke.”

“agreed,” suguru says easily.

the music picks up again, the tension easing. choso and yuki exchange knowing looks, but they don’t say anything. instead, yuki raises her cup. “to moving on,” she says.

you clink your cup against hers. “to moving on.”

from there, everything smooshes into one—the laughing, the music, the alcohol. suguru’s got you half in his lap now, your legs draped over his as he holds you close, one arm around your waist, the other resting low on your ass.

you’re talking about nothing and everything, tracing little shapes on his chest tattoos while he gives you fruitful responses.

people are watching, whispering, eating it up. the it-girl and the quiet, hot guy with tattoos and soft eyes, it’s the kind of visual that spreads fast on campus.

at one point, suguru leans in and kisses you, slow and unhurried. you taste like whatever fruity drink yuki mixed earlier, and his lips are warm against yours.

you pull back just enough to catch your breath, laughing softly. “people are staring.”

“let them,” he murmurs, brushing his thumb across your cheek.

you kiss him again, deeper this time, fingers curling in his shirt. his hand slips to your waist, pulling you closer until you’re pressed against him, completely lost in the moment.

the noise fades. it’s just the two of you, heat, breath, touch.

but somewhere, through the haze of music and laughter, you can feel the change again. the kind of tension that means something’s about to happen.

half the crowd’s too drunk to notice the growing tension, but the other half’s clocked it—the way suguru’s shoulders have gone stiff beside you, his gaze locked on something across the room.

you follow his line of sight, your stomach immediately dropping when you see gojo there, stumbling through the crowd like he owns it, a drink sloshing dangerously in his hand. his white hair’s a mess, his shirt’s half unbuttoned, and his smile—god, it’s not really a smile at all. it’s the sloppy, bitter kind that never means anything good.

“yuck,” you whisper, setting your cup down.

“yeah,” suguru mutters, voice low, eyes still on him. “he’s off his face.”

understatement of the year.

gojo’s weaving through people like a man on a mission, ignoring the calls of his friends who are clearly trying to rein him in. his steps are heavy, uncoordinated, but he still carries that same arrogance, like he’s untouchable even when he’s falling apart.

“suguru,” you say softly, shifting closer. “maybe we should just dip.”

“he’s gonna follow us if we do.”

and right on cue, gojo spots the two of you on the couch, tangled up like you belong there. his grin widens, something cruel behind it.

“well, well, well,” he slurs, stopping a few feet away. “look at this. the happy couple.”

the noise around you dips. not entirely silent, but enough for heads to turn. people start pulling out their phones, pretending not to record. the air changes—tightens.

suguru doesn’t look up, but you can see the shift in his jaw, the way he’s grinding his teeth. “satoru,” he says evenly, “you should go sober up.”

“sober up?” gojo scoffs, nearly spilling his drink as he gestures wildly. “don’t talk to me like i’m the problem, man. you’re the fucking problem.”

you roll your eyes, trying to deescalate. “gojo, seriously. you’re wasted. just go sleep it off.”

“oh, don’t worry, sweetheart,” he sneers, his voice rising. “i’m not talking to you. not yet.”

you freeze at the venom in his tone.

he turns his attention back to suguru, staggering a bit as he points a finger at him. “you’re such a fake, bro. you act like you’re this calm, wise, better-than-everyone guy, but you’re a snake. you hear me? a fucking snake.”

“watch it,” suguru warns, voice low but steady.

“or what?” gojo snaps, taking another step forward. “you gonna hit me again? go ahead. in front of everyone this time. show them what a ‘good guy’ you are.”

the crowd murmurs. someone snickers. suguru’s still sitting, but you can feel the way tension’s coiling under his skin, ready to snap.

“satoru,” he says again, quieter this time. “walk away.”

“you don’t get to tell me what to do,” gojo says, his grin twisting. “you don’t get to tell me anything, because last time i checked, you’re the one who stabbed me in the back.”

you scoff, unable to help it. “stabbed you in the back? please. you’re the one who cheated, gojo. you deserve everything that’s happened to you.”

the words hit, sharp and clean. a few people around you murmur in agreement. gojo’s expression falters for half a second before the anger floods back in.

“oh, right,” he laughs bitterly. “here we go. the victim act. poor y/n, got cheated on by the evil gojo satoru.” he leans closer, eyes glassy but burning. “tell me, baby, did you cry about it to him? did you let him hold you, kiss you, fuck you—what’s the timeline again?”

“watch your fucking mouth,” suguru snaps, standing up so fast the couch creaks.

gojo laughs again, loud and mean. “aw, i hit a nerve? what, don’t like me calling her what she is?”

“gojo,” you hiss, voice shaking now. “stop.”

but he doesn’t.

“you really think anyone’s buying this ‘good guy’ act, huh?” he taunts, turning to suguru. “you’re not some knight in shining armor, bro. you’re just another guy trying to get his dick wet. and you—” he gestures at you, eyes narrowing. “you’re just easy enough to let it happen.”

the crowd collectively winces. you feel your throat tighten, heat creeping up your neck. suguru’s hands curl into fists.

“enough,” he says. it’s not loud, but it’s enough to silence the chatter.

“what, you gonna defend her?” gojo spits. “how cute. you always did like cleaning up my messes.”

and that’s when you finally snap.

“oh for fucks sake,” you shoot back, standing now, voice trembling but sharp. “yeah, he does clean up your messes. because he’s actually a decent guy, better than you ever were.”

the room goes still.

you don’t even realize what you’ve said until it’s already hanging there in the air between you all.

gojo’s smirk fades. the drunken haze doesn’t fully hide the flash of hurt, or anger, that passes through his expression. then it hardens into something nastier.

“better than me?” he echoes, voice cracking just slightly. “you sure about that?”

you glare at him. “positive.”

he takes a step closer, tone dropping low. “if he’s such a great guy, then tell me, did he ever mention that he knew? that he knew i was cheating on you?”

everything inside you stills.

“...what?” you whisper.

“hmm,” he says, voice laced with venom. “he knew. the whole time. sat there, smiled in your face, let you cry to him, and said nothing. then the second we broke up, he swooped in and played the hero.”

you turn to suguru, your stomach dropping to the floor. he looks stricken, frozen in place like he’s just been gut-punched.

“that’s not—” he starts, but the words die in his throat.

you step back. “is it true?”

he hesitates. that split second of silence tells you everything you need to know.

“you knew,” you whisper, voice breaking. “you knew, and you didn’t tell me?”

“y/n—”

“don’t,” you snap, eyes burning. “don’t you dare.”

gojo laughs, bitter and broken. “see? told you. the guy’s a dick.”

suguru turns on him, fury written all over his face. “you, shut the fuck up.”

“what, can’t handle the truth? you’ve been playing white knight while lying through your teeth.”

suguru steps forward, and for a second you’re sure he’s going to swing. you grab his wrist without even thinking, your voice trembling. “stop. just—stop.”

his eyes meet yours, and for the first time, you see panic there. regret. fear.

but it’s too late.

you pull your hand back like his touch burns. “you lied to me.”

“i was trying to protect you,” he says quietly. “it wasn’t my place to tell you.”

you laugh, bitter. “protect me? from what? from the truth? you stood there and watched me beg you to tell me the truth, and you lied to my face. you’re just like him.”

the words hit harder than you mean them to, but you can’t stop.

“y/n, please—”

you shake your head, tears blurring your vision. “i can’t even look at you right now.”

you turn and start pushing through the crowd, ignoring the stares, the whispers, the way your name bounces around the room.

behind you, you hear suguru’s voice—low, rough, desperate. “y/n, wait!”

but you don’t.

you storm out into the night, the cold air slapping against your face, tears spilling down your cheeks before you can stop them.

your chest feels tight, your stomach twisting. you don’t even know where you’re going, you just know you need to get away.

away from the noise.

away from the lies.

away from him.

inside, suguru’s left standing in the wreckage, the room thick with silence. gojo’s still there, smirking faintly, but there’s something hollow in it now.

suguru finally looks at him, eyes dark and full of restrained rage.

“you're such a fucking cunt,” he says, voice steady but dangerous.

gojo lifts his drink. “awe, you'll get over it.”

and for a second, suguru looks like he might actually kill him.

but then he exhales, slow and shaking, and walks away.

the crowd parts for him, whispering. no one says a word.

and outside, down the street, your phone buzzes in your hand with his name lighting up the screen. you look at it, trembling, and swipe it away without answering.

tonight, everything fell apart. and for the first time in weeks, you feel completely, utterly alone again.

He drops Megumi off at school every single morning (half true), he's never late to parent teacher conferences (that's a lie), he's never, ever, forgot to change his daughters poop diaper (more lies), and he carefully monitors his children’s diet to make sure they eat healthily (he gave Megumi chocolate muffins for dinner three nights in a row while you were on a girls’ trip).

That being said, you don't trust Satoru with much concerning the children, despite how much he preaches about his "great responsibility" and "trustworthiness".

You’d think tasking him with something simple wouldn’t cause any problems. Like, say, sending him and the kids grocery shopping so they could get some fresh air—and you could finally get some time alone.

Well. You were sadly mistaken.

"Okay, let's see here," Satoru tilts his sunglasses down, squinting at the list of grocery items you sent him to get from the store.

"Do you really have to squint to see that, old man?" Megumi sighs, completely unfazed by the 9 month old baby gnawing at his fingers.

"Dang, Megs, why're you always so mean?" Satoru puts a hand to his heart like he's been wounded.

"S'not my fault you're old," Megumi mumbles.

Satoru scans the shelf in front of him, an unmistakable pout forming on his lips before he grabs a container of flour, "I'm not even thirty yet."

Megumi snickers, eyes landing on a bag of Jumbo Marshmallows before tugging the hem of Gojo's shirt, "Can we get that?" He points.

"Sure!" Gojo beams, not even looking at what he was pointing at—too occupied with trying to figure of if he should get smoked paprika, or regular.

He ended up with both.

"Hey, stay here with your sister while I go get the eggs."

Satoru says, nodding at Megumi before quite literally skipping away.

Megumi groans when he sees him, repeatedly hitting his head on the stroller handle, making the baby giggle. He sighs. "Your dad is an idiot."

It's been ten minutes. How long does it take to get eggs? Megumi has read the nutrition facts on a box of cake mix three times over and Gojo still isnt back.

"He's probably in the candy aisle," Megumi says to the baby, her tiny feet kicking in excitement as the stroller begins to move.

He checks the candy aisle first—no Satoru. Then the snack aisle—still no Satoru.

There’s only one other place he could be: the bakery.

Megumi trudges his way there, baby stroller in hand, paying no mind to the adults questioning why a nine-year-old is alone with a baby in the middle of the grocery store.

Lo and behold, Satoru is, in fact, in the bakery. Wallet out, eggs in hand, pointing at an assortment of pastries and desserts.

“Gojo.” Megumi glares.

"Oh heeeey, Gumi! I was just—"

"You've been gone for 10 minutes." Megumi deadpans.

"Yeah, but I was getting some dessert for us and your mom," Satoru explains, gesturing to the mountain of cakes, cookies, and puff pastries.

“Dessert, or desserts—plural?” Megumi raises an eyebrow.

Satoru pauses, slightly taken aback. “What are they teaching you in school? ‘Plural’ is a big word, kid.” He puts a few boxes of desserts into the basket, signaling Megumi to follow.

"Let's check out and go home, yeah?" Satoru tickles his daughters feet.

"but what about the rest of the groceries—"

"S'fine, we'll come back later," he nudges Megumi.

Megumi groans once again, squinting at his little sister who is none the wiser.

"hey, go wait by the entrance, I'll meet you there and then we'll leave okay?" Satoru calls back to megumi. Megumi nods, situating him and the baby by a display of apples and oranges in front of the stores entrance.

"How much you wanna bet he'll forget us?" Megumi asks the baby, blowing raspberries at her, making her squint her eyes and giggle.

They end up waiting for about five minutes, Megumi is distracting the baby with an orange and Satoru is finished with checking out.

He walks right past the automatic doors—completely missing the sight of his son and daughter sitting by the apple display—and heads straight for the car.

Bags in hand, humming to himself, Satoru gets in, sets the groceries in the passenger seat, and puts the keys in the ignition.

He pauses, "Am I forgetting something?"

He racks his mind, thinking of possibly anything he might have forgotten, but he was drawing a blank.

Completely oblivious to his son and daughter waiting for him at the entrance of the store—the exact same entrance Satoru walked out of—Satoru drives off, singing his heart out the entire five-minute ride home, side eying the back of sweets next to him every now and then.

He pulls into the driveway, turns off the car and makes his way to the front door and—

Oh. Oh no.

Satoru forgot the pastries in the car!

He rushes back, unlocks the door, and quickly grabs the bag.

Sighing, he unlocks the front door of the house.

"Daddy's home!" Satoru calls out, playfulness in his tone, half expecting his daughter to crawl to his feet and Megumi to run up to him asking for his debit card like usual.

The only person who came was you.

"Hi, my love," you smile, hugging him and looking behind him, hoping to see your two children, but there's no one there.

"Where are the kids? Are they in the car?" You ask.

Satoru looks around. up, down, behind him, even underneath him, searching for the Children. "I thought they were with you?"

"Satoru. stop joking," you laugh nervously.

Oh.

Ohhh.

"Oh." Satoru looks at the keys, and then at the front door.

"I left them at the store."

“I’ll sleep when I’m dead,” you turned over in the uncomfortable seat until he could see nothing except the back of your head. “Which will be any day now by the looks of things.”

“You think I’m gonna let that happen?” Satoru ran a hand through his messy white head of hair. “We’re gonna make it to the refugee center, don’t you worry. I’ll get you there even if it kills me. If traffic hasn’t gotten better by sunrise, then we’ll just . . . abandon the car and start walking. Cardio’s good for the heart, so they say.”

Are you stupid? You want us to walk around with no protection, knowing that those things are out there? I’d rather stay trapped in the car! And I don’t think living off saltine crackers for who knows how long is good for the heart, so screw cardio. Now isn’t the time to make jokes. God, you annoy me.

That was what you thought. That was what you wished you could spew out verbally, but you only shifted a bit, and said, “My safety isn’t your responsibility, Satoru. Not anymore.”

“Are you being for real? You think that with everything going on right now, everything we just witnessed back home . . . you think that us being broken up matters in the grand scheme of things? Baby, come on.” He stared at the back of your head as he spoke. When seconds of silence passed, he tapped his hand against the top of the steering wheel and sighed out of pure frustration. “If I see one of those fucking monsters attack you, I’ll just let it happen since you’re my ex-girlfriend, and that apparently matters in a life or death situation. That’s what you want, right?”

You still didn’t respond. Not for a long time. There was a book in your hand, and you clenched it tightly.

The chatter and footsteps from outside the car felt uncomfortably loud in the midst of that unsettling quietness.

Say something, Satoru thought, resting his elbow on the driver’s seat door. You turned around in your seat. Your blanket fell from around your shoulders, drifting down to your waist.

“You’re missing my point, as per usual. I’m trying to figure out, why me? We broke up three years ago. Three years. And our town? It got overrun two days ago. Everyone had to grab food and water and their loved ones and get the hell out as quickly as possible. So why did you take the time to find me? Out of everyone else in your life, why’d you show up at my doorstep, desperate to save your ex?”

“Because I still love you more than anyone else in my life. Isn’t that obvious?” Satoru smiled sadly.

Your eyes met his for the first time in what felt like three years.

“What? Did you think I was going to say something different?” Satoru stated as if his earlier confession was an obvious fact: The sky is blue. Two plus two equals four. And I’m still in love with you.

“I’m not having this conversation with you,” you mumbled, and rolled over in the seat yet again. “Don’t get any mixed ideas. The second we get to the refugee, shelter place, whatever- we’re done. One hundred percent finished. We’ll part ways for good. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

Satoru unfolded a piece of ancient work unbeknownst to most of society due to the arrival of technology: a map. “Loud and clear.”

— THREE DAYS LATER —

The Safe Place, as some called it, could more accurately be named a madhouse.

Traffic never moved forward. Many fellow stuck civilians had all gathered on the highway, Satoru among them, and agreed that they all had a better chance of dying than seeing the countless amount of cars piled up along the roads finally start to move forward.

And, eventually, just as water was starting to become a memory and the first signs of dehydration had your head spinning — the summer heat you walked in for days did you no favors — you all stumbled upon a crowded, one-level building with people spilling out of the doors, fighting for their right to retrieve whatever was inside. Food. A bed. Clean clothes. Water.

All the things you so desperately wanted.

Armed guards prevented the massive wave of people from entering the shelter. But getting shot didn’t seem as scary as not being allowed entry to some, and they still tried to fight their way inside.

“I have three kids! Please, please let us in, sir,” one woman cried.

You and Satoru were further back in line, and you could only make out the back of her messy head of hair, but you heard the guard she argued with quite clearly.

“We’re at max capacity. Hell, past that now, lady. There’s nothin’ I can do for ya, ‘m sorry.”

His words sparked a wave of panic. All at once, people began to shout. To push forward.

“What do you mean you’re full?”

“You’re going to leave us out here to die like animals?”

“Let us in!”

“We have a right to live, you piece of shit!”

The unsettling bodies were pressing against yours, pressing you and Satoru together, so much so that it became hard to breathe. One man roughly knocked you off your feet as he made his way past you in line. Large hands caught you before you hit the ground and became the new stomping mat of the riot slowly starting to come about.

Satoru straightened you up. He gripped your shoulders to steady you, and he said, “We gotta get out of here now.”

“And go where?”

Satoru could barely hear your response. But he didn’t have to. He knew you, and he knew you’d ask the most logical question there was to utter amidst the chaos.

“We’ll find-”

His words, which held no meaning anyway, were interrupted by the sound of two gunshots, followed by a fresh explosion of shrieks and cries. People ducked instinctively.

The guard who shot one person in the chest and another in the stomach did so as a way of sending a crystal clear message: calm down and stop trying to enter the shelter, or this is what you’ll get.

Your ex-boyfriend’s blue eyes started to flicker at various things, and you knew what he was doing. He was thinking. It was the face he made while grading poorly-written student essays, or figuring out the best way to apologize to you after showing up an hour past the date-night reservations you made, seeing you stand outside of a fancy restaurant, having eaten without him, a book in hand because you knew he’d screw this up. You were all alone.

All of the guards are distracted right now. I could sneak her in. No . . . if she gets caught, they’ll shoot her. Not to mention she could get trampled just from trying to make it to the front . . . shit.

But where would we go? See if we can find a car and avoid that mess of a highway? Pray the next town over wasn’t somehow hit with whatever the hell ours was hit with? What the hell is going on? No one knows, not really.

Large, skeptical hands turned you around and started to guide you out of the chaotic crowd. It wasn’t easy. Satoru used his height to his advantage, but even he nearly stumbled and fell over more times than he could count.

Your ribs ached from elbows unintentionally slamming into them. The thumping in your head? Well, that was for a number of reasons. Getting hit, being thirsty, and coming to terms with the reality of the situation: there was nowhere for you to go.

—

“I’m just saying. I haven’t seen any dead people. Are we sure this isn’t one big social experiment?” Your words were soft, and without amusement.

Satoru might not have remembered what kind of flowers you preferred, but he recognized the tones of your voice, and you weren’t speaking out of disbelief, rolling your eyes as you chalked it all up to a conspiracy theory, but out of desperate hope.

The smoldering flames of the dying fire that sat between you and Satoru illuminated that very hope in your eyes as you continued to speak.

“J-Just think about it. We all saw the news go on and on about this disease. Next thing we know, everyone in our town is panicking and fleeing, but . . . I just think that for all this outrage, I’d have seen a dead person come back to life and start eating people by now with my own eyes.”

“I have.”

It seemed as if the darkness of the night that surrounded you both, so unsheltered among the side of the open road, had grown all the more dark. Over a day had passed since you both tried to enter the madhouse- no, shelter. It was a shelter.

The neighboring town was still as clean and polished as it had been a week ago, when Satoru strolled down the people-filled streets in his car on the way to his favorite dessert shop.

The only difference was that, now, the only souls that seemed to linger around were his and yours. Not even the souls of the dead that had started to rise, apparently.

Satoru summed up that bittersweet luck to the fact that this town more than likely evacuated before yours did. All of its citizens were, perhaps, the ones who crowded the refugee camp, so much so that the people of your town weren’t allowed entry.

And you had a point.

If it wasn’t for the fact that, before Satoru arrived on your doorstep several days ago, he saw what he saw, he might have found truth in your accusation.

“Who turned? Was it your parents? A friend?”

“A student,” he mumbled.

“Oh.”

Satoru thought that little hum of yours marked the end of the conversation, and the sounds of crackling wood filled the silence for a moment. Then, you continued to ask, “What happened?”

His jaw clenched.

Why would you ask me that? He thought.

“It’s not really a subject for polite conversation,” Satoru said with a seriousness that was quite unusual. Even during past arguments when you begged and prayed and pleaded for him to listen, listen, and listen. To wipe that smug smirk off of his face and fucking listen, never before had he seemed so cold. All the light left his eyes, as if he were the one who died, and not his student.

“All you need to know is that it’s real, just as dangerous as they say, and . . . I don’t think . . .” he paused, as if to choose his next words carefully. “I think that, come sunrise, we should prioritize finding weapons just as much as food and water. It might even be more important.”

“What? No way. Weapons are important, but it’s been days since the so-called outbreak, I haven’t seen one, so . . . maybe they aren’t all that common. We might have a better chance of coming across a wild bear, so I think the knife I grabbed from my kitchen will be just fine. Food first.”

“Your dull knives could barely even chop through an onion. If that’s all the protection we have, we’re as good as dead.”

“Okay, since you’re an expert on apocalypses," you yawned, lying down on the cold, hard patch of grass beside the road, “why didn’t you think to grab any weapons before grabbing your ex?”

“I’m a high school teacher, not part of the military. What weapons did you think I would’ve had?”

“That old baseball bat in your garage, your kitchen knives which, apparently, are oh so sharp and cool, um . . . a leg off of your dining room table, anything. But, you were too focused on being a hero, hm?”

“Alright, I get it.” Satoru rolled up the sleeves of his dirty, unbuttoned blue shirt. “You wish I left you behind, you don’t want anything to do with me, blah blah blah-”

“See? You’re a grown man saying blah blah blah, dismissing my feelings, and you wonder why I’d rather take my chances on my own.”

“You know, I didn’t drag you out of your house and force you into my car. You came out of your own free will.”

You frowned. “Well, I’m not an idiot, am I? I’m forever pissed at you, but I’m not stupid enough to turn down a ride out of a town falling apart. I thought that once we found a safe place, it would be safe enough for us to split up, but that didn’t work out, sooo here I am, still stuck with you until we do find a safe place and I can say goodbye to you forever, because, like I said, I’m not an idiot.”

It was silent for a moment. You wanted to break eye contact with him. Let your words reign true, that was it, that was that.

But you could only stare at the sadness suddenly possessing his dirty face. The corner of his lips pointed downward. His eyes glistened as if tears would fall from them with the simplest blink. “You hate me that much?” He whispered. “Were you that miserable with me?”

“I wasn’t miserable with you, I was miserable without you. You were never there when I needed you.”

“I’m here now.”

“I don’t need or want you now.”

“Yes, you do.” Satoru darted his gaze down to the dying flames. “You just admitted that you need me until you find a safe place. You’re using me, and I’m just gonna let you, ‘cause I know if I don’t, you’ll die.”

“You think I’d die without you? The high school teacher who couldn’t even remember to call me back, show up for dates, or that it was my birthday until late at night when you finally would piece together why I’d been rolling my eyes at you all day long? Please. Being with you for now is better than being alone, but I’d do just fine without you. Always have.”

You rolled over then, but the conversation wasn’t quite finished. Satoru’s voice that sounded from behind you took on a tone so dark, so low — it was almost frightening.

“You really don’t get it. Guess it’s ‘cause you haven’t seen it before, yeah? People are getting sick, slowly dying, slowly losing every part of themselves, but not all at once. They come back from the dead and can still kinda piece together who they are at first, but all of that gets overshadowed by this desire to eat people. I went to check on my student who hadn’t been to school for a while. Our families are close and whatnot, so I was worried about him. He was sick. Everyone thought it was the flu. But when I showed up, he was sitting at his desk, dead. Chest wasn’t moving. He was just . . . dead. And you know how good of a student he was? Even though he was sick, he was still trying to finish his essay. I saw the stupid pieces of paper underneath his head. He, uh, he was dead, but, after a while, we saw him start to move. I thought that, maybe, his body was just naturally trying to fall out of the chair, ya know? Oh, was I wrong. He stood up. His eyes opened, he turned around, and he came straight for me. I had to . . . anyway, after, I thought it was weird that, even though his parents and sister were closer, he came straight for me. Then, I looked down, and I saw that his essay was in his hands. He might have been trying to eat me, but I think . . . I think in Megumi’s mind, he thought he was just giving his teacher his essay.” Satoru saw your body stiffen as he recounted his tale. His misery. “Point is, it took all of my strength, his step-mom’s, and his dad’s, to get him off of me, and he had been freshly turned for not even thirty seconds. I can’t imagine the strength and bloodlust of one that’s been turned longer. So, for you to say you don’t need or want me because of relationship drama that no longer matters in the face of all this goddamn bullshit is ridiculous.”

You wanted to move your body, as the hard ground you tried to imagine was your warm bed had started to make your bone ache terribly, but despite the warm weather, it felt as though your limbs were frozen. His words, paralyzing.

“You treated me like shit when all I tried to do was love you. What happens when I’m the one slowing you down? What happens if we’re low on food and there isn’t enough for both of us? You keep saying it doesn’t matter anymore, but you expect me to believe the man who always forgot about me will have my back now?”

“Yes.”

“I’m going to bed.”

Despite your words, you rose from the ground, messy boots scraping against the rocky grass as you started to walk away.

“Woah, woah, where are you going?” Satoru hopped up.

“Just further down the road. I think you and I could benefit from a little distance,” you said, stepping away from him.

He reached out to grab your wrist. “Now you’re just being stupid-”

“Oh, fuck off, Satoru! I’m an adult, I can do what I want!” The explosion of anger scared you more than it scared him. The rise of every bit of heartbreak you still hadn’t yet healed from had bubbled to the surface, and you snatched your wrist away from him as if his touch burned your skin. “I bet you’re happy about this situation because you have a chance to force me back into your life and treat me like your little fucking pet again, but you know what? Here.” You reached for your bags. By now, your supplies and his supplies had become one, mixed together in either bag, because, well, you were together, after all. But you started to toss everything that he claimed as his out of your backpack. “Take your stale crackers, your fucking clothes, your stupid photo album, just take it all back. I’m done.”

You slung your bag over your shoulder, not bothering to close it.

He tried to call your name, tried to grab ahold of you, but you wouldn’t have it. And he couldn’t force you to stay put, could he? You were no longer his.

Satoru stared at the fire well into the night, long enough for a reasonable amount of time to pass in which you’d hopefully cool off.

It was no different than sitting on the couch, waiting until you unlocked the bedroom door after one of his great, big, fuck-ups.

He stood and started walking. It was quite dark beyond the small fire he created. The only other light that guided his path shone down upon him from the full moon, but it was barely enough.

He didn’t expect you to come back to his spot. You said you were going to sleep. But he couldn’t even blink properly out of the pure anxiety crawling up his throat over not knowing your whereabouts.

I’m just gonna check on her, get yelled at probably, then I’ll go back to my spot, he thought.

But with every step he took in the direction you stomped off in, he only saw trees. The road. Grass. The moon. The stars.

Never you.

He called your name quite a few times, but nothing came of it. Only chirping crickets answered him.

—

Walking was a great way to work through one’s stress, so they say. That was how you found yourself entering the abandoned, picturesque town in the dead of night, around two or three miles up the road.

You couldn’t remember entering an abandoned library. Perhaps, with the cloud of anger hanging over you, you no longer thought about the state of the world. You only knew a library or bookstore was often your source of comfort during dark moments, and much to your surprise, the doors to this one opened with one tug of your arm.

There was an awkward maneuver of slinging your bag around and digging through it to fetch your flashlight — the moon and stars no longer able to service you, not in here — but you got it, flicked it on, and there it was.

A countless amount of dusty novels that were left behind by their townsfolk in search of food or medicine. You grabbed one without bothering to check for the author or an eye-catching synopsis. Anything would do. Absolutely anything.

The carpeted floor seemed cozy enough. Warm enough. You sat down nearest one of the bookcases, shone your flashlight upon the inked words, and started to read.

Half an hour had passed before you were awakened by the sounds of groans and growls. You dozed off while reading. Waking up in a rather disorienting state with complete blackness surrounding you made you forget what kind of noises you heard. You only remembered that you heard something.

“‘Toru?” You called out softly.

Some noises sounded human. As in, the poor soul making those noises hadn’t yet been too far gone. But some had. Some were no longer capable of making noises that resembled the person they once were. But in truth, as you grabbed your flashlight and shone it forward, the small herd of people — no, these weren’t people — they were monsters. Animals. Dead. Hungry. Able to rip you apart limb from limb, and they made their way into the library through the door you forgot to shut behind you, and started to approach you.

“Oh my god,” you cried, tossing your trembling hand over your mouth.

You started to scramble to your feet. No time to search for that dull kitchen knife.

“Run!”

The shout belonged to Satoru. You knew it. But you couldn’t pinpoint his location, not daring to snatch your flashlight away from the ungodly things headed right for you.

Going through the entrance was impossible — that was their way in.

Your only hope was for another exit — it was a public building. There had to be another.

With your unwelcomed company on your tail, you tried to find a door, an exit sign, anything, but you could barely breathe. Barely think.

Being afraid was an understatement.

“Don’t stop moving!”

The shout came from above you, towards the right. You saw him.

The library building itself was rather beautiful, as it had two floors, the second with an all-around balcony that let one browse for more books, while also peering over onto the first floor. That was where Satoru was. Watching the entire thing from above.

He tried tossing books, dying plants — even a reading chair — over the balcony to draw them away from you, and it worked for some, but not all. Not most.

He would have kept going, but then, you shouted, amidst your aimless running, “they’re behind you!”

Those words would have, should have, sent a wave of panic through him, making his knees want to buckle, create the urge to throw up his insides, or drain the color from his skin. And while those things happened, it wasn’t because you alerted him to his own company on the second floor, but it was because the moonlight shining through the windows of the library allowed him to see the herd start to back you into a corner.

“No.” The cry slipped out from between his quivering lips.

You cried his name. Not his full name, but the nickname you adored whenever you felt needy or frightened. He thought it was because of your impending doom, but in truth, it was because he was about to meet a similar fate.

He felt hands grace the back of his shirt, but there were too many around him, just as there were too many around you.

Just too many.

You watched as Satoru vanished into the herd grabbing at his clothes and limbs, unable to fight them off.

And he watched as your figure vanished, and the other herd piled on top of you. And they started to feast.

— FOUR YEARS LATER —

The world no longer resembled the civilization or society it once knew. Overgrown grass and vines had started to climb most buildings, and said buildings were all trashed, abandoned, and picked apart by desperate survivors.

But the people — the last of those who hadn’t been eaten or turned — they were worse. Empty shells of the person they used to be before the world went to shit.

That was the reason why you treated every stranger like an enemy. As far as you were concerned, they were.

The woods were peaceful today. Leaves were changing colors, representing the arrival of the fall season. The thought of trying to survive another winter sent a shiver up your spine, but you couldn’t worry about that right now.

Only on how to make it to tomorrow.

If my traps didn’t catch anything, that’ll mark day three of going to sleep hungry, you thought. Nothing new, I suppose.

Suddenly, you heard a leaf crunch.

You drew your gun instantly, gripping the small weapon with both hands.

A figure moved past one of the trees, catching your eye, and they were much too fast to be one of those damned monsters. It was a human.

He appeared in front of you — or rather, in front of the barrel of your gun — in an instant, halting his footsteps, startled, as if he hadn’t expected to run into anything or anyone out here in the woods, as if the world was still a somewhat safe place.

“Drop it.” You said lowly to the unfamiliar man, eyeing the knife in his right hand.

“There’s no way-”

“I said to fucking drop it!” You cut him off, stepping closer. One wrong move, and you’d fire a bullet in his head.

“Okay, okay.” The man tossed the knife to the ground, but he never snatched his eyes away from you. And they weren’t necessarily filled with fear, but rather, shock. “It’s me, Satoru. Don’t you-”

“Turn around.”

“Please, you gotta recognize-”

“Turn around.” You grabbed him, turning him around yourself. And he let you. Despite the advantage he had in strength and height, he didn’t fight. You chalked it up to you being armed. “Shut up and don’t move,” you ordered.

You gave him a quick, one-handed pat down before removing the bag he carried.

You cautiously stepped away from him, his back still turned, and you opened it, dumping out the nonsensical items that fell onto the orange leaves and dirt.

He has nothing of value, you thought, flipping through his belongings. What would I kill and rob him for? A book and a photo album?

Suddenly, the man spoke.

And it was a call of your name.

Your eyes widened, and you rose to your feet to see him turning around, his hands in the air.

You were quick to press the gun against his chest.

He took a step back. “Easy, easy-”

“How the hell do you know my name?”

Sadness as clear as day was evident in his eyes. His ears and cheeks had gone red. Whatever was upsetting him had wrecked him so much so, he looked like a kid, or a kicked puppy. “Because it’s me. Satoru Gojo. We dated years ago, remember? I got you out of your hometown when the outbreak started four years ago. We got separated, and I thought . . . I can’t believe you’re alive. Please, baby, you gotta believe me. You gotta recognize me,” a tear rolled down his cheek, not a result of being close to death, but from being forgotten. He nodded at the book of photos on the ground. “Look through the photo album.”

You had seen your fair share of crazy, unstable individuals, but he seemed somewhat normal. His words were unsettling, as if they rattled some buried truth within your core, creating butterflies or nausea — you couldn’t tell the difference — in your stomach.

So you did as he instructed.

You crouched down, gun still in hand, and flipped it open.

There were pictures of the man with people who looked like him. People who didn’t. And someone who looked like you. She had your features, but she was clean. Grinning. Her eyes hadn’t yet grown dark. You, before it happened.

There were more photographs, and every single one forced a memory into your head at an unforgivable pace. Birthdays. Car rides. Pictures he took of you without your knowledge.

You laughed sadly, shaking your head. “I, um . . . I don’t rule out any weird shit nowadays, but if I remember correctly, the man in these pictures got eaten alive. I saw it with my own eyes.”

“No, I didn’t die. I’m here,” Satoru approached you. “There was a-a door behind me. I was able to open it, go down some stairs, and leave. I came around the building, but you were gone. All I saw was them dining on someone and your shoe, all covered in blood and, I heard you call me ‘Toru, which you only do when you’re scared. How the hell are you alive? How?”

You rose to your feet. “Shoe fell off. Dead guy on the floor behind me. Just tossed him at them and ran for it. No big deal.” You started to walk away. “Bye.”

“Wait, what?” Satoru grabbed his backpack and tossed his dumped belongings inside before he jogged in front of you, making you halt your steps. “You’re leaving? I thought you were dead for years, and you thought the same thing about me. We can’t just go our separate ways now, c’mon.”

“Just because we knew each other once doesn’t mean we still do.” You clenched your gun as some sort of warning. “So get out of my sight before I change my mind about letting you live.”

“Please, baby-”

“Don’t call me that. My memory’s working just fine now. I didn’t want anything to do with you then, and that same logic applies. You’re traveling out here with no food or water. Your clothes aren’t torn to shreds. T-shirt looks pretty clean. Your hair looks like someone trimmed it up for you recently. I’m willing to bet you found a nice group of people to settle down somewhere with, and you haven’t known true struggle since this entire thing started.” Your hands started to tremble. There was anger glistening in your eyes, so intense, he didn’t recognize it as you continued to speak. “And you think . . . you think I’m going to follow you anywhere? No. I’ve been tricked like this a coupla times, Satoru. Too many people who were up to something inhumane have done and tried to do the same fucking thing you’re doing now, and I’m not falling for it again. Now leave. I’m keeping this gun pointed in your direction until you’re so far away, I start to forget about you again.”

“I would never, ever hurt you. I’m begging you to believe me.”

“Seems like you’re begging for death to me-”

There was another leaf crunch. Multiple.

I knew it, you thought. This was a setup. His people are here.

You saw the figures moving in the distance. And in an instant, you felt like that girl from three years ago, one who was all lost, alone, cold, hungry, and trusted the wrong group who approached her.

But not again.

You pushed Satoru down, only able to do so because he too had turned to inspect the noise, and once he hit the ground, you ran into the ever-changing trees.

Your footsteps only came to a halt when you heard those familiar groans and growls.

It wasn’t his group.

Guilt started to swirl around in your stomach, and you turned, but not to help. To watch, unsure of what you were hoping the outcome would be.

Satoru managed to get to his feet and grab his knife.

With great skill, with great, unwanted practice, he stabbed the hungry, dead bodies circling him in their skulls. He’d yank it out, blood would spew, and he’d do it again, and again, all as if it was a simply as washing dishes, blood soaking his clothes instead of soapy water.

Once the last one hit the ground, you turned away, only to come face to face with one that wasn’t among the crowd Satoru slaughtered.

You killed it rather easily with the knife you kept tucked in your belt loop.

But, by then, Satoru was within your line of sight, unsmiling.

His blood-covered chest heaved from exhaustion. But you couldn’t help but assume anger was also a reason.

He took a step in your direction. His blue, wide eyes locked with yours.

Suddenly, he charged.

You thought he was coming for you.

He was fast, fast enough to let you know that if he wanted to hurt you, he truly could have, so long as you didn’t have your gun. What a horrifying realization.

But when you felt a rough hand grace your shoulder from behind, you realized just as Satoru stuck his knife in the head of another zombie what his true intentions were: saving your life.

There was no time for thanks or for arguments, as more of them started to appear, ruining the atmosphere of the woods you once found peaceful.

You and Satoru ran alongside one another, making your way into the nearest town.

—

Perhaps it was guilt. Perhaps it was the curiosity of wanting to know the person whom you couldn’t remember until today.

But you hadn’t yet told Satoru to leave your side well after you escaped the herd, and as you both broke into an abandoned retail store for shelter, you were the one to speak first.

“I thought those were people. Your people. I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay,” he said simply, moving in through the front door behind you.

“I also didn’t consider helping you once I realized they weren’t,” you shone your flashlight over the broken candles and glass. “I was fine with letting you die.”

“It’s okay.”

“But you came back to save me.”

“That’s what happens when you’re still the person I love most in the entire world, I take it.”

His words made you turn around, shining the harsh light in his face, but he continued, even with a little smile upon his blood-covered face. “And I’m the person you hate the most, still.”

You put your backpack on the ground nearest a shelf of scented lotions. “It’s getting late. We can move some of these display tables and shelves and block the door, spend the night here, and go our separate ways in the morning.”

“Where are you headed?” He asked, starting to clear off one of the tables.

You didn’t answer. You only stared at him with great suspicion.

“Hey, I’m only asking because you were wrong about me not knowing what it’s really like out here, but you were right about me being with a group. I found some old coworkers and students of mine. We lost a lot of people, but some of us are still holding on, tough bastards. You might even recognize some of them from back home, you know. And, well, we don’t have an all-you-can-eat buffet going, but we do have food and clean water. Clothes too. Soap.”

You nodded in the direction of the singular soap bar left behind on one of the shelves. “And so does this place.”

“You need a group-”

“No!” You suddenly shouted, making Satoru halt his movements all at once. “Never again. People are worse than those fucking monsters. Now stop begging me, or else I’ll shoot you. I’ll shoot you and think nothing of it, swear I will.”

Satoru didn’t say another word after that. He only helped you block the doors, watched you go through the picked-over store merchandise, and wondered what the hell happened to his ex-girlfriend. But he’d never ask.

—

The festering tension had died down after you both cleaned your bodies with the very little water you could allot for bathing, and the bar of soap you found.

However, today felt like Christmas. Because, underneath the counter that formerly served as a register, there was a protein bar. You imagined that it belonged to an employee who liked to sneak snacks when their managers weren’t looking, but it didn’t matter. It was here.

Old and expired, but better than nothing.

You unwrapped the stale, nutty bar, and split it in half, handing some to Satoru.

“I’m all good here,” he shook his head.

“So confident you’ll make it back to your group safely that you’ll pass up on food now? You’re just as stupid as you were when we got separated.”

“Why would I take away food from someone who doesn’t know where their next meal will come from?” Satoru looked at you. “I mean, I know where mine is. Next meal, next bath, we even have mattresses . . .”

“What did I just say?”

“Nah ah, no shooting.” Satoru waved his finger at you, grinning. “You brought it up this time, baby.”

“It amazes me that you’re still alive,” you rolled your eyes, biting into your dinner.

“Shocks me too,” Satoru’s face took on a somber expression you could barely make out within the darkness. “Especially after I thought I lost you for good. I was kinda looking for ways to die, you know? I’m one lucky fool.”

“Why do you say things like that?”

“Huh?”

“Losing me couldn’t have impacted your life that much.” You took another bite, your last one before saving the rest for later. “I don’t understand you. If I was . . . if I am . . . the person you love most, why’d you treat me that way? Why did the world have to end for you to finally see me?”

Satoru sighed, but not out of annoyance. “I guess I took advantage of having you in my life. I thought that I could be an idiot, and you’d stay. I was one of those people who thought that the only bad things someone could do in a relationship was cheat or hit their partner, and so I figured, since I wasn’t doing any of those things and just missed a few dinners and anniversaries, then you and I were fine. See? A goddamn fool. But I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry.”

“It doesn’t matter.” You shrugged.

“Yes, it does. I was wrong to tell you it didn’t matter back then. And you’re wrong to say it doesn’t matter now, ‘cause it does. Yeah, we’re living in hell, but I was putting you through hell long before now, and I didn’t realize it. I’m going to risk my life and say this one last time, but I need you to come back to my camp with me. I can’t just walk away from you come sunrise.”

“No.”

“Then let me come with you.”

You widened your tired eyes. “Are you crazy?”

“Yes. So, whaddya say?” He smiled.

“I won’t let you give up on something as rare and as precious as your little safe place for me.”

“Fineee,” Satoru shifted his position, hitting his backpack as if fluffing a pillow before lying down on it. “Then I guess you’ll just have to kill me. I mean, I’m just gonna follow you no matter where you go, I swear I am, so . . .”

“Just . . .” you paused. “Just shut up and go to bed.”

“Yes ma’am.”

The drastic drop in temperature throughout the night was the first sign of an approaching winter. Finding warmer clothes was on your eventual to-do list, but damn it, as you shivered, you couldn’t help but wish you had prioritized it.

What the hell is the matter with me? I’ve survived too long to act like an idiot now. I blame Satoru, you thought as you started to rise, thinking that even lighting a few of the abandoned candles might have offered a little bit of warmth, when suddenly, you felt a strong arm wrap around your waist.

Satoru pulled you close until your back hit his chest.

Only when he felt your body stiffen did he realize — did he remember — holding you close wasn’t something he was allowed to do. Not anymore.

“Sorry, I’m sorry. I saw you shivering and-” Satoru whispered from behind you. “Nothing but instinct. I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine.”

Your response was surprising. He expected another death threat. But he didn’t question it. Instead, he stroked the back of your cold hands with his warmer ones.

It wasn’t long before he heard a couple of sniffles rather than snores.

“Are you crying?” He asked softly.

“No,” you sniffled. “Shut up.”

“What’s wrong? Talk to me.” What a stupid question. Most people cried every day, if they lived to see another day.

“I just haven’t been held in years. I don’t remember the last time I even hugged someone.”You snuggled closer against him, and Satoru’s heart started to melt. “It’s no big deal. Just go to sleep.”

— TWO DAYS LATER —

He meant what he said. Satoru Gojo was on your heel like a lost puppy. And though your journey was a far cry from the luxury he was used to — access to basic necessities in truth, but a luxury four years into the end of the world — he never stopped grinning. Never complained. He bore it all with a smile: the hunger, the dirt, the exhausting walks, running for his life, killing, killing, killing.

“I changed my mind.”

Your words broke a comfortable silence, one that accompanied the gorgeous view of the autumn trees from the cliffside hill you both sat upon, nearest the fire he roasted a piece of fish above. It was so beautiful, watching the sunset. Breath-taking. So much so, Satoru hadn’t fully grasped your words until you spoke again, claiming the spot next to him.

“I’ll go back to your camp with you.”

“Really?” Satoru tried to hide the excitement and relief he felt, but it was impossible. He was nearly jumping out of his boots.

“I feel guilty,” you shrugged, then eyed his state. His messy hair, dirty clothes, ripped pants — which would have been fine had the world been normal and fashion trends mattered, but out here, when one needed all the warmth they could get, ripped clothing was a disaster waiting to happen. “It’s been two days, and you’re already a mess, Satoru. If I can’t get you to give up on sticking with me, then, camp it is. I can’t stand feeling like I’m killing you slowly.”

“Can’t stand it, hm?” He grinned, pleased with the fact that wasn’t always so obvious: you cared about him. “I’m glad you changed your mind, but if I die out here, it’s on me, not you.”

You gave a hum in response. You couldn’t help but fidget with your fingers. After all, the idea of being in another camp with other people frightened you more than anything else nowadays. But the idea of having access to things you once took for granted? The idea of, maybe, just maybe, being able to talk to someone or have a meal that was somewhat decently sized — the idea of being around him? With him?

You couldn’t help but stare at him for a while. He looked up, catching your gaze, though you tried to slickly flicker your eyes down at the fish.

“How many fish were you able to catch?” You asked.

He smiled, deciding not to comment on your lingering stare. But, oh, how he wished it lasted longer. “Just one for now. I’ll give you the bigger half.”

“No, split it evenly.”

“You got it.” Satoru pulled the cooked fish out of the fire. With a cleaned knife, he split it, but the portions were drastically uneven.

He gave you a piece of fish so big, you had to wonder, for a moment, if he had bothered to cut it at all.

“Here you go, your half of the fish,” he said.

“This looks like a bit more than half,” you held it up, inspecting the hot meat with a little smile.

“Huh? I can’t hear you.” Satoru hid his tiny portion in his big hands as he moved it to the side of a log, as if to prevent you from comparing, but then, he noticed something. Something as rare as a shooting star. “Was that a smile? Did I just see you smile?”

You tried to wipe the grin off your face and turn away from him.

“Nuh uh, don’t turn away, I wanna see it again.”

“Absolutely not.” You placed the fish down on the log in front of you. You couldn’t eat just this second, not when butterflies were swirling around in your stomach.

You started to fidget with your hands again. God, this was silly. You felt like a giggly schoolgirl rather than a survivor of the apocalypse, much like you once did when you first met all those years ago, when he was the guy at the bookstore purchasing a few copies of the mandatory novels his students had to read for those who were less fortunate and couldn’t get access to them as easily. He wasn’t allowed to do that. Hell, he wasn’t even an English teacher, but he did it anyway.

Then he saw you. Purchased the three novels in your hand for you all the while wondering if he should take up the part-time job as a bartender he had been eyeing lately, all to keep up with the book shopping habit of the girl he had just learned the name of. That day, he spoke to you in ways that had you acting similarly to how you did now. A lovesick fool.

Suddenly, you felt fingers press against your waist. A couple of days ago, you would have sliced the hand of anyone who dared to touch you that way, but around him, you could relax. You could breathe, and just be.

“Satoru!” You whisper-shouted, choking back the urge to giggle as you flinched.

“You’re still ticklish?” He did it again, and there it was. The sound that was a foreign concept for anyone nowadays. A laugh.

“Yes!” You giggled. “It’s not something that just goes away!”

He looked for any signs that you wanted him to stop, but when he saw that your eyes were practically begging him to keep going, as if the windows to your soul showcased what you so desperately needed — affection, a good laugh, some sort of happiness — he gently, yet swiftly, got you onto your back, practically straddling you as he continued to tickle your sides.

“Oh, I-I’m getting you back for this,” you gasped for breath, laughing, playfully trying to swat his hands away, but not really putting in any effort. “Just you wait!”

What came next was a result of his love and affection for you, a result of seeing you laugh and smile and him thinking, she’s so beautiful.

Satoru leaned over and kissed your cheek.

You froze. He froze.

“Shit, I’m sorry. It was, um . . . instinct again,” he blushed. He was starting to move away from you, but you suddenly grabbed hold of his wrist.

“Wait, it’s fine,” you were unable to look him in the eye as you said, “you can do it again.”

Soft lips pressed against your skin yet again, lingering, wanting more.

He moved his lips a little closer to your jaw.

“Can I kiss you here as well?” He whispered with an eagerness he tried to hide, but failed to.

“Yes.”

“Where all can I kiss you?”

“Anywhere. Everywhere.”

His other hand cupped the side of your head. You found yourself leaning into his palm, all the while his lips trailed kisses along the side of your neck.

“Satoru, don’t tease me. It’s been too long.”

“I won’t baby, promise.”

—

For the first time in years, your skin knew something other than bruises. Hickeys decorated it as if Satoru wanted to mark you as his.

He pulled your naked frame closer to the fire for warmth, used his bag as a cushion for your head, and one hand gripped your ass in a way that made every thrust feel that much deeper, and his other held you against him, as if your body touching the floor of the woods was a sin.

His thick cock pumped in and out of you with a familiar rhythm he remembered you once loving. Pretty moans slipped from between your lips in such a way that he almost hated the idea of kissing you, but he dreaded the idea of not doing so even more. It took you by surprise — his mouth melting against yours, shutting you up in the best possible way, but he too moaned when your wet tongues started to swirl around each other.

“Can’t hold it long,” he whispered into your mouth, though the warning wasn’t needed, as the way his hips bucked with loosening restraint was a telltale sign that he was about to cum. And if you remembered one thing about Satoru Gojo, it was that he liked to make a mess, pump you full over and over again until he was certain your warm hole had milked him dry.

He gave another thrust, one that had you both seeing stars, and not the ones that glistened in the sky behind his messy hair, but the ones that came when he angled his cock just right.

“Mmm, right there, oh god,” he moaned, pulling his hips back before driving his cock in again. “You like it too, huh?”

His hand released your ass, and instead, gripped the surrounding grass as if the ground itself could ground him.

“Fuck,” he swore, and quickened his pace. “Cum for me, baby.”

“Please, please, Satoru.”

You begged for something, you didn’t know what exactly, but it wasn’t long before a rather powerful orgasm washed over you. Your toes curled, sweat dripped across your forehead, and that explosion of pleasure knocked every bit of sense out of you as your nails scratched up his muscular back.

He didn’t stop, though. Your thrashing frame was only held against him tighter by his other arm. Chest to chest. All you could feel was him. Him, him, him. And as you came, he returned his lips to yours, claiming your mouth with his own, swallowing your moans, all while fucking you through your orgasm.

His own came next. But first, he pressed you against the ground. He then hooked his hands underneath your knees, raising them, pumped and pumped and moaned and pumped some more, all until he finally fucked you and himself silly, so silly that he wasn’t certain he’d ever stop cumming. You felt too good.

No part of you ever had to wonder if Satoru only wanted sex. Not when, afterwards, he held you close, exchanging soft, sweet kisses with you as if you two were a happy couple warm in a bed.

“No, I’m serious,” Satoru laughed softly. “I am-I was a teacher, but I can’t tell the difference between a crocodile and an alligator. I mean, who cares when you should be running away from it anyway?”

“You can tell by, um, their snouts, I think. Oh, did you know moose are way bigger than most people think they are?”

“I did, yeah. I also heard there’s this huge debate over whether or not dinosaurs are bigger or smaller than the media portrays ‘em to be.”

“Have you heard the theory about dinosaurs having feathers?”

“I remember some students of mine talking about that. Wouldn’t surprise me.”

Your mindless, simple chatter went on, on, and on, well into the night when you both fell asleep in each other's arms, safe.

—

Satoru awakened to the rising sun, fading smoke from a long-gone fire, forgotten, cooked fish, and you, frowning down at him.

“Someone frowning the morning after isn’t a good sign,” he said, sitting up, yawning. “And here I remember someone cumming all over-”

“Aht, aht, aht. Enough.” You coughed. I can’t believe that’s your first sentence as soon as you wake up. But I’m frowning because it just hit me that you didn’t pull out. I’m imagining the worst-case scenario.”

Satoru rose to his feet, stretching his sore limbs. He’d be lying if he said he didn’t miss his mattress. He could only hope his friends didn’t give it away, thinking he was dead and long gone — not that he’d blame them.

“At the camp, we have a doctor there, goes by Shoko. I’m sure she could help with all kinds of scenarios,” Satoru’s face was blank, unrevealing to what scenarios he could have been imagining.

You scratched the side of your head. “What else do you guys have?”

“Books.” Satoru, who reached into his backpack and waved the red, thick novel at you, continued, “More than this one you’ve been eyeing.”

“You’re joking.” Your eyes widened a bit.

“No joke, baby. We’ve got everything from classics to shitty romantasy.” He put the book back in his bag, making a mental note to hand it to you later on once you both could settle down once again. But right now, you had to keep moving. “But, uh, I don’t think anyone’s been breaking into any libraries since this all started, ‘cept you, of course. Why don’t you have any?”

You stood, grabbing your belongings, including the uneaten fish. “I’m always on the move with limited space. The only things I can afford to carry are what I need to survive. Plus, the last book I had fell into a river. I didn’t get to finish-” you cleared your throat. “To finish-”

False alarm. There wasn’t a little something caught in your throat. It was a full on coughing fit.

“Here, drink some water,” Satoru hurriedly reached into his bag for his bottle. “Sit down.”

It was hard to hear him over your own coughs. But he sounded calm. Probably because you both instantly ran over every scenario in your head that could result in such a coughing spell from you, but as far as you both could remember, you hadn’t been bitten. You weren’t infected. You were healthy.

“Don’t look at me like that, I’m fine,” you said, shaking your head at his offer of water. “People cough sometimes. Let’s keep moving.”

—

There came a point during your trek through the ruins of a city with skyscraper buildings in which Satoru was ahead of you.

“So, about the book in my backpack, I’ll give it to you, but, in exchange, I want you to call me ‘Toru at least ten times a day. You only do it when you’re scared, but I wanna hear it more often. How does that sound?” He said with a grin.

But when his annoying behavior wasn’t met with a response, his smile faded.

He turned around to face you, and that’s when he saw it. The way your limbs trembled. The way your chest heaved.

“Baby?” He called out with great worry.

You suddenly collapsed.

Your body hit the ground hard, much too fast for him to catch you. He rushed to your side, falling to his knees and ignoring the ache such a move shot through his legs.

“Baby, wake up. Come on, wake up.” He shook your shoulder.

Just as his hand touched your cheek, your eyes snapped open.

“Wh-what . . .”

Your words were nonsensical. You looked around, rather startled, and felt Satoru press his hand against your forehead.

“It’s okay. You’re okay. You’re burning up.” He sat you up, but the movement made you flinch. Satoru figured that, perhaps, it was because of your fall. Until your hand gripped your shoulder.

“What’s wrong?” He asked.

“There’s an ache in my shoulder.”

If something was wrong, I would’ve seen it last night, right? Satoru thought as he slowly removed your clothes, just enough to see you from behind. I would’ve seen it last night.

The back of your shoulder was exposed to him.

Or, rather, the big, festering wound was. It was red. Angry. Infected.

The same conditions were more commonly seen around bite marks, so much so, it was difficult to remember that scratches from those damned monsters were just as deadly. Having to slice off the hand of his pink-haired former student just to save his life, all because he had gotten bit just along his palm and he needed to act quickly to stop the infection from spreading sealed the memory of the symptoms into Satoru’s mind forever. And he was seeing it yet again.

But he couldn’t slice off this body part, not that it would help. You had been infected for too long, and he knew it, because as he stared at the scratch that, in itself, was barely visible to the naked eye, he remembered where it came from.

“The other day. After we reunited,” he whispered in shock. “There was one of ‘em behind you. I killed it, but it must’ve scratched your shoulder. I wasn’t fast enough. No, this can’t be happening. I just found you. I just found you. No . . . no, we can fix this.”

You started to tremble. “It’s just a scratch, maybe I’ll be fine if I just take some antibiotics or . . .” You shook your head at your own words. You knew that wasn’t how this worked. You laughed bitterly. “It’s just a scratch. I’m going to die . . . from a scratch. I’m gonna die-”

Satoru was in front of you in a flash. He cupped your face, though he was the one with tears streaming down his cheeks. “Look at me, baby. Shoko, that doctor I was telling you about, is brilliant. She’s the smartest person I’ve ever met. If we hurry, maybe we can get to her in time, and she can do something.”

It was wishful thinking. An idiotic mindset. You sniffled. “‘Toru, I don’t know.”

“We have to try, yeah?” Satoru helped you adjust your clothes and guided you to your feet. “Come on, let’s go. Can you stand up?”

—

You walked for a while until walking became difficult.

Satoru carried you for a while until even resting against his back became difficult.

It was night time, the woods as dark as ever, when you started coughing again. This time, blood came with it, spewing from between your lips and across Satoru’s shoulder, decorating his shirt in red specks.

The coughing was endless. He stopped walking, lowered you against a tree, and pulled out his water.

Your only responsibility was to drink as many sips as you could while he built a fire. You watched him do it, his brows pinched in dread and concentration. Perhaps, realization as well.

Satoru appeared in front of you again, able to see your face clearly now, and thus, your bloodshot eyes, dried, blood-covered lips, and sweaty skin.

“I don’t wanna die,” you whispered.

He could barely hear you. You didn't have enough energy to speak properly. He knew — he knew — even if Shoko could do something — and she couldn’t, or else Yuji Itadori would still have both hands, Nobara Kugisaki would still have an eye, and Kento Nanami would still be alive — you would never make it back to the camp.

He wasn’t certain if you’d make it through the night.

And the thought of that made him wish he was dead, because he couldn’t fucking stand it.

Satoru gently pulled you close, holding your trembling frame against his chest. He too was shaking. Kissing the top of your head, he said, “I’ll hold you the entire time. I promise.”

“But I’ll hurt you. I’ll-I’ll kill you,” you cried softly, soaking his shirt. “I don’t wanna turn into one of those things. Please don’t let me. Kill me before then.”

Suddenly, Satoru heard familiar groans and growls in the distance.

He leaned you back against the tree, eyeing the direction it came from as he pulled out his knife.

“Stay right here, I’ll be right back.”

“No,” you tried to reach for his shirt with the intent to tug on it and stop him, but you missed him entirely, swiping at the air instead. “I should handle it. I’m dead anyway. ‘Toru, please-”

You started to cough again. Blood spilled out onto your chin, and that was all the confirmation Satoru needed to know you weren’t strong enough — not that he’d let you do it to begin with.

He left to the heartbreaking sound of you weakly calling his name.

The last thing he wanted was to leave your side, but based on the noise, it was only one, and he’ll be damned if you were eaten alive whilst you were already dying. No. he’d make your death as peaceful as possible. Hold you the entire time. Stroke your skin and-

Satoru thrusted his knife into the head of a zombie. This one, though, was a big guy. It was just as tall as he was — well over six feet — but not only did it have the crazy strength that all of those dead creatures possessed, but he had over a hundred pounds on Satoru.

And Satoru’s horrid mental state and lack of concentration didn’t do him any favors. Thus, while he was able to kill it, he didn’t account for how close he was to the edge of a hill, nor that the zombie would fall forward onto him, and send him and itself rolling down the hill.

—

An explosion of pain made his limbs feel like they were on fire. It was a bad fall into what was seemingly a pit at the bottom of that damned hill he rolled down. His head ached, there was blood from him smacking his skull against the ground, but that wasn’t nearly as bad as the weight of that dead thing on top of him, crushing him, and putting pressure on his badly twisted ankle.

Getting out of this pit would have been hell even if he didn’t have the extra obstacles of being injured and trapped.

But he had to get out.

You needed him.

—

It took over an hour.

It was hell. Climbing, crawling, grunting in pain. But he made it to the top of the hill, and upon seeing the flickering flames from the fire he created to keep you warm, he ignored the pain shooting through his body, and half walked, half dragged himself back to you.

He saw the book first.

It was on the ground, flipped open. He almost smiled at the thought of you seeking it out and reading it as best as you could in your condition, as you had been eyeing it since your great reunion, but hadn’t yet asked him for it.

He stepped closer, and that was when he noticed that some of the pages were in fine condition, but once you seemingly made it to page twenty, the inked contents were ripped. Page after page. Nearly shredded. Each one more destroyed than the last.

He heard something rattle.

Satoru darted his eyes over to you. You were digging through his backpack, unaware of his approaching footsteps.

“ . . . ‘Toru,” you called out in a voice he didn’t recognize.

Suddenly, your trembling hands started to pull things out of his bag one by one. You grew more angry, more dissatisfied with every item that wasn’t the one you seeked, tossing things against the ground as you groaned angrily, until finally, you pulled out what you wanted.

His photo album.

He called your name softly, and you froze.

And when you turned to face him, he knew he lost you.

The light in your eyes was completely gone. You smiled at him, but not lovingly. Your blood-soaked teeth shined as you grinned with hunger, that same blood dripping, dripping, dripping from your chin, and just before he could break down and cry at the sight, you launched at him.

It was quite funny. Alive and somewhat well, you had forgotten all about him during the four years you thought he was dead. But in this condition, dead and bloodthirsty, part of you still remembered the man you currently tried to devour. Your dying self must have missed him terribly, coughing up blood as you knew you were going to turn into one of those horrid things, and there was no one by your side.

You died alone, waiting for him. Reading to keep yourself company.

Just as you once did while you waited outside of restaurants for him.

And now, you had been clenching that photo album. All because, even while dead, you wanted ‘Toru.

Tears streamed down his face as he pulled you between his legs, held your wrists with one large hand, then held your head, snapping jaw and all, against his chest.

He broke his promise to hold you earlier. But maybe, if he held you now . . .

“I’m so sorry, baby. I’m so sorry.”

Satoru cried. He released your head for a moment, and you bit his hand, ripping his flesh, but it didn’t matter.

With his bleeding, infected hand, he felt around your hips for the gun within the holster of your pants.

You gave a mixed noise; it was inhuman, the groaning and growling all of those monsters made, but there was something else there. A cry of his name underneath it all.

As tears clouded his blue eyes, blurring his vision, Satoru pressed the gun against your head.

He couldn’t speak anymore. It was too much.

Therefore, he thought, I love you.

The bullet was fired through your skull. Your body went limp in his arms, blood drenching his clothes in such a disturbing way, it freed his mind of any doubts he might have had about his next move.

But there weren’t any, truth be told.

Don’t be scared, you won’t be alone, baby. I’m coming with you, he thought.

When he pressed the hot gun that burned his temple against the side of his forehead, he fired it, as he knew he wanted to die with you from the moment he realized your fate upon looking at your shoulder.

After all, he swore that he’d follow you anywhere, and the brain matter that spewed from his head just before his dead body collapsed on top of yours devastatingly proved it so.

(you were only there for an assignment. philosophy 301: observing scientific rhetoric. you needed to write three pages analyzing how scientists communicate to non-specialist audiences. he was convenient, scheduled during your free period. you didn't even know his name.)

"..as this research shows how we can never predict the radioactive decay from any nucleu-" his voice wavered in shock - somebody actually admired him? not just listens or understands but admires..?. he tried really, to force his words that were scrunched deep into his throat but as he persisted "i.." nothing seemed to leave his now dried up mouth - like someone dehydrated him and left him seeking for refuge, desperately needing one single droplet of water in the heat of a desert.

that look of admiration shifted into confusion then annoyance. how could you have such contradicting emotions into one expression?

you raise an eyebrow in interest, eyes rolling—barely, but he caught it—and the message was clear: who let this awkward man on stage? that made him wince internally.

he interpreted your intensity, your white-knuckled grip, your laser focus as admiration— you were infact analyzing him like a specimen, cataloging his failures with the clinical detachment you'd been taught in your philosophy classes. observation without investment. criticism without cruelty, but also without care.

that destroyed him completely.

· · ─ ·ʚɞ· ─ · ·

the haunting 101

the weeks after the presentation, satoru learns what it means to be haunted.

not by ghosts. by memory. by a single moment that plays on loop every time he closes his eyes—your face, your expression shifting from what he thought was fascination to unmistakable disappointment. the eyebrow raise. the eye roll so slight anyone else would have missed it.

he didn't miss it. he sees you three days later.

he's crossing the quad, backpack heavy with textbooks he's been trying and failing to read, when he spots you on a bench under one of the old oak trees. the afternoon sun filters through the leaves, dappling your face in light and shadow. you're laughing at something on your phone, earbuds in, completely unaware of the world around you. the breeze catches your hair, moves it across your face. you brush it back absently. you look comfortable. happy. alive in a way that makes his chest hurt.

his heart stops.

then starts again, too fast, painful against his ribs like something trying to escape. his palms go instantly sweaty, the textbook slipping slightly in his grip. his mouth goes dry—that same desert feeling from the presentation, like all the moisture has been sucked out of his body and replaced with sand and panic.

he changes direction so sharply he nearly walks into someone. mumbles an apology without looking up. takes the long way around the science building even though it adds ten minutes to his walk and makes him late for his advisor meeting.

you never look up. you never see him.

· · ─ ·ʚɞ· ─ · ·

the haunting 102

tuesday morning, 9am. he needs coffee or he's going to die and leave a wallowing corpse on the university floor.

the campus coffee shop is packed with the usual morning crowd—students who actually sleep at night and wake up at reasonable hours, professors with their worn leather satchels and perpetual air of being slightly annoyed by existence. the space is small, cramped, claustrophobic. the espresso machine screams and hisses like it's being tortured. it smells like burnt coffee and sugar and that underlying scent of too many bodies in too small a space—deodorant and perfume and the faint tang of stress sweat already at 9am.

the line moves slowly. someone ahead is asking detailed questions about milk alternatives. the barista looks like she wants to die. satoru's been standing here for five minutes, staring at his phone, trying to ignore the way his stomach is eating itself.

then he hears your voice.

"black coffee, one sugar. and one of those croissants if they're fresh."

his entire body locks up.

you're ahead of him in line. three people ahead, but close enough that if he took five steps forward he could touch you. close enough to smell your perfume—something floral and light, completely at odds with the heavy coffee shop air. jasmine maybe, or something sweeter. it cuts through the burnt coffee smell like a knife.

the barista calls your name. your full name, clear and bright in the crowded space.

you grab your coffee, check your phone, turn—

he's already moving. slips out of line, out the door, into the cold november air that shocks his lungs and makes his eyes water. or maybe that's not the cold. his heart is pounding like he's just run a marathon. his hands are shaking so badly he has to shove them in his pockets. there's a slight ringing in his ears.

he doesn't get coffee.

goes to his 10am lecture running on zero caffeine and three hours of sleep and the taste of panic coating his tongue like metal.

sits in the back row and can't focus on anything except the way your voice sounded ordering coffee. one sugar. not two, not zero. one. exactly one. he writes it down in his notebook like it's important data. like he's conducting an experiment.

later, alone in his apartment, he looks you up properly. finds your instagram—private, but the profile picture is enough to make his chest hurt. you're laughing, mid-motion, caught in a moment of genuine joy. finds your philosophy department profile. reads that you won an award last year for an essay on phenomenology and consciousness.

he downloads the essay. reads it three times. it's brilliant. of course it's brilliant. you're brilliant and he's an idiot who fell apart in front of you and you've forgotten he exists.

he closes his laptop and doesn't open it for two days.

· · ─ ·ʚɞ· ─ · ·

the haunting 103

the library becomes dangerous territory.

he sees you there on a thursday afternoon, second floor, east wing where the philosophy and literature sections live. the afternoon sun streams through the tall windows, illuminating the dust motes floating in the air like tiny galaxies. you're at a table surrounded by books with intimidating titles—being and time, critique of pure reason, the phenomenology of spirit. you're taking notes in a notebook covered in stickers—coffee cups and planets and tiny mushrooms. your pen moves quickly across the page, then stops. you tap it against your bottom lip—three times, pause, three times again—while you think.

he's on the third floor, supposedly working on his dissertation. he's been standing at the railing for forty-five minutes, partially hidden behind a bookshelf, just... watching.

the way you chew on your bottom lip when you're concentrating. the way you push your hair behind your left ear when you're frustrated—always the left, never the right. the way you stretch your neck, rolling your shoulders like you've been sitting too long. the way you take a sip of coffee, make a face because it's gone cold, but drink it anyway.

you never look up. never see him standing there like a creep, cataloging your existence. he watches you for two hours. writes nothing.

his phone buzzes.

his advisor: where are you? we had a meeting scheduled. fuck.

when you finally pack up and leave, he feels the absence like a physical thing. the space you occupied goes empty and the library feels cavernous, too big, too quiet. the dust motes keep floating but they're not beautiful anymore, just particles suspended in empty air.

he stays until they kick him out at 2am.

· · ─ ·ʚɞ· ─ · ·

his roommate suguru finds him staring at his laptop at 3am on a cold saturday.

the apartment is dark except for the blue glow of the screen. the heating's broken again—has been for a week—so satoru's wearing two hoodies and still shivering. the cold seeps up through the floorboards, makes the whole place feel like a tomb. there's the smell of old coffee and the takeout containers neither of them has bothered to throw away—something with a hint of garlic from three days ago, slowly rotting. the refrigerator hums its broken-compressor hum, a grinding sound that never quite stops. outside, someone's car alarm is going off, shrill and insistent, has been for an hour.

"you're doing it again."

satoru doesn't look up. his eyes hurt from the screen glare—actually hurt, that gritty, burning feeling that means he's been staring too long. his neck hurts from sitting in the same position for hours. his hands are cold. everything hurts. "doing what?"

"that thing where you pretend you're working but you're actually having an existential crisis." suguru's voice is rough with sleep. "I can tell the difference now. it's been three weeks of this."

"I'm fine, suguru."

"you've typed three words in the last hour. I can see your screen from my bed—the glow is keeping me awake. that's not fine, that's catatonic."

suguru sits up. his bed creaks loudly in the quiet apartment—old springs that sound like they're dying. he turns on the lamp beside his bed. the light is warm and yellow and makes everything look softer than it is, makes the mess of their apartment look almost cozy instead of depressing.

"also you've been wearing the same hoodie for four days and you smell like depression and old coffee. so. talk."

satoru closes his laptop. the sudden darkness is disorienting. his eyes struggle to adjust. "nothing to talk about."

"bullshit." suguru's wearing his glasses, the ones he only wears at night when his contacts come out. they're crooked. he pushes them up. "is this about your presentation? because dude, everyone bombs presentations sometimes. it's not—"

"it's not about the presentation."

"then what?"

how does he explain it? that there was someone in the audience whose opinion somehow mattered more than the entire scientific community's? that you've looked at him with what he thought was admiration and it turned out to be analytical disdain? that he can't stop seeing you everywhere, that his entire world has reorganized itself around avoiding and seeking you in equal measure? that he's in love with someone who doesn't know his name?

wait. no. not love. he's not—

"nothing. forget it."

suguru is quiet for a long moment. the car alarm finally stops outside. the silence is somehow worse. "you know what your problem is? you're brilliant with particles and completely useless with people. whatever this is—whoever this is—you need to either deal with it or let it go. you can't keep—" he gestures at satoru's entire situation with a flick of his wrist, the laptop and the dark circles and the way he's curled in on himself. "—whatever this is. it's not sustainable."

"I know."

"do you? because from where I'm sitting, you're driving yourself insane over something that probably isn't even as bad as you think it is."

it's worse. it's so much worse. because it wasn't a moment of humiliation he can recover from. it was a moment of connection he imagined completely. he invented a story where you cared, where you were fascinated, where he mattered.

and reality showed him otherwise.

reality showed him that he's just another awkward academic to you. forgettable. already forgotten.

"I'll figure it out," satoru says.

"when?"

"eventually." he huffs

suguru sighs, long and disappointed. "you're impossible." he turns off the lamp. darkness again. the apartment settles back into cold and silence. "get some sleep, satoru. you look like death."

satoru doesn't sleep.

he opens his laptop again in the dark and stares at the cursor blinking in his dissertation document. types: element 119. deletes it. types: radioactive decay. deletes it.

types your name. stares at it for ten minutes. deletes it.

· · ─ ·ʚɞ· ─ · ·

the haunting 104

he starts taking different routes to class.

the long way around the quad that adds fifteen minutes—past the science buildings on the east side, around the maintenance shed that always smells like gasoline and cut grass, through the parking lot where the asphalt is cracked and weeds push through. it avoids the bench where he saw you that first time, the oak tree with its sprawling branches, the patch of grass where students sit when the weather's beautiful.

he learns your schedule without meaning to. or maybe he means to and won't admit it. just by avoiding you, he maps your movements like he's charting the orbit of a celestial body. tuesdays and thursdays you have class in the philosophy building at 2pm—he knows because he saw you walking there once, twice, three times until the pattern was undeniable. so he makes sure he's nowhere near there during those times. takes his lunch at 1pm or 3pm, never 2pm. uses the bathrooms on the opposite side of campus.

mondays, wednesdays, and fridays you're usually in the library in the afternoon. second floor, east wing, by the windows. he knows this because he's checked. accidentally-on-purpose walked past. saw you there once and now avoids that entire section like it's radioactive.

but the campus is only so big. avoidance only works until it doesn't.

he sees you anyway.

he needs a textbook for his advanced quantum field theory seminar. the bookstore is warm—too warm after the biting cold outside. it smells like new books and tea from the cafe in the corner, that specific scent of paper and binding glue and the cinnamon from someone's latte. the fluorescent lights are too bright. there's pop music playing over the speakers, tinny and grating but addictive.

he's in the science section, running his finger along the spines. quantum field theory, advanced particle physics, statistical mechanics. the books are expensive. he's trying to decide if he can get away with using the library copy or if he needs his own.

then he sees you.

three shelves over, in the historic section. you're reaching for something on the top shelf, and you're not quite tall enough. you're on your toes, stretching, your whole body extended upward. your jacket—that green one, the one he's seen before—rides up with the movement.

he can see a sliver of skin at your waist. just an inch, maybe two. the curve of your lower back. the waistband of your jeans.

his brain short-circuits.

you're still reaching, fingers just barely brushing the spine of whatever book you're trying to get. you make a small frustrated sound—he can hear it from here, this soft "come on" that's half-muttered to yourself. you stretch higher. more skin. he can see the shift of your muscles, the flex of your body trying to extend just a little further.

someone should help you. someone should offer to get the book down. that's what a normal person would do.

he stands there frozen, staring, heart pounding so hard he can feel it in his teeth. his palms are instantly sweaty. the textbook in his hands might as well weigh a thousand pounds.

you give up, lower down onto flat feet. your jacket falls back into place. you're looking around now, maybe for an employee, maybe for someone tall enough to help.

your eyes are sweeping the store. they're going to land on him.

panic floods his system like molten ice. he's already moving—backwards first, then turning, abandoning his textbook on a completely wrong shelf. introduction to organic chemistry sitting where quantum field theory should be. he doesn't care. he's walking fast toward the exit, weaving between displays, nearly knocking over a rack of university-branded t-shirts.

the cold air outside hits him like a slap. his breath comes out in clouds. his heart is still racing.

he walks three blocks before he stops, leans against a building, tries to remember how to breathe normally.

that night he goes back to the bookstore twenty minutes before closing. buys the textbook from a bored employee who doesn't look at him twice. walks home in the dark, thinking about that strip of skin, that frustrated sound, the way you moved.

he's so fucked.

· · ─ ·ʚɞ· ─ · ·

the haunting 105

he's been in the lab all day. it's past 7pm and he hasn't eaten since... he can't remember. his advisor kept him late going over data, pointing out inconsistencies, asking questions satoru couldn't answer. he feels hollowed out. exhausted. his hands smell like latex gloves and whatever chemical he was working with.

the dining hall is bright and loud and overwhelming after the quiet of the lab. it smells like institutional food—something with tomato sauce, garlic bread, that underlying scent of industrial cleaning products and steam tables. the noise is incredible. hundreds of students talking, laughing, the clatter of trays and silverware, the hiss of the soda machines.

he gets food without really looking at it. some kind of pasta. garlic bread. water. his tray feels heavy. everything feels heavy.

he's scanning for an empty table, somewhere quiet, preferably in a corner where he can eat quickly and leave—

and then he sees you.

you're at a table in the middle of the dining hall. surrounded by friends—three other people, all talking over each other in that comfortable way that suggests they've known each other for years. there are textbooks pushed to one end of the table, dinner spread out, someone's laptop playing music he can't hear from here but can see the glow of.

you're animated. laughing. your hands move when you talk—quick gestures that punctuate whatever story you're telling. you're wearing a sweater he hasn't seen before—dark red, oversized. your hair is different today. pulled back somehow. he can see the line of your neck.

one of your friends—a girl with dark curly hair—says something. he can't hear it over the dining hall noise. but he sees your reaction.

you throw your head back, laughing so hard you have to cover your mouth with your hand. the movement is unconscious, natural, beautiful. your shoulders shake. your eyes squeeze shut. the laugh is loud enough to carry across the dining hall even through all the other noise. it's bright and genuine and unselfconscious.

it's the most beautiful sound he's ever heard.

it makes him feel like he's swallowed glass. like something sharp and broken is lodged in his chest, cutting him from the inside. his hands tighten on his tray. the plastic creaks.

you're so... alive. so present. so comfortable in your body, in your space, in your friendships. you belong here. you fit.

he doesn't fit anywhere.

he's still standing in the middle of the dining hall, holding his tray, staring at you like a creep. someone bumps into him—"excuse you"—annoyed. he needs to move. needs to find a table. needs to stop looking at you.

your head is turning. you're looking around the dining hall. maybe looking for someone. maybe just people-watching.

your eyes are going to land on him.

he moves. fast. back toward the exit. out the door he just came through. the cold air hits him again—it's snowing now, light flurries that melt on contact. his breath comes out in clouds. he's still holding his tray.

there's an outdoor seating area—empty because it's december and snowing and no one eats outside in december. metal tables and chairs covered in a thin layer of snow. he brushes off a chair. sits. the metal is cold even through his jeans.

he eats his pasta. it's gone lukewarm. the garlic bread is soggy. he can't taste any of it. he's just putting food in his mouth, chewing, swallowing, because his body needs fuel and this is fuel.

the snow falls. his hands go numb. he can see his breath.

through the dining hall windows, he can still see you. still laughing. still warm. still living a life that doesn't include him and never will.

and when he gets back to his apartment, suguru takes one look at him and says "you look like someone died."

"no one died."

"then why do you look like you're grieving?"

satoru doesn't have an answer.

· · ─ ·ʚɞ· ─ · ·

the haunting 106

he's walking to his quantum mechanics class. it's 1:47pm. the class starts at 2pm. he's cutting it close but he needed to stop by his apartment to get the problem set he forgot this morning, and then there was a line at the coffee shop, and now he's practically jogging across campus with his too-hot coffee sloshing in its cup.

the air is brutally cold. the kind of cold that stings your lungs when you breathe. the sky is that pale gray that promises more snow. the wind cuts through his jacket—he didn't dress warm enough this morning. his ears hurt. his hands are numb even wrapped around the hot coffee cup.

there are other students moving between classes. everyone hunched against the cold, moving fast, breath coming out in clouds.

and then he sees you.

you're walking toward him. not directly toward him—you don't see him. but you're on the same path, coming from the opposite direction. earbuds in. you're nodding your head slightly, moving to music he can't hear.

your breath makes clouds in the cold air—little puffs of white that dissipate immediately. you're wearing that green jacket again—the one from the bookstore. it's not warm enough for this weather. you're hunched against the cold, hands shoved deep in your pockets. your nose is pink. your cheeks are flushed.

you look cold and miserable and somehow still beautiful.

you're maybe twenty feet away now. fifteen. getting closer.

you're going to see him. you're going to look up and recognize him—except you won't recognize him because you've never known him. you'll just see some random guy staring at you. you'll think he's a creep.

or worse. worse. you might recognize him. might suddenly connect him to the presentation. might remember where you've seen his name before. might realize—

his heart is pounding. he can feel it in his throat, in his wrists, behind his eyes. his palms are sweating even though his fingers are numb. his mouth goes dry, tongue sticking to the roof of his mouth.

ten feet. you're humming now. he can almost hear it under the wind.

fight or flight. every time it's the same choice. every time he chooses flight.

there's a path to the right. barely a path—more like a gap between buildings. he's never noticed it before. he takes it.

the gap is narrow. he has to turn sideways in one spot where someone's left recycling bins. it smells like old beer and something rotting. the ground is icy. his coffee sloshes, burns his hand through the cup. he comes out on the other side of the building, completely disoriented.

he's on the wrong side of campus. the opposite side from where his class is. he checks his phone. 1:53pm.

he's going to be late. he's never late.

he runs. actually runs, coffee abandoned in a trash can, backpack bouncing against his spine, his breath coming in white clouds. his lungs hurt from the cold air. his legs hurt. everything hurts.

he makes it to class at 2:04pm. professor yaga gives him a look but doesn't comment. satoru slides into his seat in the back row, heart still pounding, hands shaking.

he can't focus on anything. can't hear the lecture. can't take notes. he's just sitting there, breathing hard, thinking about the way you looked in the cold. the way you hummed. the way you were just... existing. walking to class. living your life.

and he ran away from it. again. like a coward. like someone who's afraid of a girl who doesn't even know his name.

--

every time, his body has the same response.

heart rate spikes—he can feel it in his throat, in his wrists, behind his eyes. physical and undeniable. his pulse in his ears like a drum. palms sweat even in the cold. even when his fingers are numb. even when it makes no sense. mouth goes dry, tongue sticking to the roof of his mouth. he can't swallow. can't speak. can't think.

fight or flight. the oldest response. the most basic survival instinct.

he always, always chooses flight.

he's twenty years old. he's discovered a new element. he's been to stockholm. he's published in nature. he's given lectures to rooms full of nobel laureates.

and he's running away from a philosophy student who doesn't even know his name.

running away from the girl who destroyed him six months ago with a single look.

running away from the only person he's ever wanted to run towards.

· · ─ ·ʚɞ· ─ · ·

twenty-four weeks. six months.

he's gotten good at avoiding you. expert level. knows your patterns better than his own. your routine is mapped in his brain like a formula—tuesday/thursday, philosophy building, 2pm. monday/wednesday/friday, library, afternoon. coffee shop, mornings when you have early classes. that bench under the oak tree when the weather's nice.

he's an expert at existing in your orbit without ever colliding.

and then one night, 11pm on a wednesday, he's in the library because where else would he be?

the main entrance is all glass and steel, modern renovation grafted onto a building from the 1960s. automatic doors that whoosh open, letting in blasts of february cold that the heating system can't quite compensate for. there's a security desk just inside where a obnoxious guard scrolls through his phone, barely glancing at student IDs.

past security, the entry hall opens up—high ceilings, fluorescent lights buzzing their persistent electrical hum, the smell of old books and new anxiety mixing with stale coffee and dry heating and that particular scent of stress that no amount of air freshener can cover. the carpet is industrial—blue-gray, stained in places, worn down to threads in high-traffic areas. it smells faintly of mildew when it rains.

the main floor is organized chaos. rows of study tables, mostly full even at this hour. computer stations along the walls, all occupied. the circulation desk is closed but the returns bin is overflowing. there are vending machines in the corner—humming their refrigerator hum, offering caffeine and sugar for $3 a hit. someone's phone is ringing unanswered. someone else is typing like they're trying to kill their keyboard.

it smells like desperation in physical form. coffee—always coffee, in travel mugs and disposable cups and the expensive reusable ones. energy drinks, the chemical-sweet smell mixing badly with the coffee. someone's eating something with too much garlic. the heater is blasting hot, dry air that tastes like dust and old building, making everyone's throat scratch, making the whole place feel like a desert.

the sound is what gets you. it's not quiet. it's the absence of the right kind of noise. no conversations—those are banned. just the persistent hum of HVAC pushing air through old ducts. fluorescent lights buzzing, especially the dying ones. keyboards clicking. pages turning with aggressive, frustrated whisper-shouts. pencils scratching against paper. the occasional cough.

the bathrooms are in the back, and they smell like industrial cleaner trying and failing to cover decades of academic stress. the water pressure is bad. the hand dryers are loud enough to damage hearing.

satoru is on the third floor—the quiet floor, the serious floor. up here the carpet is even more worn. the study carrels are individual fortresses, little wood-paneled cells where PhD students go to slowly lose their minds. the stacks are dense—floor-to-ceiling shelves of books that haven't been touched in decades. it smells more like old paper up here, less like coffee. mustier. the air doesn't circulate as well.

he's got a table near the window. can see the campus below—streetlights making pools of yellow, the occasional student hurrying between buildings. his laptop is open. he's been staring at the same paragraph of his dissertation for an hour.

and then you walk in.

he sees you before you see him. you're three floors down but he can see you through the central atrium—the library's design means all the floors are open in the middle, creating this vertical space where you can see all the way down to the ground floor.

you're walking like someone who's exhausted. backpack weighing you down. you're wearing that green jacket again. you look frustrated. defeated.

you head for a table on the ground floor, third row back. drop your bag with a heavy thud he can't hear but can see. pull out a textbook.

physics for non-majors.

even from three floors up, even at this distance, he can see the defeat in your body language. the way you slump in your chair. the way you press your palms against your eyes.

you're struggling.

he should stay up here. should maintain the careful distance he's cultivated for six months. should protect himself from another opportunity to be seen and found wanting.

but you're struggling with physics.

and he knows physics.

and you look like you're about to cry.

and before he can think better of it, before he can stop himself, before his brain can catch up with his body—

he's gathering his stuff. closing his laptop. walking toward the stairs.

his heart is pounding. his hands are shaking. every step down feels like walking toward something inevitable. something that's going to hurt.

but you need help.

and he can help.

and maybe—maybe—this time will be different.

and just like that, everything changes.

just like that, he gets his second chance.

just like that, he's more fucked than ever.

· · ─ ·ʚɞ· ─ · ·

you're in the library at 11pm again, physics textbook open, on the verge of tears because nothing makes sense and your exam is in two days.

the library at this hour is a special kind of purgatory. the fluorescent lights buzz overhead with that persistent electrical hum that burrows into your skull after enough hours. they cast everything in a sickly blue-white glow that makes everyone look half-dead, which is fitting because everyone here feels half-dead. the heating system clanks and groans through old pipes, either blasting you with dry air that tastes like dust and desperation or leaving you shivering in your hoodie.

it smells like old books and new anxiety. the musty paper smell mixing with stale coffee, energy drinks, and that particular scent of stress sweat that no amount of air freshener can cover. someone three tables over is eating something that smells aggressively like ginger. your stomach growls in response even though you're too stressed to be actually hungry.

the silence isn't really silence. it's the sound of dozens of students slowly losing their minds in unison. keyboards clicking. pages turning with aggressive whisper-shouts of frustration. pencils scratching. someone's pen clicking obsessively—click click click click—until someone else hisses "stop" and there's a brief, tense pause before it starts again, quieter.

you've been sitting in this uncomfortable chair for three hours. the plastic digs into your spine in a way that guarantees tomorrow will hurt. your coffee went cold an hour ago but you keep sipping it anyway because the bitter, chalky taste is something to focus on besides the swimming symbols in your textbook.

the words on the page have stopped being words. they're just symbols now, meaningless hieroglyphics mocking your inability to understand basic motion. you've read the same paragraph on newton's second law six times and it's somehow making less sense with each repetition.

you press your palms against your eyes until you see stars. the pressure helps somehow. when you open them again, the equations haven't magically become clearer.

"you're using the wrong equation."

you look up, disoriented, eyes adjusting. white-haired guy at the next table over. you hadn't really noticed him before—the library at 11pm is full of ghosts, everyone hunched over their own personal disasters. but now that you're looking, he's hard to miss.

white hair that catches the terrible blinding light and somehow makes it look intentional. pale skin that suggests he might be as nocturnal as the rest of you. dark clothes—black shirt, black jacket slung over his chair. the kind of deliberately neutral outfit that says he doesn't want to be perceived but is too striking to pull it off.

he's not looking at you—eyes fixed somewhere over your shoulder like making direct eye contact might physically hurt him. but he's clearly talking to you, fingers fidgeting with the edge of his laptop, knee bouncing under the table in a nervous rhythm that makes the table vibrate slightly.

"what?"

"problem twelve." he gestures vaguely at your textbook, and you notice his hands are shaking slightly. "you're using the equation for uniform acceleration but the problem states non-uniform. you need calculus for that one."

his voice is quiet, careful, like he's afraid of taking up too much space in the air between you. there's something fragile about it. something that makes you think of glass about to crack.

you stare at your textbook, then back at him. he's still not meeting your eyes. a muscle jumps in his jaw. his fingers tap against his laptop—tap tap tap tap, anxious rhythm.

"we haven't learned calculus. this is physics for non-majors."

"oh." he finally meets your eyes for a brief, electric second before looking away again. his adam's apple bobs as he swallows. "then... the problem is probably mislabeled. or it's extra credit. can I—" he hesitates, fingers drumming faster against his laptop. "can I see?"

you should probably say no. it's weird, right? random guy commenting on your homework from across the library? but you're desperate and he seems harmless—awkward in that specific way physics majors tend to be awkward, like he's more comfortable with particles than people. like every word costs him something to say out loud.

and there's something else. he looks as exhausted as you feel. dark circles under his eyes that suggest he's as much a creature of this fluorescent nightmare as you are. his coffee cup is empty but he keeps reaching for it anyway, hand closing around nothing, like the muscle memory of caffeine is all he has left.

"sure." you angle your textbook toward him, and you don't miss the way he tenses. like you've asked him to do something monumental instead of just look at a physics problem.

he doesn't move closer at first. just leans slightly in his chair, and you can hear it creak under the shift of weight. he's squinting at the page, and you realize he's trying to read it from where he is, too nervous to actually close the distance.

"you can come closer," you say slowly. "I don't bite."

the look he gives you is startled, almost frightened, before he schools it into something neutral. "right. yeah. okay."

he closes his laptop with a soft click that sounds too loud in the library quiet. stands up, and he's tall—you hadn't registered that before—all long limbs and careful movements like he's constantly aware of how much space he takes up and apologizing for it.

he sits in the chair beside you, and you can feel the heat coming off him in the over-air-conditioned library. he smells like coffee and something clean—laundry detergent maybe, or shampoo. something normal and almost comforting in this place that smells like academic suffering.

but he's still not quite close enough to see the problem clearly. he's left almost a foot of space between you, perched on the edge of his chair like he might need to flee at any moment.

"I'm not going to murder you," you say. "you can actually sit like a normal person."

"sorry." he shifts incrementally closer. his knee is still bouncing. "I'm just—sorry."

he says sorry like punctuation. like it's the baseline state of existing in proximity to another person.

his finger traces the problem text, and his hands are interesting—long fingers, neat nails, the slight calluses that suggest lab work. they're still trembling slightly. nervous. everything about him radiates nervous energy, that vibrating tension of someone who wants to be anywhere but here but can't quite make himself leave.

"okay, so..." his voice is steadier when he's talking about physics. like the math gives him something to hide behind. "they're asking about acceleration but they've given you a velocity function that changes with time. see? it's not constant."

you lean in despite yourself, and you catch him holding his breath when your shoulder nearly brushes his. he smells like he's been in this library for days. that specific scent of someone who's been breathing recycled air and stress for too long.

"I... think so?"

"here." he pulls a blank sheet from his own notebook, and you see his papers are covered in equations that make your textbook look like elementary school math. his handwriting is surprisingly neat—precise, careful, like everything else about him. "the question is badly worded for an intro class, but what they probably want is..."

he starts writing, and something shifts. the nervousness doesn't disappear but it redirects. flows into the movement of his hand, the scratch of pencil on paper—that specific sound that's become the soundtrack of this library, of these late nights, of slow academic death.

his explanation is... different. not like your professor who lectures at the board like he's addressing a conference he'd rather not be at. not like the textbook that assumes you already understand and is just going through the motions.

he's breaking it down into pieces, checking your face for confusion. and he's good at reading faces—when your brow furrows, he stops. adjusts. tries again from a different angle.

"wait." you stop him, and he flinches slightly at the interruption. "go back. why did that equal that?"

no impatience. no condescension. just: "right, okay, so..." and he explains it again, differently, his knee still bouncing under the table, fingers still drumming against the paper between sentences.

until something clicks.

"oh my god." you sit back, and the chair creaks loudly in the quiet. someone shushes you from across the room. you lower your voice. "oh my god, I actually understand it."

the smile that crosses his face is brief but genuine—surprised, almost shocked, like he wasn't sure it would work. like he's as relieved as you are. "yeah?"

"this textbook is absolute garbage at explaining things. you did in two minutes what I've been trying to understand for an hour." you look at him properly now. really look at him.

he's objectively attractive in that specific way that cartoon characters are attractive—features almost too perfect, too symmetrical. the white hair should look ridiculous but somehow doesn't. and his eyes, now that you're really seeing them, are striking. pale blue, almost gray in this terrible lighting.. and are those just frames? the lenses are nearly clear. "are you a physics major?"

"yeah." he's already retreating slightly, physically pulling back like he's worried he's overstayed his welcome. "sorry, I shouldn't have interrupted your studying, I just—"

"no, please." you touch his arm without thinking, then immediately pull back. "I have seventeen more problems and my exam is thursday and I'm completely lost. can you—would you—" you pause. "do you tutor? I can pay you."

something complicated crosses his face. "you don't have to pay me."

"I can't just take up your time for free."

"I'm already here." he gestures at his laptop, his scattered papers. "I'm just working on... research. it's fine. I can help."

there's something in the way he says it—like he's trying to convince himself as much as you.

you don't leave right away. you work through more problems. he keeps helping, getting more comfortable, more animated when he's explaining physics. you notice things: the way his whole face changes when he's talking about something he loves, how he automatically adjusts his explanations based on your reactions, that he's patient in a way that feels genuine, not performative.

it's almost midnight when you finally pack up.

"I'm here most nights," he says, closing his laptop. "if you need help again. for the exam."

"most nights? do you sleep?"

a half-smile. "not really."

you laugh, but you're also mentally cataloging this information. library. late night. physics help available.

"I'm here tomorrow night. same table?"

he pauses, something flickering across his expression. then, "same table."

he doesn't ask your name. he already knows it—saw it on the attendance sheet that day six months ago, looked you up in the student directory afterwards like some kind of masochist, tortured himself with your social media presence, your philosophy department profile, the awards you've won for your essays.

you don't ask his name either. you'll realize this later, embarrassed, and have to awkwardly ask tomorrow.

but there's something and he's so completely, utterly, hopelessly fucked.

· · ─ ·ʚɞ· ─ · ·

library session one

you show up the next night with two coffees.

"i didn't know what you liked," you say, setting one down near his laptop. the cup leaves a faint ring of condensation on the wooden table. you can feel the heat radiating from it, see the steam curling up in lazy spirals. "so I got you what I get. If you hate it I can—"

"it's perfect." he wraps his hands around the cup like it's precious, like you've handed him something infinitely more valuable than a $4 coffee. his fingers curve around the paper sleeve, and you watch his throat work as he swallows. his eyes meet yours—soft and startled and grateful in a way that seems disproportionate to the gesture. "thank you."

it's too sweet. the sugar hits his tongue wrong, cloying and heavy, coating his teeth. he hates sweet coffee—always has, takes his black when no one's watching. but he drinks it anyway, every drop, feeling the too-hot liquid burn down his throat. and he orders the same thing for the next three months until you finally catch him making a face, his nose wrinkling involuntarily, his mouth twisting into something between a grimace and a smile when he thinks you're not looking.

you settle into the chair beside him—the same configuration as yesterday, close enough to share the textbook but not quite touching. your elbow is maybe three inches from his. you can feel the heat of him in that small gap, smell that clean eucalyptus scent mixing with coffee and old books. "i realized I never got your name. I'm—"

"i know." He says it too quickly, and you watch color bloom across his cheekbones—a faint pink that spreads to the tips of his ears. he catches himself, blinking rapidly, and you can see him scrambling for recovery. "i mean—you're in the student directory. i looked up who else was taking physics this semester. for... study group purposes."

a lie. a terrible lie. his voice pitches slightly higher at the end, and he won't quite meet your eyes. but you accept it with a small laugh, the sound bright in the quiet library.

"creepy, but efficient. i'm impressed." you pull out your notebook—the pages are getting dog-eared now, filled with his handwriting mixed with yours. the spiral binding catches on your sleeve with a small metallic whisper. "so, mysterious physics major who stalks the student directory—what's your name?"

"satoru. gojo satoru."

something flickers across your face—brief, confused, like you've heard the name before but can't place it. your eyebrows draw together fractionally. your lips part like you're about to say something, then close. the moment passes. "satoru. okay." you test the name in your mouth, the syllables unfamiliar on your tongue. "ready to save me from newton again?"

you had written his name in your assignment. subject: Gojo Satoru, Physics PhD candidate. but you'd written twenty pages that semester, cited dozens of names. they all blurred together—just another brilliant mind reduced to a footnote, a reference, a line in your bibliography that you'd never expected to materialize into a person sitting beside you smelling like eucalyptus and drinking coffee he hates.

he nods, pulls your textbook closer, and you both pretend this is just about physics.

the pages make a soft rustling sound as he flips through them. His finger traces down the chapter index—you notice he has long fingers, pale and precise, the nails neatly trimmed. there's a callus on his right middle finger from holding pens.

It takes you forty-five minutes to realize you're not actually struggling with the homework anymore. youu're asking questions just to keep him talking, watching the way his hands move when he explains angular momentum—sweeping arcs through the air, fingers tracing invisible orbits—the way his eyes light up when you actually understand something. they go brighter, more vivid, and his whole face transforms. he leans closer without seeming to realize it, and you can see the individual lashes framing his eyes, pale at the roots and darker at the tips.

"you're good at this," you say. "teaching, i mean. You should be a TA or something."

his laugh is short, almost bitter. the sound catches in his throat, comes out rough. "i'm not good at teaching." his hands drop to the table, fingers curling against the wood.

"you're literally teaching me right now. and I actually get it for the first time all semester."

"that's different. this is..." he gestures vaguely between you, and you feel the air move with the motion, watch the play of muscle and tendon in his forearm where his sleeve is rolled up. "one on one. small. when there's a crowd, when people are watching, I—" he cuts himself off. his jaw tightens. you can see the muscle jump beneath his skin.

"stage fright?"

"something like that." His voice is quiet. he's looking down at the textbook now, at the equations that probably make perfect sense to him, that he could solve in his sleep. his fingers tap against the page—once, twice, a nervous rhythm.

you want to push, but something in his expression stops you—a guardedness, a door closing. instead you say: "well, lucky for me you're good at the small scale stuff." you bump your shoulder against his gently, and feel him tense for a fraction of a second before relaxing. the contact is brief but you feel it echo through your whole arm, warm and electric.

lucky for him too, he thinks. or maybe the worst luck in the world. He hasn't decided yet. your shoulder is still warm where it touched his, and the library suddenly feels too small and too large all at once, and he can still taste that too-sweet coffee on his tongue and he doesn't hate it as much as he should.

· · ─ ·ʚɞ· ─ · ·

library session four

it's been two weeks. your exam came and went—you got a B, which felt like a miracle.

when you'd told him, breathless and disbelieving as you'd stared at the grade on your phone, his whole face had transformed. the careful composure he usually wore had shattered like glass, replaced by something incandescent. his eyes had gone wide and bright, crinkling at the corners, and he'd smiled—not his usual half-smirk but a full, unguarded grin that made him look years younger. "i knew you could do it," he'd said, voice rough with something that sounded almost like pride, and then softer, almost to himself, "i knew it."

his hand had twitched at his side like he'd wanted to reach for you, to pull you into a hug or grab your shoulder or something, but he'd caught himself, fingers curling into his palm instead. the wanting had been written all over his face though—transparent as glass, obvious as gravity. you'd felt the phantom warmth of it anyway, the almost-touch lingering on your skin like static electricity.

you should probably stop coming to the library at 11pm now that you don't need help anymore.

you come anyway.

the library smells like old paper and lemon cleaning solution and the particular mustiness of a building that's never quite warm enough. your sneakers squeak against the linoleum as you approach your usual table—the one by the window that overlooks the quad, where the fluorescent lights flicker every forty-seven seconds (you've counted).

"i don't have physics homework tonight," you announce, setting down your bag with a soft thud that echoes in the near-empty third floor. your coffee (black, one sugar) and his (too sweet, but he won't admit it) are already on the table, still steaming faintly. the bitter-sharp scent of your coffee mingles with the almost cloying sweetness of his—you can smell the caramel syrup from here.

satoru looks up from his laptop, and something cautious crosses his face—a subtle downward twitch at the corners of his mouth, a fractional widening of his eyes before his expression smooths into something carefully neutral. his fingers pause on the keyboard, hovering over the keys. the brightness from three days ago when you'd shown him your grade is gone, replaced by something guarded, braced for impact. "oh. okay." his voice is even, but there's a tight quality to it, like he's holding his breath.

"buuut I have a philosophy paper due friday, and I work better when someone else is around. so." you pull out your laptop, feeling the cool metal against your palms, hearing the familiar click as it opens. "is it okay if I just... work here?"

the relief that floods his expression is almost comical. his shoulders drop at least two inches. the tension around his eyes—you hadn't even noticed it was there—melts away, and his mouth curves into something that's trying very hard not to be a grin and failing. that incandescent brightness returns, softer this time but no less real, warming his features from within. "yeah. of course. i'm just running simulations anyway." he says it too eagerly, words tumbling over each other. his hands resettle on the keyboard but don't actually type anything—just rest there, fingertips barely touching the keys, trembling almost imperceptibly.

you settle into what's become your chair—the one with the slightly wobbly left leg that you've learned to compensate for. the vinyl is cracked and cold through your jeans until your body heat warms it. for twenty minutes, the only sound is typing—his rapid and rhythmic, yours more hesitant—and the occasional sip of coffee. yours has cooled to the perfect drinking temperature. you can feel the caffeine hitting your system, sharpening your focus.

after a moment of silence, he speaks, "what's your paper about?" his voice cuts through the silence, softer than usual.

you glance over. he's not looking at his screen anymore. his laptop displays rows of numbers and graphs, but his eyes are on you—a pale, crystalline blue that's almost unsettling in its intensity. the overhead lights catch on his white hair, making it glow like a halo. or a warning. "Heidegger's concept of 'being-toward-death.' super cheerful stuff."

"the idea that awareness of mortality gives life meaning?" he's leaning forward slightly now, elbow on the table, chin propped on his fist. you can see the individual creases in his shirt sleeve, the faint shadow of exhaustion under his eyes.

you blink. "you know Heidegger?"

"i know some philosophy. mostly philosophy of science, but." he shrugs, and you hear the rustle of fabric, catch the faint scent of whatever detergent he uses—something clean and sharp, like mint or eucalyptus. "I read."

"physics majors don't usually read continental philosophy for fun."

"i'm not most physics majors."

it's not said arrogantly. just... factually. like he's stating something obvious about himself that you should already know. his gaze is steady, unwavering, and there's something almost vulnerable in it—like he's offering you this piece of himself and waiting to see what you'll do with it.

"okay, übermensch, what do you think about being-toward-death?"

he considers this, fingers drumming against his coffee cup—a soft, rhythmic tap-tap-tap that you can feel more than hear. his eyes shift away, focusing on something in the middle distance. the fluorescent lights flicker. forty-seven seconds. "i think it's incomplete. Heidegger focuses on the subjective experience of mortality, but he ignores the physical reality. entropy. decay." his voice takes on a different quality when he talks about physics—more animated, his hands starting to move, sketching invisible equations in the air.

"the universe itself is being-toward-death on a cosmic scale. every system tends toward disorder. every particle is running down. we're not special for dying—we're just... participating in the fundamental nature of reality."

you stare blankly at him. his face is earnest, completely serious, eyebrows slightly drawn together in concentration.there's a small furrow between them that you want to smooth away with your thumb. the thought startles you. "that's the most depressing thing i've ever heard."

"but accurate." he meets your eyes again, and there's a hint of a smile now—barely there, just a slight upward curve at one corner of his mouth.

"i can't put that in my paper. my professor would have an existential crisis."

"your professor should have an existential crisis. it's good for philosophers." the smile widens. you can see his teeth now—straight except for one canine that's slightly crooked, overlapping the tooth next to it.

you laugh—really laugh—and the sound bounces off the high ceilings, fills the empty library with something warm. something in his face softens, his whole expression opening up like a flower turning toward sunlight. the harsh fluorescent light suddenly seems warmer. his eyes are doing that thing again—going bright and unguarded, looking at you like you've just handed him something precious. "you're weird, satoru."

"yeah." he says it like he's heard it before, like it's a fact he's made peace with. But there's something in his eyes—a flicker of old hurt, quickly buried. "i know."

you don't say: i like that you're weird. but you think it, the words forming in your mind with crystalline clarity. he sees you thinking it—you can tell by the way his breath catches, barely audible but you're close enough to hear it, by the way his fingers still on the coffee cup, by the way his pupils dilate just slightly. the air between you feels charged, electric, like the moment before a storm breaks.

you end up staying until 2am, your philosophy paper forgotten, talking about entropy and meaning and whether the heat death of the universe negates all human achievement. your second coffee has long gone cold in its cup, bitter dregs at the bottom. you can feel the exhaustion in your bones, but your mind is racing, alive with ideas. it's the kind of conversation you usually have with your philosophy classmates, except satoru brings equations into it, grounds it in thermodynamics and quantum mechanics, makes the abstract terrifyingly concrete. his voice is hoarse from talking by the time you finally pack up.

when you finally leave, he walks you to your dorm. says it's on his way.

(it's not on his way. it's twenty minutes in the opposite direction. you don't know this. you probably never will.)

· · ─ ·ʚɞ· ─ · ·

library session eight

you're halfway through a problem set when your pencil rolls off the table.

you both reach for it.

his hand gets there first, fingers brushing against yours for maybe half a second—barely contact, just the ghost of touch, skin on skin—but you both freeze. the pencil clatters to the floor, forgotten, the sound absurdly loud in the quiet library. rolling, rolling, until it hits the table leg with a hollow tap. you can feel the warmth of his hand even after he's pulled back, a phantom sensation that lingers on your knuckles. your nerve endings are firing like they've been shocked, hyperaware of that tiny point of contact. his fingers had been surprisingly warm, slightly rough at the tips like he bites his nails or writes too much.

"sorry," he says, voice slightly rough, catching on the word. he clears his throat. "i'll—" He leans down to grab the pencil from where it's rolled under your chair, and suddenly he's in your space, close enough that you can feel the warmth radiating off him. you catch a whiff of that eucalyptus scent stronger now, mixed with something else. clean laundry. mint toothpaste, maybe. the coffee on his breath—still too sweet. he surfaces with the pencil, holds it out to you between two fingers, and his ears are pink again. bright pink, the color spreading down his neck, disappearing under his collar.

you take it, careful not to let your fingers touch this time, though part of you wants to. the wood is warm from his hand, smooth under your thumb. "thanks."

the silence that follows is different from your usual comfortable quiet. charged. electric. the air feels thick with it, pressing against your skin. you can hear everything—the hum of the fluorescent lights overhead, sixty cycles per second, that slight buzzing that usually fades into background noise. the distant sound of someone shelving books on the first floor, the soft thud of spines against wood. the heating system clicking on with a low mechanical groan, air starting to whisper through the vents. your own heartbeat, loud in your ears, faster than it should be. his breathing, slightly uneven.

"so," you say, too loud. your voice seems to bounce off every surface. "angular momentum."

"right. Yeah." he blinks, refocuses on the textbook, but it takes him a moment. you watch his eyes track across the page, not quite reading. His finger finds the relevant equation but he has to read it twice before speaking, lips moving silently the first time. "so the key thing about angular momentum is that it's conserved in a closed system. like—you know when figure skaters pull their arms in and spin faster?"

you nod. watch his mouth form the words. he has a small scar at the corner of his lip, barely visible, a thin white line maybe half a centimeter long. you've never noticed it before. wonder distantly how he got it. his lips are slightly chapped—it's getting cold out, everyone's skin is drying out. you can see where he's been worrying the bottom one with his teeth.

"that's conservation of angular momentum. same principle applies here, just..." he trails off, and you realize you're staring. He's staring back. his eyes are doing that thing again—that impossibly blue, catching the harsh fluorescent light and somehow making it soft. his pupils are dilated in the dim library, making his eyes look darker. you can see yourself reflected in them, tiny and inverted. "just more mathematical."

"right," you echo. you have no idea what he just said. the words entered your ears but didn't process, got lost somewhere between his mouth and your comprehension. all you can think about is that his knee is three inches from yours under the table and your hand is still tingling.

he runs a hand through his hair—a nervous gesture you're starting to recognize. it leaves the white strands standing up slightly, messy, catching the light like fiber optic cables. you want to smooth them down. want to know if they're as soft as they look. "should I explain it again?"

"no, I—" you look down at your notebook, at the equation he's written there in his precise handwriting. the numbers blur slightly. you blink hard, force your brain back online. focus on the physics. the math. something concrete. "i think i get it. so if the radius decreases, the velocity has to increase to keep L constant?"

"exactly." his face lights up—that transformation again, the one that makes your chest feel tight, like someone's wrapped a hand around your lungs and squeezed. his whole expression opens, eyes crinkling at the corners, mouth curving into a genuine smile that shows that slightly crooked canine. "exactly, you've got it."

the praise sends an unexpected flush of warmth through you. you duck your head, pretending to write in your notebook. "good teacher," you murmur.

"good student," he replies, just as quiet. his voice has dropped lower, intimate in the empty library.

your phone buzzes against the table—a harsh vibration that makes you both jump. you glance at it—12:47am, the numbers glowing blue-white in the dimness. you have class at nine. you should leave. get at least six hours of sleep. you make no move to pack up. your textbook stays open. your notebook stays on the table. his laptop is still running simulations, the screen casting a pale glow on his face.

"can I ask you something?" the words are out before you can stop them, before you can think about whether you actually want to know the answer.

he goes very still. you see every muscle tense—shoulders, jaw, hands. even his breathing seems to pause. "sure." the word is careful, guarded.

"why do you always have coffee waiting? you're always here before me. do you just... camp out at the library every night?"

something crosses his face—caught, almost guilty. his eyes dart away, focus on a point somewhere past your shoulder. "i like the quiet. good place to work." the words come out rehearsed, like he's prepared this answer.

"at 11pm."

"i'm a night owl." he's fidgeting now, fingers tapping against the edge of his laptop. tap-tap-tap, an irregular rhythm.

"every night?"

"most nights." he's not looking at you anymore, studying the textbook with sudden intense focus, like the diagram of rotational motion is the most fascinating thing he's ever seen. "it's not—i mean, i'd be here anyway. the coffee's just... it's on the way. there's a 24-hour place near my dorm."

(another lie. the 24-hour coffee shop is twenty minutes in the opposite direction from his dorm, tucked into a corner near the engineering building. he leaves at 10:15pm every night to make sure he gets there, gets the coffee—yours black with one sugar, his disgustingly sweet because you bought it that way once—and makes it to the library before you arrive at 11.

he's timed it down to the minute. knows that if he leaves at 10:17 he'll be two minutes late. knows which route has the fewest streetlights out. knows that the barista working nights on thursdays always gives him an extra shot of espresso for free.)

you let it go. file it away with all the other small things you're starting to notice. the way he remembers how you take your coffee. the way he always walks you home, even though he claims it's on his way. the way he looks at you when he thinks you're not paying attention—like you're a theorem he's trying to prove, a puzzle he can't quite solve, something precious and fragile and just out of reach. the way his breath catches when you laugh. the way he leans in when you talk, like he doesn't want to miss a single word.

"i'm glad you're here," you say instead, the words softer than you intend. "the nights, i mean. it's nice. having company."

his eyes snap to yours, wide and startled, unguarded for just a moment. for a heartbeat he looks almost scared, like you've just said something dangerous, something that could detonate in his hands. his lips part slightly, and you watch his throat work as he swallows. then his expression softens into something that makes your stomach flip, that sends heat pooling low in your abdomen. something warm and open and achingly vulnerable.

"yeah," he says quietly, voice barely above a whisper. "it is."

you work in silence for another hour. the numbers start to blur together on the page. your hand is cramping from writing. at some point your knee bumps against his under the table and neither of you moves away. the contact is barely there—just a point of warmth through two layers of denim—but you're aware of it with every breath. can feel the solid presence of him, the small movements when he shifts his weight. t

he table is small enough that you're constantly almost-touching—elbows nearly brushing, hands coming close when you both reach for the textbook. the air between you feels charged, like static electricity before a storm.

when you finally pack up at 2am, your brain fuzzy with exhaustion and caffeine and something else—something unnamed that sits warm and heavy in your chest—he does that thing where he pretends walking you home is on his way. closes his laptop with a decisive click. stretches, and you try not to watch the way his shirt rides up, exposing a thin strip of pale skin above his jeans.

the october air is cold enough now that you can see your breath, small clouds that dissipate in the darkness. the campus is dead quiet except for your footsteps on the pavement—his heavier, yours lighter, falling into an easy rhythm. your shoulders brush occasionally when the sidewalk narrows. the streetlights cast long shadows, turn everything orange and surreal. somewhere in the distance a siren wails. a dog barks. the normal sounds of a city at night, but they feel muted, distant, like you're walking through a bubble that contains just the two of you.

"hey satoru?" you call out.

"mm?" he turns his head to look at you, and the streetlight catches in his eyes.

"next time you don't have to get the coffee. we could just... I don't know. meet here and then go get it together or something."

you feel more than see him go still. his footsteps stutter for just a moment before resuming. "together?" the word comes out strange, like he's testing it. tasting it.

"yeah. I mean, if you want. seems fair since you always—" you gesture vaguely, breath clouding in the cold. "you know."

"i want to," he says, too quickly. then, more carefully, like he's trying to dial it back, "that would be good. yeah."

there's something in his voice—relief and longing and something almost like fear. you glance at him but he's looking straight ahead, jaw tight, hands shoved deep in his pockets.

when you reach your dorm he does that small wave thing, hands in his pockets, breath clouding in the cold air. the motion makes him look younger somehow, uncertain. "see you tuesday?"

"tuesday," you confirm. wave back, your fingers already numb from the cold.

inside, the lobby is overheated and smells like stale popcorn and floor cleaner. you climb the three flights to your floor, legs heavy with exhaustion. your roommate is asleep, the room dark except for the glow of her phone charging. you drop your bag, go to the window.

he's still there. standing under the streetlight, looking up. the light turns his hair silver-bright, makes him look like something otherworldly. a ghost. an angel. something not quite human. he stands there for a long moment—thirty seconds, a minute—just looking. you can't see his expression from here but something about his posture seems lonely. small, despite his height.

then he turns and starts walking, not toward the direction he said his dorm was, but the opposite way. east instead of west. you watch his figure get smaller, watch him pass under streetlight after streetlight, until he finally disappears around the corner by the physics building.

huh, you think.

you stand at the window for a moment longer, breath fogging the glass. your fingers are pressed against the cold pane. below, the street is empty. just pools of orange light and darkness.

you don't mention it on tuesday.

but when you get to the library at 10:45—fifteen minutes early, your heart beating faster than it should—he's already there, two coffees on the table, looking up with that soft, startled expression like you've just appeared out of nowhere.

like he's been waiting for you.

(he has.)

· · ─ ·ʚɞ· ─ · ·

library session ten

it's thursday and you're not doing physics.

"I have a philosophy presentation tomorrow," you say, dropping into your chair with a heavy sigh that seems to echo in the empty third floor. your bag hits the floor with a thud—heavier than usual, stuffed with books you've been hauling around all day. "i need to practice it out loud but my roommate's asleep and I—" you pause, suddenly uncertain. "would it be weird if I just... presented it to you?"

satoru looks up from his laptop, and something flickers across his face. Interest, maybe. or concern—you can't quite read it. "what's it on?"

"Sartre. existence precedes essence. the whole 'we're condemned to be free' thing." you pull out your notes, pages covered in highlighter and frantic marginalia from when you'd been trying to make sense of Being and Nothingness at 3am. the pages are crinkled, coffee-stained. "it's only ten minutes but I keep losing my place and—"

"yeah," he interrupts, too quickly. then, softer, "i mean, yes. I'd like to hear it."

there's something in his voice. eagerness, carefully restrained. like you've just offered him something he didn't know he wanted.

you stand up, smooth down your shirt even though there's no one here but him. clear your throat. the fluorescent lights buzz overhead. "okay. so. um." your hands are already shaking slightly, papers rustling. "Jean-Paul Sartre argued that—"

"wait." he closes his laptop with a quiet click, pushes it aside. turns his chair to fully face you, giving you his complete attention. his eyes are steady on yours, patient. "okay. go ahead."

something about the way he's looking at you—focused, interested, no judgment in his expression—makes your shoulders relax slightly.

"Jean-Paul Sartre argued that existence precedes essence," you begin again, and this time your voice is steadier. "unlike objects, which are created with a purpose—a chair is made to be sat on, a knife is made to cut—humans exist first, and only afterward do we define ourselves through our choices and actions."

you glance at your notes, lose your place, find it again. your finger traces down the page, smudging the highlighter. "this means that we have no predetermined nature. no essence handed to us by God or biology or society. we are, in Sartre's words, 'condemned to be free.'" you look up, checking if he's still with you.

he's leaning forward now, elbows on his knees, chin resting on his laced fingers. completely still. listening with an intensity that makes you feel pinned, examined. but not in a bad way. like every word you're saying matters.

"the condemnation comes from the weight of that freedom. We are entirely responsible for who we become. we can't blame God, or fate, or our upbringing. every choice we make is a choice we're making not just for ourselves, but—" you flip a page, the paper catching on your thumb, "—for all of humanity. because in choosing, we're saying 'this is what a human should do in this situation.'"

"but that's not quite right," satoru says, and you stop.

"what?"

"sorry." he sits back slightly, looking almost apologetic. his hand comes up, rubbing the back of his neck. "i don't mean to—you're explaining it well. i just meant Sartre's argument. the idea that every choice is a choice for all of humanity—it's too broad. too... abstract." his eyes are distant now, thinking. "when I choose to have coffee at 11pm, i'm not making a universal statement about humanity's relationship with caffeine."

you can't help it—you laugh, the sound bursting out before you can stop it. "that's exactly what my professor said. well, not about the coffee. but that Sartre's ethics are too demanding. that they lead to paralysis because every tiny choice becomes this huge moral weight."

"so what do you think?" he tilts his head, genuinely curious. "do you buy it? the whole condemned to be free thing?"

you set your notes down on the table, presentation temporarily forgotten. "i think... i think there's something true in it. the part about how we define ourselves through our choices. but the weight of it—" you gesture vaguely, trying to find the words. "i don't know if i believe every choice is that significant. sometimes you're just tired and you want coffee. sometimes you're just trying to pass physics."

his mouth quirks into a small smile. "sometimes you're just trying to help someone pass physics."

"right. like—" you pause, something clicking into place in your mind. "those choices still mean something. they still define who you are. but maybe not in this grand universal way. maybe just in a... smaller way. a personal way."

"the small scale stuff," he says quietly, and you remember—lucky for me you're good at the small scale stuff.

"yeah. the small scale stuff." you repeat.

the silence that follows is comfortable. thoughtful. you can hear the heating system, the distant hum of computers in the lab downstairs. your coffee has gone cold in its cup.

"you should keep going," he says after a moment. "with the presentation. you were doing well."

"was I?" you pick up your notes again, suddenly self-conscious. "i feel like I keep going off on tangents."

"you do," he agrees, and there's amusement in his voice. "but they're good tangents. you're not just reciting facts. you're actually thinking about them. engaging with them." he leans back in his chair, and you hear it creak slightly. "your professor will like that. even if they disagree with your conclusions."

you study him for a moment. he's relaxed now, more than you've seen him. usually there's a tension in his shoulders, a guardedness in his expression. but right now he looks... comfortable. content. like this—sitting here at 11:47pm in an empty library talking about existentialism—is exactly where he wants to be.

"okay," you say. "from the top?"

"from the top."

you present the whole thing twice more. he doesn't interrupt again, just listens, nods at certain points, makes small encouraging gestures when you stumble over words. by the third run-through, you're not even looking at your notes. the arguments flow naturally, and you can see the through-line of your own thinking clearly for the first time.

"that was perfect," he says when you finish. "seriously. you're going to do great."

the praise makes something warm bloom in your chest. "thanks for listening. i know this isn't exactly—" you gesture at his laptop, at the equations you can see on the screen. "your area."

"i liked it." He says it simply, like it's obvious. "i like hearing you talk about things you care about."

the words hang in the air between you. you can feel your face heating, are grateful for the dim lighting that hopefully hides it. "i like hearing you talk about physics," you offer, then immediately feel stupid. "even when I don't understand half of it."

"you understand more than you think." he opens his laptop again, but slowly, like he's reluctant to break whatever spell has settled over your corner of the library. "want to do some actual homework now, or are you too philosophized out?"

"i should probably—" you glance at your phone. 12:15am. "i should probably look at my physics reading. we have that quiz on Monday."

"chapter seven?"

"yeah. rotational dynamics. which i definitely, totally understand and am not at all terrified of."

he grins—quick and bright and almost playful. "liar."

"okay, yes, i'm terrified. Are you happy?"

"very." he's already pulling up the textbook pdf on his laptop, turning the screen so you can both see. "come here, i'll walk you through it."

you move your chair closer—close enough that your shoulders are almost touching, that you can feel the warmth of him along your left side. the screen glows blue-white in the darkness. his fingers move over the trackpad, pulling up diagrams and equations, and you try to focus on the physics and not on the way his voice drops lower when he's explaining something complex, the way he smells like eucalyptus and coffee and something uniquely him.

"so the moment of inertia depends on the distribution of mass," he's saying, and you can feel his breath on your shoulder when he leans in to point at something on the screen. "the farther the mass is from the axis of rotation, the larger the moment of inertia. that's why figure skaters—"

"spin faster when they pull their arms in," you finish. "conservation of angular momentum. you already taught me that."

"just making sure it stuck." he glances at you, and he's close enough that you can see the individual shades of blue in his eyes. not just one color but layers—pale blue near the pupil, darker at the edges, with flecks of something almost silver. "did it stick?"

"yeah," you say, quieter than you intend. "it stuck."

you're staring at each other. the laptop screen has gone dark from inactivity, plunging you into deeper dimness. the only light now is the fluorescent glow from the main library area, filtering through the gaps in the bookshelves. you can see the exact moment his eyes drop to your mouth—quick, involuntary, like he couldn't help it—before snapping back up.

he pulls back slightly, breaking the moment. clears his throat. "we should—the quiz. let me pull up some practice problems."

"right. yeah. practice problems."

but neither of you moves to turn the laptop back on. not for several long seconds. not until someone laughs on a lower floor and the sound echoes up the stairwell, breaking whatever was building between you.

the rest of the night is quieter. you work through practice problems while he runs his simulations, and the silence is punctuated only by the scratch of pencil on paper, the click of keys, the occasional question and answer. but something has shifted. you're hyperaware of every almost-touch, every shared glance, every moment when his hand gets close to yours on the table.

when he walks you home at 2am, the cold october air biting at your exposed skin, you walk closer together than usual. your arms brush with every third step. neither of you mentions it.

at your dorm, he does his usual wave. waits until your light comes on. you watch from the window as he walks away—the correct direction this time, you note. or maybe he's just gotten better at the lie. maybe he walks the correct way for three blocks and then doubles back. maybe he's been doing that all along.

you don't know.

(you're starting to want to.)

· · ─ ·ʚɞ· ─ · ·

library session twelve

it's tuesday and satoru is wearing a different shirt.

this shouldn't matter. it doesn't matter. except you've seen him in the same rotation of clothing for weeks now—three button-downs in various states of wrinkled, two sweaters with holes in the sleeves, that one hoodie with the faded logo—and tonight he's wearing something new. dark blue, fitted, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows in a way that seems deliberate. intentional. like he thought about it.

"hey," he says when you arrive, and his voice is slightly higher than usual. nervous.

"hey." you set down your bag, and your hand trembles slightly when you reach for the coffee he's already gotten you. your fingers brush the cup and it's still warm—which means he got here even earlier than normal. "new shirt?"

you watch color flood his cheeks, spreading down his neck. "oh. yeah. the... the other ones were all dirty."

(a lie. you're getting better at spotting them. his shirts were fine. he did laundry on sunday like he always does, you've seen him in the same blue button-down twice since then. this is new. this is for you.)

"it's nice," you say, and your voice comes out softer than intended. "the color. it's... it's good."

"thanks." he's not looking at you, fingers drumming against his own coffee cup in that nervous rhythm you've memorized. tap-tap-tap-pause-tap. "how was your presentation? friday?"

"oh." you'd almost forgotten. "it went well, actually. got an A. professor said I had 'interesting insights on Sartre's ethical implications.'" you smile at the memory. "pretty sure that's academic speak for 'you went off script but I liked it.'"

his face does that thing—that full, unguarded smile that transforms him completely. "I knew you'd do well. you were—" he pauses, seems to catch himself. "it was a good presentation. when you practiced."

there's something in the way he says it. something weighted. like he's saying more than just the words.

you sit down, and somehow end up closer than usual. your chair scrapes against the floor and you end up near enough that your knees are almost touching under the table. you notice it. freeze for a half-second. shift slightly away but not all the way. neither of you acknowledges it but you can feel the space between you like a physical thing. charged. electric.

"so what are we working on tonight?" he asks, pulling his laptop closer. his fingers are shaking slightly on the trackpad. you've never seen his hands shake before.

"chapter eight. torque and equilibrium." you pull out your textbook but you're hyperaware of where he is in space. the exact distance between his elbow and yours on the table. "but I should probably warn you, I'm completely lost."

"you're not lost. you just think you are." he pulls up the chapter on his screen, angling it so you can both see, and you catch a whiff of his detergent—he changed it, or maybe you're just noticing it more. something clean and fresh with a hint of cedar. "torque is just... it's rotational force. you already understand force. this is the same thing, just spinning."

"just spinning," you echo. "why do you make everything sound so simple?"

"because it is simple. once you see the pattern." he points at a diagram on the screen and you both lean in at the same time. his shoulder brushes yours—just for a second—and you both jerk back like you've been burned. there's a pause. a weird charged silence. "see?" his voice is slightly strained. "force times distance. that's all torque is."

you're trying to focus on the diagram but your skin is still tingling where he touched you. "so if I want to open a door, I push far from the hinges to maximize torque."

"exactly." he turns his head to look at you and you realize suddenly how close you're sitting. close enough to see the faint freckles across his nose. close enough that if you leaned forward just a few inches—

you don't lean forward. neither does he. but you both seem to realize the proximity at the same time and there's a moment where neither of you moves. frozen. his eyes are very blue.

then he clears his throat and looks back at the screen. "you do understand. you just don't trust yourself."

"maybe I just like having you explain things," you say without thinking, and immediately want to take it back. too honest. too revealing.

his fingers still on the trackpad. "oh," he says quietly.

the silence that follows is thick. awkward. you can hear your own heartbeat, loud in your ears.

"so," you say too brightly. "practice problems?"

"right. yeah. practice problems." he's typing too fast, making mistakes, having to backspace. you pretend not to notice.

you try to focus on the physics. you really do. but you keep getting distracted by stupid things. the way his fingers move over the keyboard. the way he worries his bottom lip when he's thinking. the way his hair falls into his eyes and he pushes it back with an impatient gesture.

and you keep almost-touching. reaching for the same pencil. both moving to point at the same equation. every time there's contact—just a brush of fingers, a bump of elbows—you both pull back like you've been shocked. apologize. avoid eye contact.

it's searing.

"are you okay?" he asks after the fifth time you've lost your train of thought mid-sentence.

"fine. just—" you scramble for an excuse. "tired. long day."

"we can stop if you want." there's something in his voice. disappointment, maybe, buried under concern.

"no. I want to stay." too emphatic. you try to dial it back. "I mean, I need to understand this for the quiz monday."

"right. the quiz." he runs a hand through his hair, messing it up. you want to smooth it down. you don't. "let me show you another example."

he pulls the textbook closer to him, which means closer to you. you're sharing the book now, both leaning over it, and you're acutely aware of every place your bodies almost touch. his arm next to yours. his knee a centimeter from your knee. the warmth radiating off him.

"so the system is in equilibrium when the sum of all torques equals zero," he's explaining, and his voice is slightly unsteady. his finger traces the diagram and you're watching his hand instead of the physics. "which means—are you listening?"

"yes," you lie.

"what did I just say?"

"...something about equilibrium?"

he laughs—quiet and a little breathless. "you're not paying attention at all."

"I am. I'm just—" you meet his eyes and forget what you were going to say. he's looking at you with an expression you can't quite read. something soft and uncertain and almost scared. "distracted."

"by what?" it comes out barely above a whisper.

you should say something about the quiz. about being stressed. instead you say, "I don't know," which is somehow more honest.

he swallows hard. you watch his throat work. "me too," he admits quietly. "I've been—for weeks now, I can't—" he stops. takes a breath. "never mind."

"no, what?" you're leaning closer without meaning to.

"nothing. it's—" he shakes his head. "it's stupid."

"tell me anyway."

he looks at you for a long moment. you can see him weighing something. deciding. "I think about you," he says finally, so quiet you almost miss it. "when you're not here. more than I should. more than makes sense for—" he gestures vaguely at the textbook. "for physics homework."

your heart stops. starts again, harder. "oh."

"yeah." he laughs awkwardly, won't meet your eyes. "so. that's—I'm probably making this weird. sorry. we can just—"

"I do too," you interrupt. the words tumble out before you can stop them. "think about you. I mean. when I'm not here." you can feel your face burning. "I see something and wonder what you'd say about it. or I check the time and start getting ready to come here even when I don't have homework and—" you stop. this is too much. too honest.

he's staring at you now. "really?"

"really."

"oh," he breathes. and then: "I wore this shirt because—" he stops. starts again. "you said you liked this color once. weeks ago. on someone else's shirt. I don't even know if you remember."

"I remember." your voice is shaking. "I wore this sweater because you said green was your favorite color on me."

the silence that follows is deafening. you're both just looking at each other, and the air feels thick, hard to breathe. his eyes drop to your mouth—just for a second—and your stomach flips.

then someone laughs on a lower floor and you both startle, jerking apart. the spell breaks.

"we should—" he starts.

"yeah. physics. right." you're not looking at each other now. both staring determinedly at the textbook.

but your hand is on the table between you and so is his, and they're very close. almost touching. you can feel the warmth of his skin. see his fingers twitch like he wants to reach over. you want him to reach over. your pinky moves closer. so does his.

you're both pretending to read the textbook but you're not reading anything. you're focused entirely on the shrinking distance between your hands.

his pinky brushes yours. the contact is feather-light. barely there. but neither of you pulls away.

you shift your hand slightly. now your fingers are overlapping. not quite holding hands but not not holding hands either. your heart is racing so fast you feel dizzy.

"so torque," he says, voice strained, not looking up from the book. "is equal to force times distance."

"right," you manage. your hand is tingling where you're touching him. "force times distance."

"and when the system is in equilibrium—" his index finger curls around yours. still casual. still deniable. "—the net torque is zero."

"zero," you echo. you have no idea what you're saying. all your focus is on the point of contact. his finger hooked around yours.

you sit like that for several minutes. pretending to study. hands linked between the coffee cups and physics textbook. not acknowledging it. both terrified that if you acknowledge it, it will stop.

eventually you have to turn the page and the spell breaks. you both pull back. there's an awkward pause.

"I should—" you start. "it's late. I should probably—"

"oh. yeah. of course." he sounds disappointed. "I'll walk you back."

"you don't have to—"

"I want to."

the walk back is torture. you're walking close enough that your arms brush occasionally. every point of contact feels massive. significant. you're both talking too much, too fast, filling the silence with nervous chatter about nothing. philosophy and physics and the weather and anything except what just happened.

at your dorm, you both stop. stand there awkwardly.

"so," he says.

"so," you echo.

"same time thursday?"

"yeah. thursday." you pause. "thanks for—for the help. with physics."

"anytime." he's looking at you with that soft expression again. "I mean it. anytime."

you should go inside. you're both just standing here. "okay. good. I'll—thursday."

"thursday," he confirms.

neither of you moves.

"I should—" you gesture at the door.

"right. yeah." he takes a step back. "goodnight."

"goodnight, satoru."

you're halfway through the door when he calls your name. you turn back.

"I—" he stops. seems to lose his nerve. "sleep well."

"you too."

you watch from your window as he walks away. he makes it to the corner, pauses, looks back at your building. stands there for a long moment before finally continuing on.

you touch your fingers where his had been. they're still tingling.

this is bad, you think. this is going to be a problem.

you can't wait until thursday.

· · ─ ·ʚɞ· ─ · ·

library session fourteen

it's thursday and satoru isn't here.

you arrive at 11pm exactly—maybe a minute early, maybe you were eager, maybe you'd spent an extra ten minutes picking out your shirt (green, because he likes green on you, because you're just as bad as he is)—and the table is empty. no laptop with its familiar array of stickers (a periodic table, a cat with glasses, something in japanese you can't read). no coffee cups sweating condensation onto the wood, leaving those overlapping rings you've both stopped bothering to wipe away. no satoru with his messy white hair and nervous hands and that way he looks up when you arrive like you've just made his entire night worthwhile.

you wait.

you sit down in your chair—the wobbly one you've gotten used to—and pull out your textbook. chapter nine, angular momentum. you read the same paragraph three times without absorbing a single word.

11:15. nothing.

the library is almost empty. there's someone on the first floor, you can hear the distant sound of pages turning. the fluorescent lights hum their endless sixty-cycle song. the heating system clicks and groans. outside the window, campus is dark except for the scattered orange glow of streetlights.

11:30. you text him. you coming?

you watch the message deliver. wait for the read receipt. nothing.

your leg bounces under the table. you bite your thumbnail, a nervous habit you thought you'd broken in high school.

11:45. you try calling. it rings once, twice, three times. your heart sinks with each ring. four, five, six.

"you've reached gojo satoru, leave a message."

his voice on the recording is awkward, formal. you can hear him cringing at himself even through the recording. there's a pause before the beep like he forgot what he was supposed to say next.

beep.

"hey, it's me. just—wondering if you're okay? you're usually here by now. call me back." you try to keep your voice light, casual, not like anxiety is already coiling in your stomach like a snake.

you hang up. stare at your phone. the screen shows your wallpaper—a photo you took last week of the autumn leaves on the quad, gold and red against grey sky. you'd almost changed it to the selfie you'd convinced satoru to take with you three days ago (he'd looked terrified of the camera, you'd both been laughing, it was perfect) but that felt like too much too soon.

by 12:15 you're packing up your untouched textbook, anxiety fully transformed into something sharper. fear, maybe. what if something happened? what if he's sick? what if he got hit by a car or mugged or had some kind of lab accident with radioactive materials—

or what if he finally got tired of spending every night tutoring you? what if tuesday was too much, too weird, too intense? what if he went home and thought about your fingers tangled with his and realized he didn't actually want this, didn't want you, what if he's avoiding you—

no. no, he wouldn't do that. not without saying something. not after the way he looked at you, not after that soft confession about thinking about you when you're not there.

but what if he would?

you pull up the student directory on your phone. your hands are shaking slightly as you type his name. gojo satoru, physics phd candidate. there's a dorm listed. warren hall, room 447.

you shouldn't go. it's creepy. invasive. stalkerish. he probably just fell asleep or his phone died or he's busy with research and forgot and you're being completely irrational—

you're already walking.

the cold october air hits you like a slap when you exit the library. it's gotten colder in the past few hours—probably in the low forties now, cold enough that you can see your breath, cold enough that you wish you'd brought a heavier jacket. you shove your hands in your pockets and walk fast, partly for warmth and partly because if you slow down you'll lose your nerve.

warren hall is on the far side of campus—a solid twenty-five minute walk from the library. past the humanities building (dark, locked, silent), past the student center (a few lit windows on the upper floors, the distant thump of music from someone's room), past the science quad with its modern glass buildings that glow blue-white from the emergency lighting inside.

warren hall is newer than your building—maybe ten years old instead of fifty. all key card access and security cameras and a front desk that's unmanned at this hour. you catch the door when someone leaves—a tired-looking grad student with a messenger bag and dead eyes—slip inside before it closes. the lobby is too warm, overheated in that way institutional buildings always are. it smells like carpet cleaner and instant ramen and the particular musk of too many people living in close quarters.

the elevator has an "out of order" sign taped to it. of course it does.

you take the stairs, your footsteps echoing in the concrete stairwell. someone has taped inspirational posters to the walls at each landing. "you got this!" "don't give up!" "almost there!" they get progressively more deranged as you climb. by the fourth floor it just says "why?" with a picture of a cat looking existentially exhausted.

fourth floor. the hallway is long and narrow, painted that specific shade of beige that exists only in institutional buildings. the carpet is dark blue, industrial, stained in places you don't want to examine too closely. the hallway smells like microwave popcorn and old socks and someone's weed brownie experiment gone wrong.

you find 447 at the end, past doors decorated with whiteboards and name tags and one very elaborate fantasy map. satoru's door is plain. just the number. no whiteboard, no decoration. somehow that feels very him.

you hesitate with your hand raised to knock.

what are you doing? what if he's here with someone? what if he's asleep? what if he doesn't want to see you? what if you're completely overreacting and he's going to think you're unhinged for tracking him down like this—

you knock before you can talk yourself out of it.

nothing.

the silence is absolute. you can hear your own heartbeat, loud in your ears. can hear someone's tv through the wall to your left, canned laughter from a sitcom.

you try again, louder. your knuckles sting from the impact. "satoru? it's me. are you okay?"

more silence.

you try the handle—just to see, just to confirm it's locked so you can leave and tell yourself you tried—and it turns.

unlocked...

your heart jumps into your throat, pulse suddenly racing. unlocked. his door is unlocked. what if something's wrong? what if someone broke in? what if he's hurt inside?

"satoru?" you push the door open slowly, every horror movie you've ever seen playing in your head. "I'm coming in, okay? I just want to make sure you're not dead or—"

the room is empty.

you let out a breath you didn't know you were holding.

it's small—barely bigger than your own dorm. maybe ten by twelve feet, most of it taken up by furniture. a single bed in the corner, neatly made with plain navy sheets and a pillow that looks flat and sad. a desk absolutely buried in papers and textbooks and coffee cups in various states of empty. a small bookshelf overflowing with physics texts and actual literature—you spot dostoevsky and camus and, inexplicably, a collection of poetry by mary oliver. a tiny kitchenette area with a microwave and electric kettle. a closet with the door half-open, showing a depressingly small collection of clothes (lots of white and blue, everything rumpled).

barely any decoration except a periodic table poster on the wall above his desk—the kind where each element is color-coded by category—and a small succulent on the windowsill that looks half-dead, its leaves brown and shriveled. there's a single photo taped to the wall by his bed: satoru and an older couple, possibly his parents, all three of them squinting into the sun. he looks younger. happier. less tired.

his laptop is open on the desk, screen still glowing with that pale blue light.

you shouldn't look. you absolutely should not look. this is a massive invasion of privacy. this is wrong. this is—

but what if something in there tells you where he is? what if there's a note, a calendar entry, something to explain why he didn't show up? what if he's in trouble?

you move closer, shoes sinking into the thin carpet. the desk is chaos—printed papers covered in equations you can't begin to understand, lab notebooks with coffee stains and scribbled margin notes, a mug with cold coffee and a film on top, three different pens (blue, black, red), a calculator that looks like it costs more than your textbooks, a stack of grant applications paper-clipped together.

the laptop screen shows a document—academic formatting, double-spaced, dense with citations and technical language that might as well be a foreign language.

your eyes catch on the title at the top.

Synthesis and Characterization of Ununennium (Element 119): A Novel Approach to Superheavy Element Creation Through Modified Hot Fusion Reactions

Gojo, S., Department of Physics, Graduate Program in Nuclear Science

Nakamura, T., Department of Physics

Submitted to: Physical Review Letters

your brain stutters. stops. tries to process. fails.

element 119. synthesis of a new element. ununennium.

that lecture. the one from your assignment at the beginning of the semester. that brilliant, awkward physicist who'd discovered element 119 and could barely string two words together in front of a crowd. who'd rushed through his slides like he was being chased, whose hands had shaken so badly the laser pointer kept jumping around the screen. who'd gotten flustered at questions and stammered through answers and looked like he wanted the earth to swallow him whole.

who'd made you write in your paper: there's something deeply humanizing about seeing a scientist—especially one who made such a groundbreaking discovery—be so genuinely uncomfortable with public speaking. it reminds us that brilliance doesn't come with confidence pre-installed. that the person who just expanded our understanding of atomic physics is still just a person, still nervous, still human.

you scroll down, hands shaking. the abstract is full of technical terms you don't know. isotopes and decay chains and cross-sections and beam energy. but you catch fragments:

...successful synthesis of element 119 through the fusion of titanium-50 and berkelium-249...

...detection confirmed through alpha decay chain analysis...

...represents a significant advance in superheavy element research...

there are dates. the experiment was concluded in july. the lecture was in september, right before the semester started. right before you'd been assigned to write about a recent scientific advancement. right before you'd sat in the library at 11pm struggling with physics homework and a white-haired, blue-eyed stranger had asked if you needed help.

"oh my god," you breathe.

you scroll further. more documents in his recent files. drafts of papers. data analysis. emails from his advisor about publication timelines and conference presentations. an email from someone at berkeley asking him to give a talk. an email from CERN with the subject line "research opportunity."

and then—

a folder labeled "papers to read."

you click it without thinking, without considering that this is wrong, that you're violating his privacy, that you should stop—

your philosophy paper on heidegger. saved as a PDF. dated from three weeks ago.

you open it. the margins are full of comments in his handwriting—small, precise, the letters cramped.

this is a really interesting point about authenticity

hadn't thought about it this way before

I wonder if this connects to what you said about entropy that night? both about finding meaning in the face of inevitable ending?

you close it with shaking hands. scroll further.

an article about sartre's concept of bad faith from a philosophy journal. bookmarked. highlighted in yellow—something about self-deception and avoiding freedom.

an article about the ethics of artificial intelligence that you'd mentioned wanting to read during one of your late-night conversations. saved.

a PDF of mary oliver's wild geese with one line highlighted: you do not have to be good.

and then—

a document titled simply "notes."

you shouldn't open it. you absolutely should not open it.

you open it.

it's not dated. just... observations. fragments. a running list.

—takes coffee black with one sugar, always waits for it to cool to exactly 140 degrees before drinking (I timed it, approximately 7 minutes after purchase)

—gets frustrated when she doesn't understand something immediately but won't ask for help until she's tried at least three times on her own

—chews on her pen cap when she's thinking, has probably consumed a concerning amount of plastic

—birthday in -your birthday month- (mentioned it when talking about spring break plans, specifically, same as the ides of march and she made a joke about betrayal)

—wants to go to grad school but isn't sure where yet, keeps changing her mind between continental philosophy and ethics

—thinks I'm weird but in a good way??? (she said this. I have replayed this seventeen times in my head. "good way" means positive. probably.)

—laughs with her whole body, throws her head back, it's the best sound I've ever heard

—she wore the green sweater again today, I think she knows I like it, or maybe I'm reading into things, I'm definitely reading into things

your heart is hammering against your ribs so hard it hurts. you scroll further and there are more notes, going back weeks. the first entry is from early september.

—asked me for help with physics, looked at me like I might actually be able to help, like I wasn't just the weird guy who can't talk to people. maybe this semester won't be completely terrible.

then more, scattered observations:

—she came back. didn't have to. chose to.

—remembers things I say, brought up something I mentioned about quantum tunneling three days later

—bit her lip today when she was concentrating and I forgot how to explain angular momentum

—I think I'm in trouble

the most recent entry is from tuesday. two days ago.

—she wore the green sweater. she remembered. she REMEMBERED.

—held her hand for 4 minutes and 23 seconds before she had to turn the page. wanted to do it again immediately. wanted to never stop. wanted to—

—I think about her constantly. when I'm running simulations I imagine explaining them to her. when I read something interesting I mentally compose how I'd tell her about it. when I'm falling asleep I replay conversations, thinking about what I should have said, what I wish I'd been brave enough to say.

—she makes me want to be less afraid. she makes me want to be brave. she makes me want to be normal even though I've never been normal a day in my life and I don't know how to start.

—I'm in love with her. I think. I don't have a reference point. but if love is wanting someone else's happiness more than your own, wanting to know everything about them, wanting to be better for them—then yes. definitely. unequivocally.

—I'm terrified she'll realize I'm too much. too intense. too weird. that she'll—

it cuts off there. like he couldn't finish the thought.

you're staring at the screen when you hear footsteps in the hallway. voices.

"—just need to grab my laptop and then we can go over the data from tonight's run. the decay chain is slightly different from what we predicted—"

the door opens. satoru freezes in the doorway.

he's wearing his lab coat—white, rumpled, stained with something that might be coffee or might be chemicals you don't want to think about. his hair is more disheveled than usual, standing up like he's been running his hands through it for hours. he has safety goggles pushed up on his forehead. there's a smudge of something dark on his cheek. he looks exhausted—eyes shadowed, shoulders tight with tension.

there's an older man behind him—late fifties, greying hair, wearing an identical lab coat and carrying a stack of folders thick enough to be a weapon. professor nakamura, you recognize him vaguely from around campus. he's apparently somewhat famous in physics circles, though you couldn't say why.

satoru's eyes—those impossibly blue eyes that you've memorized in every shade and mood—go wide. then wider. his face drains of color, going from pale to absolutely bloodless in the span of a heartbeat. his mouth opens. closes. opens again. no sound comes out.

his eyes dart to his laptop. to you standing in front of it. back to you. the recognition and horror that crosses his face is almost comical. almost, except you can see real fear there too.

"I—" he starts. his voice cracks. "I can explain."

professor nakamura looks between you with barely concealed amusement, one eyebrow raised, a small smile tugging at his mouth. "I'll just—" he clears his throat. "I'll wait in my office. room 342 in the physics building. bring the data when you're ready, gojo. take your time."

the emphasis on "take your time" is meaningful. he's definitely laughing at satoru.

he leaves, closing the door behind him with a soft click that sounds deafening in the sudden silence.

you and satoru stare at each other for what it seems like hours.

he still hasn't moved from the doorway. his hands are clenched at his sides, knuckles white. you can see him trembling—just slightly, but definitely trembling. his eyes are doing that thing where they jump around, looking at you then away then back, like he can't decide whether to maintain eye contact or flee.

"you didn't show up," you say. your voice sounds strange to your own ears. distant. like you're underwater. "I was worried."

"I was in the lab." the words come out in a rush, defensive. "we were running the particle accelerator and it took longer than expected and I lost track of time and my phone died and I—" he stops. swallows hard. you watch his throat work, watch him try to gather himself. "you read it."

it's not a question. it's a statement of fact, heavy with resignation.

"element 119," you say. "you made element 119."

"yes." barely a whisper.

"you synthesized a new element. you discovered—no, created—something that has never existed before in the universe." your brain is still trying to process this. "you were the one. the lecture. the one I wrote my assignment about."

"yes." he won't look at you now. he's staring at the floor, at his shoes (scuffed sneakers, the laces on one are coming untied), anywhere but your face.

"why didn't you tell me?" you're not angry—you should maybe be angry about the invasion of privacy, about the secret-keeping, but you're not. you're just baffled. genuinely confused. "when I mentioned that assignment, when I talked about that lecture—why didn't you say it was you?"

"because—" he runs a hand through his hair, agitated, messing it up even more. the safety goggles fall off his forehead and clatter to the floor. he doesn't pick them up. "because I didn't want you to know. I didn't want you to—" he makes a frustrated gesture, hands cutting through the air. "everyone knows. everyone in the physics department, everyone who follows particle physics, everyone at conferences. I can't go anywhere without people wanting to talk about it or asking me questions or treating me like I'm—"

his voice rises slightly, gets tighter. he's breathing faster now, working himself up.

"—like I'm some kind of genius or prodigy or—or like I'm not a person. like I'm just this thing that made a discovery. this achievement. not satoru who likes bad coffee and can't give presentations without wanting to die and who's read the same mary oliver poem seventeen times because it makes him feel less—"

he cuts himself off. bites his lip hard.

"and when I met you, you didn't know." his voice drops back down, goes quiet. "you just thought I was some weird physics student who hung out in the library too late. you looked at me like I was normal. like I was just... a person. a regular person who happened to know physics."

he finally looks at you. his eyes are bright, maybe with unshed tears, definitely with emotion you can't quite name.

"I liked it. I liked that you didn't know. that you weren't impressed or intimidated or weird about it. you were just—you were just talking to me. not the person who synthesized 119. not gojo satoru, the youngest person to create a superheavy element. just... me. just satoru."

the silence that follows is heavy. you can hear everything. the buzz of his laptop. someone's music three doors down. your own heartbeat. his breathing, still uneven.

"I read your notes," you say quietly. "about me."

if possible, he goes even paler. "that's—those were private. I wasn't—" he's spiraling now, you can see it happening, panic taking over. "I know it's weird. I know I'm weird. I just—I wanted to remember things about you and I have a terrible memory for anything that's not physics so I write things down and I didn't mean for it to be creepy I just—"

he's talking faster now, words tumbling over each other.

"—you're always on my mind. you're always—god, all the time. when I'm in the lab I think 'she would find this interesting' or 'I should explain this to her' or 'I wonder what she's doing right now.' when I read something I think about how you'd analyze it, what connections you'd make. when I'm trying to fall asleep I replay our conversations, every single one, and think about all the things I should have said differently or better or—"

he's pacing now, three steps one way, three steps back, gesturing wildly.

"—and tuesday when you held my hand I thought I was going to combust. literally. spontaneous human combustion. I couldn't breathe properly for the rest of the night. I've been thinking about it nonstop for two days. four minutes and twenty-three seconds. I timed it because of course I did because I time everything because I'm obsessive and weird and I—"

he stops. puts his hands over his face.

"I know I'm too much. I know I get too intense about things. my advisor says I need to learn to be normal about stuff, to have boundaries, to not throw myself completely into everything but I don't know how to be normal about anything, I never have been. especially not—"

his voice drops, muffled behind his hands.

"—especially not you. you're—you're the first person in years who's wanted to spend time with me for me and not because of what I can do or what I've discovered or because they want something from me. you just—you just wanted to pass physics. and then you kept coming back. you kept choosing to be there. and I—"

he lowers his hands. his eyes are definitely wet now.

"I'm in love with you. I think. I don't know. I've never—I don't have a reference point for this but I think about you constantly and when you're not around everything feels wrong and when you smile at me I forget how to think and I—"

his voice cracks.

"—I'm sorry. I'm sorry, I know that's too much too fast but I don't know how to be anything other than too much and I don't know how to pretend I'm not—that I don't—"

you cross the room in three strides and kiss him.

he makes a shocked sound against your mouth—high and surprised, almost a squeak—and freezes. his hands hover in the air beside your shoulders, not touching you, like he doesn't know what to do with them. like he's afraid to touch you. like he thinks you might disappear if he does.

his lips are slightly chapped. he tastes like coffee—the cheap lab coffee, bitter and burnt—and something mint, maybe gum. he's completely still, not kissing back, apparently short-circuiting.

you pull back just enough to speak, your lips still brushing his. "you should've told me sooner."

"what?" his eyes are unfocused, dazed. his pupils are blown wide, making his eyes look almost black. "I—what?"

"about the element. about the lecture." you're smiling now, you can't help it. your hands are on his chest and you can feel his heart racing, hammering against his ribs like it's trying to escape. "I always thought you were brilliant. finding out you literally synthesized a new element doesn't change that. if anything it just—"

you laugh softly.

"—it makes sense. of course you did. of course you're the person who did that. you explain physics like.... it's poetry. you see patterns in everything. you think about the heat death of the universe the way other people think about what to have for dinner."

you reach up and push his hair back from his forehead. he leans into the touch like a cat, eyes fluttering closed for a second.

"of course you created something new. something that never existed before. that's just—that's you."

"you're not—" his voice is barely functional. "you're not mad?"

"why would I be mad?"

"because I didn't tell you. because I let you write an assignment about me without saying anything. because I—" he gestures helplessly at the laptop, still open, still showing his notes about you. "because I keep notes about you like a creep."

"satoru." you put your hand on his cheek. he leans into it, turning his face to press his lips against your palm—just for a second, quick and unconscious. "I wore a specific sweater because you once mentioned liking the color green. I look up your schedule so I know where you might be between classes. I change my coffee shop route on tuesdays and thursdays because there's a chance I might run into you."

you meet his eyes.

"I started coming to the library at 11pm even on nights when I don't have physics homework because I know you'll be there. I think about you when I'm supposed to be paying attention in class. I read philosophy papers and imagine what you'd say about them. we're both a little creepy."

he laughs—shaky and breathless and slightly hysterical. "yeah?"

"yeah." you lean up and kiss him again, soft and quick. his hands finally move, coming up to grip your waist like you're the only solid thing in his universe. "and for the record? I always thought you were adorable."

"adorable," he repeats weakly, like the word doesn't compute.

"adorable. even when—especially when—you got all flustered during that lecture. I wrote in my paper that it was humanizing. that it made this incredible discovery feel real because the person behind it was so—"

you search for the word.

"—so genuine. so awkward and brilliant and human. you couldn't get through your presentation without stumbling over your words but you'd just done something incredible. something that expanded human knowledge. and you were just—you were just a person. nervous and brilliant and real."

his hands are trembling where they grip your waist. "I've wanted to kiss you for six weeks."

"then why did you not act on it?"

he kisses you again, and this time he kisses back. his hands slide from your waist to your back, pulling you closer. one hand moves up to cup the back of your head, fingers tangling in your hair. he kisses you like he does everything else—intensely, thoroughly, like he's trying to memorize every detail. like he's been thinking about this for weeks and now that it's happening he wants to get it exactly right.

you make a soft sound and feel him shiver. his grip tightens. when you finally break apart you're both breathing hard. his forehead rests against yours. his eyes are closed. he looks almost pained.

"tell me about it," you say.

"about what?" his voice is rough.

"the element. 119. how did you make it?" you press your lips to the corner of his mouth. "I want to know."

"now?" he sounds strangled. "you want to know about particle physics now?"

"I always want to know about particle physics when you're the one explaining it." you explore his jaw. feel the muscle jump under your lips. "tell me."

"I—" he tries to gather his thoughts. difficult, apparently, when you're kissing along his jawline. "we used hot fusion. titanium-50 beam and berkelium-249 target."

"what's hot fusion?" you kiss just below his ear and he makes a soft sound, a sound close to a whimper.

"it's—fusion of—" he has to stop. breathe. "fusion of a lighter beam nucleus with a heavier target. as opposed to cold fusion which uses similar masses. hot fusion produces more neutron-rich isotopes which—which are more stable—"

you pull back to look at him. "keep going."

his eyes are half-lidded. he's looking at your mouth. "the titanium beam is accelerated to about 5 MeV per nucleon and—and fired at the berkelium target—"

you kiss him again, slow and deep. he makes a desperate sound in the back of his throat.

"and then?" you prompt against his lips.

"and then—if the energy is right—the nuclei fuse. create element 119 for—for approximately 0.9 milliseconds before it undergoes alpha decay—"

his hands are moving restlessly on your back, like he can't quite figure out where to put them, settling for pulling you impossibly closer.

"—we detect it through the decay chain. element 119 decays to 115 which decays to 111 which—which—"

you're kissing his neck now. he's completely lost his train of thought.

"which what?" you murmur against his skin.

"I—I don't—what was I saying?"

you laugh softly and he shivers. "decay chain."

"right. right. decay chain. each—each alpha decay releases a specific amount of energy. we measure that. it's like a fingerprint. tells us what element we created."

his voice is getting progressively less steady.

"the tricky part is the half-life. less than a second. so we need incredibly sensitive detectors and—and—"

you bite gently at his pulse point and he gasps.

"—and fast data acquisition. which is why—why we use—"

he gives up. cups your face in both hands and kisses you desperately like he's got something to prove.

"you're evil," he says when you finally break apart. "you're trying to kill me."

"I'm trying to learn about superheavy elements."

"you're trying to make me lose my mind."

"can't I do both?"

he laughs—breathless and genuine—and kisses you again. softer this time. sweeter.

"four minutes and twenty-three seconds," you say when you pull back.

he groans. "you're never going to let me live that down."

"you timed how long we held hands."

"I have a very accurate internal clock."

"you're such a nerd."

"you like it." he's smiling now—that full, unguarded smile that transforms his whole face.

"I do," you admit. your hands are fisted in his lab coat. "I really, really do."

"I need to—" he glances at his laptop, then at you, clearly torn. "I need to bring data to my advisor. he's waiting. we need to analyze the results from tonight's run."

"alright." you respond in a whiny tone — like a child slowly brewing up a tantrum.

"but after—" he pauses. his hands are still on your face, thumbs stroking your cheekbones. "do you want to come back? we could—we don't have to do physics. we could just—"

"talk?" you offer. "like normal people?"

"I don't know how to be normal."

"good." you kiss him once more, quick and sweet. he chases your mouth when you pull away. "I don't want normal anyway."

he makes a soft sound—want and frustration and something that might be relief.

"go," you say. "do your science thing. I'll wait."

"you'll wait?" like he can't quite believe it.

"I'll wait."

his smile could power the entire campus. could probably power the particle accelerator. could possibly be visible from space.

"okay. okay. I'll be fast. twenty minutes. maybe thirty. definitely less than an hour—" he's already moving to his laptop, saving documents with shaking hands, ejecting a USB drive from the port.

"satoru."

"right. going. I'm going." he shoves the USB in his lab coat pocket, grabs a notebook from the desk. pauses at the door. turns back. "you're really—you're not mad about the notes?"

"I'm keeping a mental catalog of every time you do that thing where you push your hair back when you're thinking," you tell him. "I think we're even."

he laughs—bright and genuine and surprised, like the sound was pulled out of him. it fills something in your chest you didn't know was empty.

"twenty minutes," he promises. "thirty tops. I'll—don't leave. please don't leave."

"I'm not going anywhere."

he kisses you one more time—quick and clumsy and perfect—and then he's gone, the door closing behind him with a soft click.

you sink onto his desk chair, surrounded by his papers and research and the evidence of his brilliant, chaotic mind. the room still smells like him—eucalyptus and coffee and something clean. his bed is right there, neatly made. his books are within arm's reach. his laptop is open in front of you showing his notes, his observations, his confession.

'I'm in love with her.'

element 119, you think. he synthesized element 119 and was too nervous to tell you. he created something that never existed before in the universe—expanded the periodic table, pushed the boundaries of human knowledge—and what scared him was admitting he liked you.

you're smiling so hard your cheeks hurt.

you touch your lips where you can still feel the ghost of his mouth. remember the way he kissed you like you were precious. like you were the real discovery.

· · ─ ·ʚɞ· ─ · ·

date session one

it's thursday and everything is different.

you arrive at 11pm—exactly on time, not early, because you spent fifteen minutes in the bathroom of the science building giving yourself a pep talk in the mirror like a lunatic. your reflection had stared back at you, slightly wild-eyed, while you'd whispered "it's fine. it's the same as always. except you're dating now. except you've kissed him. except he told you he's in love with you and you kissed him again and—"

okay. it's not the same as always.

your hands are sweating. you wipe them on your jeans as you climb the stairs to the third floor. the stairwell smells like old books and floor wax and someone's leftover chinese food. your footsteps echo. your heart is hammering so hard you can feel it in your throat.

you're being ridiculous. this is satoru. this is the person you've been spending almost every night with for three months. nothing has changed.

everything has changed.

the library is quiet, nearly empty. third floor is completely deserted except—there. your usual table by the window, the one where the fluorescent light flickers every forty-seven seconds. and there he is.

satoru looks up when you approach and his whole face does that thing—that transformation you've memorized in excruciating detail, the way his expression shifts from focused (eyebrows slightly drawn, mouth in a concentrated line) to soft (eyes widening, mouth parting slightly) to incandescent (full smile, the one that crinkles the corners of his eyes and shows that slightly crooked canine) in the space of a heartbeat.

but now there's something else there too. nervousness. uncertainty. his hands are fidgeting on the table, fingers drumming that familiar rhythm. tap-tap-tap-pause-tap. like he's also been giving himself a pep talk. like he's also terrified.

"hey," he says. his voice cracks slightly on the single syllable. the word breaks in the middle, goes higher than intended. you watch his face flush, color spreading across his cheekbones and down his neck.

"hey." you set your bag down with a soft thud that echoes in the quiet space. there are two coffee cups on the table already, still steaming. you can see the heat waves rising from them, smell the bitter-sharp scent of your coffee and the tooth-achingly sweet caramel of his. yours and his. the familiar ritual. "you're here early."

"I'm always here early." he's fidgeting with his pen, clicking it open and closed. click-click-click. the sound is too loud in the silence. his thumb is pressing the button compulsively, a nervous tic you've never seen before. "I just—I wanted to make sure—"

he stops. you're both just standing there, on opposite sides of the table, like there's a force field between you. like you've forgotten how to be normal around each other. his laptop is open, screen glowing blue-white with some physics paper covered in equations. there's a stack of books next to it—three library books about quantum mechanics and one collection of poetry by mary oliver that definitely isn't for his research. his coffee cup has a ring of condensation around it. his hair is slightly damp, like he showered recently. you can smell his shampoo from here, that clean eucalyptus scent mixing with the coffee and old books.

this is excruciating.

"so," you say. your voice sounds strange. too high.

"so," he echoes. he sets the pen down. picks it up again. sets it down. his knee is bouncing under the table, making his whole body vibrate slightly.

"are we going to be weird about this?"

"I don't know. maybe?" he runs a hand through his hair, leaving it standing up in messy white spikes. "I don't know how to—I've never—"

"me neither."

"oh. good. okay." he takes a breath. you watch his chest expand, watch him hold it for three seconds, release slowly. a calming technique. "so we're both being weird."

"extremely weird."

"great. perfect. that makes me feel better." he's smiling now, small and tentative, just the corner of his mouth quirking up. "do you want to sit down? or we could keep standing here awkwardly. both options are valid. equally valid. I'm fine with either. whatever you want."

he's rambling. you've never heard him ramble quite like this before.

you laugh—relieved and genuine, the sound bursting out of you—and the tension breaks slightly. like a string that was pulled too tight suddenly loosening. you move to your chair, the wobbly one with the cracked vinyl, and sit. the seat is cold through your jeans. he sits too. you're in your usual positions—him on one side of the table, you on the other—except now you're hyperaware of the distance between you. eighteen inches. maybe twenty. you could measure it in the length of the physics textbook lying closed on the table. too far.

you both reach for your coffee at the same time. your hands move in sync, close around the cups (yours still warm, heat seeping through the cardboard sleeve, his probably already cooling). both lift to your mouths. both take a sip. the coffee is perfect—exactly the right temperature, bitter and strong. both set the cups down in the exact same moment. the slight thud of cardboard on wood, perfectly synchronized.

you catch each other's eyes and laugh—nervous, slightly hysterical.

"I have physics homework," you say, desperate for something normal. something that feels like before.

"of course you do." there's affection in his voice now. warmth. the kind of warmth that settles in your chest like sunlight. "what chapter?"

"ten. rotation and angular momentum. again. I don't think I actually understood it the first time."

"you understood it fine. you just don't trust yourself." he's pulling his laptop closer, but slowly. his movements are careful, deliberate. his eyes keep darting to you and then away, like he can't decide whether to look or not look. "same problem as always."

"maybe I just like having you explain things."

the words hang between you. that's—that's flirting. you're flirting. you've flirted before, danced around the edges of it for weeks, but now it means something different. now you're allowed to mean it. now it's not subtext, it's just text.

his ears go pink. bright pink, the color spreading down to where they disappear into his hair. "yeah?"

"yeah."

the smile that breaks across his face is devastating. it's unguarded in a way you've rarely seen—no careful control, no attempt to play it cool. just pure, undiluted happiness. his eyes crinkle at the corners. his whole face lights up. "okay. good. I—okay." he opens his laptop fully, the screen casting pale light on his face. pulls up the textbook pdf with slightly shaking hands—you can see the tremor in his fingers as they move across the trackpad. "come here then."

the words send a jolt through you. come here. not stay there. come here.

you stand up. the chair scrapes against the floor, too loud. walk around the table, your footsteps muffled by the old carpet. he pushes his chair back slightly—the wheels squeak—and you hesitate for just a second before sitting down. not in your own chair, but on the edge of the desk right next to him. close enough that your leg is pressed against his arm. you can feel the warmth of him through two layers of fabric, feel the solid presence of his shoulder against your thigh.

he goes still. like he's afraid to move, afraid to breathe. you can feel the tension in him, every muscle locked. the way his breathing changes—shallower, faster. his hand on the trackpad freezes mid-movement.

"is this okay?" you ask quietly.

"yes." his voice is rough, scraped raw. "very okay. extremely okay." he swallows hard and you watch his throat work, watch the bob of his adam's apple. "you can—you're welcome to sit closer. anytime. always."

you lean over to look at his screen and your hair falls forward, brushing his shoulder. the strands whisper across his shirt—he's wearing that blue one again, the new one—and you hear his breath catch. actually hear it, a sharp inhale that he tries to cover with a cough.

"so," he says, slightly strangled. his voice has gone up half an octave. "angular momentum. L equals I times omega." he points at the equation on the screen but his hand is trembling slightly.

"I remember." you're not really looking at the screen. you're watching him, cataloging every reaction. the way his throat works when he swallows. the way his fingers are gripping his pen too tight, knuckles white. the way a muscle jumps in his jaw. the faint flush spreading down from his ears to his neck. "moment of inertia times angular velocity."

"right. and—and if there's no external torque, angular momentum is conserved, which—"

he loses his train of thought completely when you lean closer. your shoulder pressed against his now, your arm brushing his. you can feel his heartbeat, impossibly—or maybe that's your own heartbeat, you can't tell anymore. the heat of him seeps through your clothes. you can smell his shampoo stronger now, eucalyptus and something else. mint maybe. clean and sharp and distinctly him.

"which means what?" you prompt. your voice comes out softer than intended, almost a whisper.

"which means—I don't remember. what was the question?" he turns his head to look at you and suddenly your faces are very close. three inches. maybe less. you can see the individual shades of blue in his eyes, pale near the pupil darkening to something almost cobalt at the edges. can see the faint freckles across his nose that you never noticed before. can count his eyelashes if you wanted to. "what were we talking about?"

you laugh softly and he makes a pained sound, something between a groan and a whimper.

"you're doing this on purpose," he accuses, but there's no heat in it. his eyes are dark, pupils blown wide.

"doing what?"

"being distracting. sitting this close. smelling good. existing." he turns his head to look at you properly and suddenly your faces are very close. close enough that you can feel his breath on your lips, warm and coffee-scented. "it's cruel. you're being cruel to me."

"I can move—" you start to pull back.

"don't you dare." his hand comes up, fingers catching your wrist gently. his touch is warm, careful, like you're something fragile. his thumb finds your pulse point, presses there lightly. you wonder if he can feel how fast your heart is racing. "I'm just—I'm trying to figure out if I'm allowed to—if we're—"

"satoru."

"yeah?" he's staring at your mouth now, not even trying to hide it.

"you can kiss me if you want to."

"we're in the library," he says weakly, but his eyes have already dropped back to your mouth. his tongue darts out to wet his lips—nervous habit.

"we're on the third floor at 11pm on a thursday. there's literally no one here." you can hear how empty it is, just the hum of fluorescent lights and the distant sound of the heating system and both of your slightly-too-fast breathing.

"what about the physics homework—"

you cup his face and kiss him.

he makes that sound again—soft and surprised and pleased, high in his throat—and then he's kissing you back. his hand comes up to tangle in your hair, careful, gentle, fingers threading through the strands like he's trying to memorize the texture. like you're something precious. the kiss is soft. sweet. chaste, almost. nothing like the desperate kissing in his dorm room two days ago. this is—tender. exploratory. like you have all the time in the world. his lips are soft, slightly chapped. he tastes like that terrible sweet coffee and mint gum. his hand in your hair is trembling.

when you pull back his eyes are still closed. his lips are slightly parted, kiss-swollen. his cheeks are flushed pink. he looks dazed, slightly drunk in love and moonstruck. his hand is still in your hair, fingers tangled in the strands like he forgot to let go.

"hi," you whisper.

his eyes flutter open slowly. they're darker than usual, pupils blown wide. "hi."

"better?"

"so much better. can we—can we do that again?"

you kiss him again. and again. soft, brief touches that make your stomach flip every time. his hand is warm on your jaw, thumb stroking your cheekbone in that way that makes you shiver. he kisses like he's savoring it, like he wants to memorize every detail. each kiss is slightly different—this one a bit longer, this one with his bottom lip caught gently between yours, this one with your noses bumping and both of you smiling.

"okay," he says when you finally pull back for real. his voice is wrecked, rough like he's been using it for hours. "okay, we need to—physics. we should do physics."

"should we?"

"yes. definitely. you have a homework assignment due monday and I promised to help and I'm not going to be the reason you fail physics because I can't stop kissing you." but even as he says it, he's leaning in again, pressing a kiss to the corner of your mouth. then your cheek. then your jaw.

"pretty sure the kissing was mutual."

"extremely mutual. dangerously mutual." but he's grinning now, looking younger and happier than you've ever seen him. "but seriously. homework. I'm going to be responsible about this. I'm going to be the most responsible—"

you give him a chaste kiss and he makes a defeated sound.

"you're not making this easy," he complains against your mouth.

"you're such a nerd."

"you like it."

"I really do."

you slide off the desk—reluctantly, muscles protesting, you realize you were tensed up without meaning to be—but instead of going back to your own chair, you pull it around to his side of the table. the wheels squeak and catch on the carpet. squeeze it in next to his so you're sitting shoulder to shoulder, thighs pressed together, both facing his laptop screen.

"this works too," he says quietly. his hand finds yours under the table, fingers lacing together. his palm is slightly sweaty but you don't care. "this is—yeah. this works."

it works better than works.

you spend the next hour actually working through the physics homework. he explains the problems with his usual careful patience—that way he has of breaking down complex concepts into manageable pieces, of finding the perfect metaphor or analogy to make things click—but now there are differences. his thumb traces circles on your palm while he talks, absent and constant. when you get an answer right, he kisses your temple—just a quick press of lips to skin but it makes you lose your train of thought every time. when you're stuck on a concept, he tilts your chin up to look at him while he explains it in a different way, and you get lost in his eyes instead of the physics.

"you're not listening," he says fondly.

"I am listening."

"you're staring at my mouth."

"I can do both."

"that's—" he laughs, breathless. "that's not how attention works."

"says who?"

"says neuroscience. you can't fully focus on two things at once. the brain doesn't multitask, it task-switches rapidly which—"

you kiss him and he forgets whatever he was saying.

the physics gets mixed up with soft touches and softer kisses. his hand on your knee, steady and warm. your fingers playing with the hair at the nape of his neck, making him shiver. at one point you end up in his lap somehow—you're not even sure how it happened, whose idea it was—his arms around your waist, both of you looking at the textbook propped on the table.

you can feel his heartbeat against your back. steady and strong. his chin is hooked over your shoulder, cheek pressed to yours. every breath he takes moves both of you.

"this is not efficient study methodology," he murmurs against your shoulder. his lips brush your skin through your shirt and you feel it everywhere.

"are you complaining?"

"absolutely not. just making an observation." his arms tighten around you, hands splaying across your stomach. "you're going to ace this homework though. you understand this better than you think."

"good teacher."

"biased student."

you turn in his lap to face him—careful, slow, giving him time to object. his eyes go wide, hands automatically moving to your waist to steady you. you're straddling him now in the library chair, face to face, and his breath hitches.

"hey," you say.

"hi.." his voice is barely there. his hands are trembling where they grip your waist.

"I have a question," you say.

"about physics?"

"about you."

"oh." his hands settle more firmly on your waist, uncertain. his thumbs stroke small circles there, probably unconscious. "okay."

"when did you know? that you—" you pause, suddenly shy. heat flooding your cheeks. "that you liked me?"

he's quiet for a moment. his eyes search your face like he's trying to memorize it, like he's cataloging every feature. you can see him thinking, see the exact moment he decides to be honest.

"the first night," he says finally. "when you asked me for help and you looked so frustrated and determined and you said 'I'm going to fail this class' like it was a personal offense to you. like physics had insulted you personally and you were going to fight it."

his voice goes softer, drops to almost a whisper.

"and then when I started explaining vectors you actually listened. really listened. you didn't just wait for me to give you the answer. you asked good questions. made connections I hadn't thought of. saw patterns. and I remember thinking—"

he pauses, swallows hard.

"—I remember thinking 'oh no. oh this is bad. I want to explain things to her forever.'"

his thumb strokes your waist, a nervous gesture.

"and then you came back. the next night and the night after that. you kept choosing to be here. with me. not because you had to, not because I was your only option, but because you—because you wanted to. and every night I'd show up early and get the coffee and tell myself this was probably the last time, you'd probably realize I was too weird or too much or just—too—"

his voice cracks.

"—but you kept coming back. and I think—I think I knew then. or started to know. that this was going to be a problem."

"a problem?"

"a good problem." he leans forward and rests his forehead against yours. his eyes flutter closed. "the best problem. you're—you're the first person in a long time who wanted to know me. not the person who discovered element 119. not gojo satoru the prodigy. not the guy who made physics weekly at twenty-three. just—satoru. the weird guy who likes physics too much and can't give presentations and drinks terrible coffee."

"your coffee is genuinely terrible."

"I know. I hate sweet coffee."

he says it casually but you pull back to stare at him.

"what?"

"I hate sweet coffee. always have. I take it black normally. black with two sugars if I'm being fancy but usually just black." he won't meet your eyes now, embarrassed, pink spreading across his cheeks and down his neck.

"but you've been ordering it sweet for—" you stop. do the math. "three months. you've been drinking coffee you hate for three months?"

"yeah."

"satoru, that's—" you don't have words. "why?"

"because you got it for me that way. the first time. you didn't know what I liked so you got me what you get, and you looked so—" he swallows hard. "you looked so nervous when you handed it to me. like you were worried I'd hate it. and I took a sip and it was too sweet, way too sweet, coating my teeth. but you were watching me with these big hopeful eyes and I just—"

he shrugs helplessly.

"—I said it was perfect. and then it became our thing. our ritual. you'd bring me sweet coffee and I'd drink it and I couldn't change it without explaining why and I didn't want to—" his voice drops. "I didn't want to ruin it. I liked that we had a thing. I would have drunk battery acid if it meant—if it meant—"

he stops. you can see him struggling with the words.

"—if it meant you kept coming back."

you kiss him. hard. desperate. pouring three months of feeling into it. he makes a surprised sound—high and breathless—and then melts into it, hands coming up to cup your face. his fingers are trembling. you can feel wetness on his cheeks and you're not sure if it's from him or you.

"you're ridiculous," you say against his mouth when you finally need air.

"I'm aware."

"three months of terrible coffee."

"worth it." he kisses you again, softer. "so worth it. I'd do three years. three decades. I'd—"

"satoru."

"yeah?"

"next time, just tell me." you scold him with a sigh.

"noted." but he's smiling, wide and genuine. "filed away for future reference. communication is important. I'm learning."

you kiss him again because you can. because you're allowed to now. his hands slide from your face to your waist, pulling you impossibly closer. one hand moves up to tangle in your hair, fingers gentle. he kisses you like he's been starving for it, like every kiss before this was just practice.

you're thoroughly distracted—lost in the taste of him, the feeling of his hands on you, the small sounds he makes when you bite his bottom lip gently—when someone clears their throat. loud. pointed. deliberately awkward.

you both jerk apart like you've been electrocuted. satoru's hands fly off you. you nearly fall off his lap and he catches you, steadies you, both of you breathing hard.

there's a security guard standing at the end of the aisle—older guy, maybe sixty, with grey hair and a tired expression. he looks like he's seen this exact scenario about a thousand times and is deeply, profoundly unimpressed with both of you.

"library closes at 2am," he says flatly. his voice is gravelly, bored. "it's 1:47. start packing up."

"yes sir," satoru says. his voice is slightly strangled, higher than normal. "sorry. we were just—studying."

"uh huh." the guard's expression says he's heard that line before. probably tonight. probably from three other couples. "sure you were. thirteen minutes. don't make me come back."

he walks away, his footsteps heavy on the carpet, his radio crackling with static.

you and satoru look at each other. you're still in his lap. his hair is messed up from your fingers. his lips are red and swollen. you probably look the same.

"oh my god," you say.

"that was—"

"mortifying."

"so mortifying." but he's grinning. his eyes are bright with laughter. "worth it though."

"absolutely worth it."

"do you think he knew we weren't actually studying?"

"satoru, I was literally in your lap."

"right. yes. that's—that's pretty damning evidence." he's still grinning. "in my defense, you got there."

"you didn't object."

"I would never object. you can sit in my lap anytime. all the time. it's encouraged. I'm making it a standing offer—" you kiss him to shut him up. he makes a pleased sound.

you climb off his lap—reluctantly, legs slightly numb from sitting weird—and start packing up your stuff. he does the same, but slowly, like he's trying to stretch out the time. every movement deliberate. he closes his laptop with careful precision. winds the charger cord methodically. stacks his books just so. you watch him watching you, stealing glances every few seconds.

when you're both ready, bags packed, coffee cups thrown away (yours empty, his still half-full of coffee he hates), you just stand there. neither wanting to be the first to leave. the security guard walks by again, pointed, and you both start moving.

the library is emptying out. you can hear other people packing up, heading for the exits. voices and footsteps and the beep of the security gates.

"so," satoru says when you reach the stairwell.

"so."

"I'll walk you back."

"it's not on your way."

"it's never been on my way. I think we both know that at this point." he holds out his hand, palm up, offering. "worth it though."

you take his hand. his fingers lace through yours perfectly, like they were designed to fit together. like you've been holding hands for years instead of days.

the walk back is different from every other time. you're holding hands the whole way, fingers intertwined, swinging slightly between you. he walks closer than before, your shoulders bumping with every few steps. you can feel the warmth of him all down your left side. every few steps he looks over at you like he's checking that you're still there, still real. like he's afraid he'll blink and you'll disappear.

it's colder tonight. properly cold. you can see your breath in white clouds, can feel the bite of wind against your exposed skin. the campus is mostly empty—just a few people hurrying between buildings, hunched against the cold. the streetlights cast everything in orange and shadow.

"can I ask you something?" he finally speaks when you're halfway to your dorm, past the science building, past the student center.

"always."

"do you—" he pauses. starts again. "are you okay with this? with us? I know I can be—a lot. intense. and if it's too much or too fast you can tell me. I won't—I don't want to mess this up by pushing too hard."

you stop walking. turn to face him fully. he looks nervous in the orange streetlight, vulnerable in a way that makes your chest ache.

"satoru," you say carefully. "I kept coming back. every night for three months. I could have studied anywhere. could have gotten a different tutor. could have given up on physics entirely."

you squeeze his hand.

"I came back because I wanted to be there. with you. and that hasn't changed just because we're—" you gesture between you. "whatever we are now."

"boyfr—" he starts, then stops. clears his throat. "are we—is that—can I—"

"yes," you say, saving him from the question. "if you want to be."

the smile that breaks across his face is incandescent. "I want to be. very much. extremely. I've never—I've never been anyone's boyfriend before but I want to be yours."

your heart does something complicated in your chest. "then you are," you say simply.

he kisses you right there on the sidewalk, in the middle of campus with the cold wind biting at your faces and the orange streetlights casting long shadows. his hands come up to cup your face, fingers cold against your skin but gentle, so gentle. the kiss is soft and sweet and full of promise—unhurried, like you have all the time in the world. like he's savoring it. his lips are slightly chapped from the cold, moving against yours with a tenderness that makes your chest ache.

when he pulls back—just far enough to see you, foreheads still touching—his eyes are bright. definitely bright, catching the streetlight, reflecting it back like they're glowing from within. maybe with tears—you can see the shine of moisture gathering at the corners, making his lashes clump together—definitely with emotion. his breath comes out shaky, visible in white clouds between you. his thumbs stroke your cheekbones, a repetitive soothing motion like he's trying to convince himself you're real.

"you have me," he says. fierce and certain, voice rough. "for—for as long as you want. I'm—I'm all in. I'm terrible at doing anything halfway and this—"

he gestures between you with his hand holding yours tight, the other still creating soft circles on your cheek.

"—this I want to do all the way. completely. no half-measures. no holding back. if that's—if that's okay. if that's not too much too fast I just—I need you to know that I'm—I'm serious about this. about you. about us."

"that's okay." you reach up with your free hand and push his hair back from his forehead. it's cold and slightly damp from the night air. "that's more than okay."

he kisses you again under the streetlight. slow and sweet and perfect. his lips move against yours with careful attention, like he's memorizing this. you can feel him smiling against your mouth—actually feel the curve of his lips pressing differently against yours. can't help smiling back, until you're both just pressing grins together, breath huffing out in small laughs.

his free hand comes up to cup your face, palm warm despite the cold. his thumb strokes your cheek in that gentle repetitive motion that makes you feel precious. the kiss tastes like bad coffee and possibility—the lingering sweetness of caramel mixing with bitter espresso and something that's just him.

when you pull apart you're both grinning like idiots. can't stop, even when you try to school your expression into something less ridiculous. his eyes are crinkled at the corners, those small lines you've memorized appearing, making him look younger somehow despite being markers of his smile. his cheeks are pink—from cold or emotion or both, you can't tell. the color spreads down his neck, disappearing under his collar, and you can see where his ears have gone red too. he's breathing hard, white clouds puffing between you, and he can't seem to stop looking at your mouth.

at your dorm, you linger in the doorway. neither of you wants the night to end. you can feel it, the weight of goodbye even though it's just for a few hours.

"same time next week?" he asks. then catches himself. "wait, no—"

"next week?" you interrupt, mock-offended. "what about tomorrow?"

his face does something complicated. hope and disbelief and joy all at once, flickering across his features in rapid succession. "tomorrow?"

"I have a philosophy paper to work on. you could—you could read while I write? if you want. we don't have to do physics. we could just—"

"be together," he finishes. his voice has gone soft, barely above a whisper. vulnerable. like the words themselves are fragile things he's afraid to speak too loudly in case they shatter.

"yeah." you agree. the word comes out quieter than intended, but weighted with meaning. with promise.

"I would—" his voice cracks. he clears his throat, tries again. "yes. tomorrow. definitely tomorrow. and the day after that. and—and as many days as you'll let me. I'll—I'll bring better coffee. actual good coffee. coffee I don't hate. we can—we can figure out what I actually like."

"it's a date."

"a date," he repeats, testing the word. his smile is incandescent. "yes. a date. tomorrow at 11?"

"or earlier. if you want."

"earlier. definitely earlier. I'll—how about 10? 9? I can do 9. I'll bring dinner. or—or snacks. do you like snacks? what am I saying, everyone likes snacks. I'll bring options—"

"satoru."

"yeah?"

you kiss him just one last time. slow and lingering. "goodnight."

"goodnight," he breathes. he's still holding your hand, like he can't quite make himself let go.

"you have to actually leave for it to be goodnight."

"right. yes. leaving." but he doesn't move. just stands there, looking at you, fingers tangled with yours. his thumb is doing that absent tracing thing on your palm again. his eyes are soft and slightly dazed, like he's forgotten what leaving means. like the concept of walking away from you has become fundamentally impossible.

"satoru," you prompt, but there's no real urgency in it.

"mhm." still not moving. his lips are still slightly parted, kiss-swollen. you can see him swallow.

"you have to let go of my hand first."

"do I though?" but his fingers loosen slightly, reluctant.

you squeeze his hand once—firm and grounding—shake your head with a smile you can't quite suppress, a quiet giggle escaping despite your best efforts. the sound makes his whole face do something soft and wondering. you slip inside, the warm air of the lobby hitting you after the cold outside.

you take the stairs up to the third floor—faster than usual, slightly breathless. your roommate is asleep, room dark except for the green glow of her alarm clock. you drop your bag and go straight to the window.

he's still there. standing under the streetlight where you left him, looking up. the light turns his hair silver-bright, makes him look ethereal. unreal. like something out of a dream.

he stands there for a long moment—thirty seconds, a minute—just looking up at your window. even from three floors up you can see his expression. soft and amazed, like he still can't quite believe this is real. like he's trying to memorize the sight of your building, your window, this moment.

then, slowly, he starts walking. not toward his dorm immediately, but in a small circle, like he has too much energy to contain. you see him stop, run his hands through his hair, look back at your building one more time. he's smiling—you can tell even from here, can see it in the way he holds himself.

finally, he turns and starts walking. the right direction this time—toward his dorm, the route you'd looked up weeks ago when you first started noticing. but he only makes it ten steps before he stops, turns around, looks back up at your window one more time.

he sees you there—you're not even trying to hide now—and his whole face lights up. he waves—enthusiastic, almost goofy, his whole arm moving. not the small casual wave from before. this is unguarded. happy. real.

you wave back, pressing your palm against the cold glass.

he stands there for another moment, just looking up at you, and even from three floors up you can see his expression. joy and wonder and disbelief all mixed together. like you're something impossible. something he can't quite believe he gets to have.

finally—reluctantly—he turns and walks away for real this time. you watch his figure get smaller, watch him pass under streetlight after streetlight. at each one he looks back. every single time.

when he finally disappears around the corner by the physics building, you sink onto your bed, heart still racing.

When those blue eyes hit yours, you don’t like that fucking feeling, not at all… whatever the fuck he does, his snowy lashes flickering as he drinks the sight of you in curiously. You have curves now, you’re taller, you’re not the same girl you were at thirteen than you are at twenty one. You tremble just a bit on the inside, but on the outside?

Bitch face on.

You just look at him, raising a brow curiously, the preppy football captain staring at the goth girl in the stands, it’s the shit movies make fun of, bright and popular Gojo, and bratty emo you. You look down quickly at the book in your hands, leaning back against the metal bleachers, but you feel them lingering along your skin.

That gaze burns into your skin – Satoru Gojo’s gaze – the one that was once behind thick tortoiseshell glasses, the boy who bumped noses with you and apologized. The one who was a blushing mess for you, now instead is surrounded by his teammates, by the cheerleaders, all flocking and complimenting their star player.

Just who was Gojo these days, and did you care?

You hastily go back to your book, earbuds just blaring music at you, trying to keep out the noise, the cheering, the whistles, sketching the scene just a bit. That was the assignment – draw the football practice, something for ‘school spirit’ apparently. Your fingers brush along the parchment, shading and fading the pencil marks a bit, before pausing.

Fuck, you’re drawing Gojo.

Your eyes go back over to him now, to where he’s downing some gatorade, snapping a selfie in front of the team, earning their playful shoves. It’s hard to take your eyes off that familiar face, god he got even taller? You were a taller girl yourself, but Gojo was towering over even the bigger football players, a good head taller than most of them.

Oh, and he’d gotten buff too. You can’t help but notice that fact, he was still lanky and maybe the shoulder pads from his football jersey were adding to it, but it was just impossible not to notice. The things it did to your tummy, the way that it fluttered just watching him run across that field made no sense.

Weren’t you finally over it?

You’d moved on from a middle school love, you had a part time job, college, responsibilities out the ass. You had boyfriends and breakups, a whole life since then – making it feel so distant, so far away from that girl. Yet all it took was just observing him to make you long for something you never really had.

You’re a realist, cynical, not some day dreamer despite being an art school major, you painted and drew what you could see, of course your interpretations came into play, but your head wasn’t in the clouds.

Or was it?

You soon pause and notice you’re drawing glasses on Satoru – a very detailed rendition of Satoru – before you could stop yourself, chuckling a bit diabolically as you make him look more nerdy. You likely look batshit insane to anyone else. You really can’t say that you care much, the opinions of others never really bothered you once you got old enough to practically hate everyone.

So how did you kiss Gojo back then? Nerdy rich-boy Satoru and you, even back then it didn’t make sense, but you could swear your teenage heart fucking felt something. Only for him to blush and avoid you, to practically hide away after it until he moved on, that day he’d given you the first heartbreak, and become someone you avoided like the plague.

Yet still even after those years and all the boys since then, something about him always bothered you, it always got to you, lingering in your mind like the most annoying pest. Just last night you’d dreamt of him so randomly – not how he looks now, no, the skinny nerdy brat that made you cry, not this popular jock with a blindingly straight white smile in the middle of a bunch of cheerleaders.

He’s flirting right back with them, earning your eye roll, as you decide to draw braces along his teeth, and a digimon on his football jersey.

Just as he should be.

You’re laughing and so lost you barely notice Satoru walking up to you, not until he’s blocked your natural sunlight with his huge body, shade covering your notebook. You frown, earbuds still in, lips turning down a little bit at the sudden shade, while Satoru studies your notebook and the drawing, snatching it up and making you gasp.

“What the fuck?” You yank out a earbud, glaring up and standing, fuck he’s even taller than he was before, you don’t usually have to look up at many people, but he’s got a good six inches or so on you.

He’s smirking at the drawing, taking it in and stepping on a higher bleacher, holding the pad from you. “Look at that, aww!”

“Give it back, you little brat.”

He snorts, looking down at you, blue eyes glinting with the way the sun is hitting them. You won’t admit how fucking pretty they are to yourself, instead glaring up at him. “Me, a little brat? Have you seen yourself?”

“Psh,” you’re standing and reaching your arm up as he looks at you, blue eyes running over you with a curious expression. “Seriously go away.”

“You drew me?” He asks, tilting his head to the side and assessing you, you’re not sure if he recognizes you at that moment.

You’ve changed a lot too.

Would he remember some dumb crush he maybe had on you? It was nowhere close to what you felt, clearly. No, that’s nonsense, as is his effects on your physiology being too close. Your heart is pounding in your chest, you’re so fucking embarrassed at being caught doodling him, but you don’t let it show.

You’re not that girl anymore, not the one who cried over his little nerdy ass and his perfect, plump lips and his -

Stop that!

No, you’re tougher now.

You snatch your notebook back, but only because he lets you. “Yeah, so? It’s for an assignment, I needed to draw school spirit.”

He snorts. “School spirit, you, yeah I don’t see it.”

“Well I’m not peppy like you, no, you’re the big football star, right?” You say with a shrug, trying to sound nonchalant.

Satoru just chuckles. “You’re brand new here and assume I’m the star, I guess I am that amazing,” he runs a hand through his strands, snowy white and so soft you can’t help but want to reach out and tug at them at the roots.

When did his chuckle get so deep?

When did his fingers get so long?

Fuck stop thinking that!

“I know you,” he says suddenly, eyes narrowing slightly. “You used to live down the street from me.”

“Me? Uh, no way,” you look down, brushing silky locks behind your ears, doing something to Satoru Gojo then. “Don’t know who that girl is, nope.”

“No?” You shake your head, a pink decorating your cheeks, hair falling just a bit in front of your face, making him want to brush it back – but you make him feel so nervous, as if he’s just a fucking teenager again. “Ya really tryin’ to play it off?”

He remembers it all, even as he’s trying to play it off, like he hasn’t dreamt of what would have happened if he didn’t get so shy, so nervous around you after you both kissed. How he could have maybe just asked you out, or at least told you he liked the damn kiss – but Satoru at that age was a nervous little mess, and you were too damn pretty.

Fuck you got hotter, curves filling out in places that drives him to distraction, your slutty little outfit doesn’t help either. He can’t help but notice the hint of piercings where your pierced nipples were clearly puckered up from the cold, making him throb from just that. Satoru isn’t some little nerdy virgin anymore, but precum is leaking from the sight.

If he wasn’t such a conceited little shit he’d immediately simp for you, but he pulls himself together, smiling down at you, snowy lashes lowering. “You’ve not changed that much, and I know you remember me.”

Your heart skips a beat then –

He remembers.

You look away quickly, pretending to be busy packing your stuff to suddenly leave, bending over so he gets a nice view of your ass. God, if you were his? He wouldn’t let you bend over in front of fucking anyone at all, nor would he let you out of the damn door like that, not because he was a man to tell a girl how to dress.

No, the reason would be he wouldn’t be able to let you walk out without filling you with so much cum you’d drip him, you’d remember who you belonged to.

Fuck, thinking like that is insane, it’s not even in his nature – whatever psycho, obsessed ass thoughts that just ran through his head. Your hips are just begging for his hands, your eyes looking up at him like you need to get off, and get off all the time, he’d take care of that for you.

Sinking to his knees on these fucking bleachers runs through his head – all star football, frat leader, most popular guy in college Gojo, reduced to that, to simp behavior.

It's not like he’s hurting for women, they’re all over him, but you’re… 

Different. He supposes you always were, the stark contrasts to the girls that were just all over him, the ones that have left their cotton candy body spray clinging to his clothes, you’re not smiling all cute and giggling, not flattering him with little compliments– nah, you’re fucking scowling.

It’s so hot on you.

What’s wrong with him? A blast from the past and he’s down that bad again? Palms sweaty, stammering Gojo?

“Fine, okay – I am. Just… that was a really long time ago. I didn’t think you’d remember,” you finally mumble, like the vulnerability itself hurts. Satoru steps closer, watching your lips part, hearing a sharp intake of breath.

You could act normal all you wanted, but he sure the fuck could read that body. Curvier, taller, but still uniquely you, that scent that has been burned into his senses gently filling his nostrils, while the wind of the fall whips your skirt around. It shows far too much of those thighs, which he can vividly imagine being pressed on either side of his head as you press them together.

“Something got ya excited, sweetheart?” He taunts with a grin, his voice lowering to a seductive tone that makes you wet.

Fuck him for that.

“Hah, me? No, I’m annoyed and…” You peer down at your nipples cursing internally. “And I’m just like cold, okay you perv!?”

“They’re distracting as fuck,” he said that out loud, shit, shit, shit. Play it off, Satoru. “Hah – at least they seem to like me.”

“They do not!” Your glare just makes him wanna know how you look with your mouth open and drooling, with your eyes rolled back in your skull. “Neither do I.”

“Well,” he draws out that word, laughing softly then. “I remember everything about you.”

Oh shit.

“Especially that kiss.”

You freeze, your cheeks flushing despite yourself, trying to seem unbothered, god he’s gotten cocky, the girls are shouting his name like his own personal fucking cheer. “They want you,” you clap your hands and throw em in the air – “Gojo, Gojo, he’s our man!”

You’re mocking him, mocking them, earning his eye roll. “Ah, so you’re just avoiding the answer? You are her…”

He says your name, and just that almost does you in, though you roll your eyes, scoffing.

“Yeah, so what if I am? That kiss it was…” The best you’ve had, and you hate his ass for it, so badly your fingers itch to smack the nerd back into him. “That kiss was like just a peck, really. You know.”

“Ah, so you do remember?”

“Barely!?”

He grins, that cocky jock smile that makes you want to punch him even more. “Then why are you blushing like that?”

“Hah, blushing, me? Nev-”

Before you can finish your comeback, his coach calls him away and whistles, waving at Gojo to come back. Satoru sighs, then winks at you. “See you around, sweetheart.”

That’s what he says!?

“Hey!” He turns and raises a brow, smirking. “I’m not your sweetheart!” You shout out, earning the looks of everyone, but Satoru just fucking grins like he’s won the goddamn lottery.

You watch him jog back to the field and look far too good doing it, your mind racing, seeing him gather up with the team. When did his shoulders get so damn broad – No.

You better stop thinking that way, looking right at him in the damn open like that, and you can tell he’s loving it, especially when he blows you a little kiss and earns your middle finger. Not like it bothers him, he just raises those white brows, wriggling his stupidly long fingers at you.

What the hell just happened?

And why does your heart feel like it’s about to beat out of your chest?

You sink back onto the bleachers dejectedly, your fingers trembling as you flip open your notebook again. Staring at the sketch of Gojo, you realize you’re in for quite a fucking reunion with him, feelings simmering under the surface that you hoped were long, long gone, but now he’s there – in the flesh, looking far too fucking good, suddenly back in your life.

Popular, perfect, pretentious.

He’s nothing like the boy you remember.

*****

Satoru remembers that night vividly – the night he ran away from you.

It all smacks him in the face as he lays in his bed that night after running into you again. The guys from the team all wanted to go out but he couldn’t bring himself to, instead he laid there and pictured you behind his gaze. He saw you across the hall the other day for a brief moment, but before he could even approach you, you turned a corner and dipped.

You’re not really what he remembers any more than what you likely remember – no you were a nerdy little thing just like him in middle school, shy little thing. You were sweet – shit, you even smiled. Now you just have this bitchy, mean look on your face – one that makes him throb just looking at if he’s honest.

You look so fucking angry at him, at everything.

Closed off, that’s the word, your guard up high, leaving him to just wonder exactly what was in your mind, what you’ve been through all these years that he’s missed. He had tried to somewhat explain himself in high school to you, but you weren’t having any of it, already becoming closed off, your eyes just didn’t glimmer the same way, and he can’t help but feel responsible.

You say it was nothing, but he remembers all of it.

“Satoru, I really like you, more than a friend…” his heart had hammered in his thirteen year old chest, his palms were sweaty.

Satoru had planned to ask you out that day officially, but last night his parents had found his note he’d written – immediately recognizing your name. You weren’t from a ‘prestigious family’ no, far from it. You weren’t the ideal girl that they’d eventually want their son with, even this young they’ve damn near planned everything, down to the three other families he would likely marry.

How could he have anything with you knowing they’d potentially make that choice for him? How could he break your heart like that, even if he knows that he is falling for you, there was too much pressure on him as a Gojo – you already had enough pressure too. He couldn’t just do that to you, bring you in on this world of his.

You were crying that day, and he didn’t know how to say the truth, no, instead he cupped your face and softly kissed you one more time. A brief press of his lips before he had to pull back. His glasses were fogged from his breath and the chill in the air that morning as you looked up at him.

“I’m sorry,” was all he managed to say in response before stepping back.

You’d blinked back tears of confusion, your hands clenched at your sides. “Satoru, I can just be your friend, if this is too much,” you mumbled, but he was backing away even more from you. He watched as your lips trembled and tears fell from your eyes. “Do you not like me back?”

No, Satoru loved you.

Enough to not have you anywhere near his family, to fall for a boy who would one day have everything chosen for him.

“I really am… sorry,” he said again, turning and hearing your little sniffles, it had broken his heart. “I have to go.”

“Go where? Satoru, come back I didn’t mean it, okay? Satoru!”

He’d run off, and he’d never forgotten it.

Now, far from his parents' bullshit, finally having told them he’d make his own path in life and that they couldn’t dictate his every move anymore, he’s thought of the girl he sacrificed all those years ago. The one he let slip away because he was too afraid to stand up to them back then.

In a way, his parents ultimately have some control still, their expectations linger – but he’s made sure to pave his own way. Got better at telling them to fuck off, decided to make his own path forward, even if it meant doing things the harder way. The guilt about that girl still eats at him sometimes, late at night when he can’t sleep, but at least now he’s living on his own terms.

His eyes drift shut and he pictures you, the way you bent over, the way you looked at him, and fuck if it doesn’t just make him ache. Was there some way to get you to even talk to him again?

*****

You’re headed to your art class when Satoru Gojo happens to walk by and just slams right into you – you can’t make this shit up. Your pencils go flying, scattering and clattering to the floor in a mess.

“Shit,” you grumble, snatching up what you can, Satoru bends down to help you, chuckling. “What's so funny!?”

“How much are you gonna draw me, hmm?” You curse as a little chibi Satoru lands in his big ass hands. “Aww look! I have a tail here in this one, how cute.”

“It’s not you,” you snatch it back, crumbling the paper ever so slightly, scowling in his direction. “It’s not!”

“I’m your muse,” he flutters his fingers around dramatically, garnering looks in the hall. “I feel so special.”

“You’re not,” he pouts all cutely. “You're always just… in my way.”

“You smacked into me, sweets,” he tilts your chin up right there in the damn hallway, smirking as people around you whisper. “I'm flattered you find me to be such an inspiration for your art, but you do know you could just ask me to pose for you.”

“Hah. You're not at all,” you gather everything with haste, slipping them in your book bag. Satoru's grin is as attractive as it is obnoxious, but when two girls come up to him when you walk away, your head feels dizzy.

Why would you care if his arms are around their shoulders, throwing his head back and laughing just a bit. Yet he looks back at you, those eyes slipping over your baggy shirt and sweats, you couldn't be bothered today to dress up.

Not when you spent all damn night dreaming of dumbass Gojo.

“I can't wait to see another drawing, I really am looking forward to the next drawing, maybe I’ll have some ears too.” He teases you, your damn cheeks burn in embarrassment, before he turns, you flip him off. His damn chuckles echo in the halls, mixing with the little giggles of those cheerleaders.

“Hehehehe,” you mock their laughter to yourself with your fingertips to your lips, echoing in the halls and earning more looks around you. 

Great, what an amazing first week, you're really living up to the weird art nerd dream so well. You just glare as meanly as you can – at damn near everyone. “What are you looking at?”

They see, to scatter, you’re trying to shake off the feeling of his damn fingers brushing against yours when you see a sweet girl who's been really nice to you so far, waving your way. You knew her a bit from school and she wasn’t too in your face about making you socialize, just enough to make you leave your room.

“Utahime,” your dorm is right next to hers, she has been trying to get you to hang out but you're a tad introverted. And Satoru running around being all… hot and shit is just annoying. “How are you?”

“Good! Ugh, exams already though,” she shakes her head and sighs. “Listen I know you're not a party girl, but there's a really good one this weekend. You should come!”

You sigh. “I don't know…”

“Seriously there's the frat yeah, but they're like… a nerdy frat? If that makes sense.”

“It does not,” you both walk through the halls and outside, you take a little hint of sunshine, eyes shutting for a moment as you suck that in. “Nerdy huh?”

“Very, the mathletes of the Fratboys,” you can't help but laugh a bit. “It's at eight we can go together?”

“Sure,” she almost squeals, you shake your head. “Don't get too excited, I may go in there then run out.”

“No way it'll be fun!”

*****

Fun.

Fun is not a word you'd use to describe this party, seeing Satoru and all his friends – many of whom unfortunately recognize you – with girls all over them, chugging their drinks from their red solo cups. It smells far too much like axe body spray and victoria’s secret perfume, aside from Satoru’s fancy fucking cologne that permeated the heady atmosphere, straight to your senses.

That cologne that’s three hundred dollars a spray likely, that intoxicating scent that damn near makes you salivate, seeing his blue eyes over that cup, his lips pressed against the white edge of that cup. Everyone is surrounding him, he’s throwing his head back in that perfect laugh, blindingly white teeth glinting underneath the strobing led lights overhead.

You sip your drink as a guy comes up and tries to hit on you, but your mean little scowl makes him back up, Utahime is laughing as she watches them all run off.

“You really do hate parties, huh?”

“Just don’t want some loser touching all up on my ass,” you mumble, feeling the gaze of Satoru damn near burn you across the room. “But yeah, I do.”

“You should let loose and have some fun,” she teases, seeing where your gaze is headed, pausing. “Oh god, Satoru huh? He’s so pretentious.”

“Right?” You pause then, frowning a bit.

It was one thing for you to think it, to say it, but for some reason hearing anyone else say something bad about Satoru made you irritated, like you should defend the boy he was, not knowing the man he’s become. Would you ever really know, it’s not like he likely wanted more than a hook up judging from what you’ve seen and heard.

Yet you remember a different Satoru.

Or is he the same?

‘Look, this constellation is called Sagittarrius,’ Satoru’s thirteen-year-old voice echoed in your memory as clearly as if he was standing beside you now. His thick glasses slid down his nose, his Digimon t-shirt swallowed his lanky frame, the two of you sitting up on the roof of the school.

‘Like the sign?’ You asked curiously, you loved hearing Satoru talk about the stars – you just loved hearing him talk about anything.

There was a meteor shower that night, and a lot of students were coming up to join you all, to catch sight of something that you all would likely not see again until you were good and old. Satoru had his telescope set perfectly, looking down to see you sitting on the floor, pausing.

‘You’ll get cold,’ he had nervously snatched his sweater up off the railing, then knelt to you and slipped those sleeves up your arms. The warm fleece of the backwards hoodie made you tremble just a bit, your heart had been racing. ‘There.’

‘Oh, thank you Toru,’ that’s what you called him all those years ago, when you were hopelessly in puppy love with a boy that had his head in the clouds. Yet you were so sure maybe he saw you, too, especially in moments like that.

You had leaned close, wondering if that was to be your first kiss, only for him to awkwardly brush your hair back like you’re a puppy and he’s petting your damn ears.

‘You look cute like this,’ he’d said, his blue eyes were glowing behind those spectacles, and that was when you knew -

Gojo was it for you.

The dissonance between that boy and the man that was in front of you was hard to explain, Utahime didn’t likely know about the Satoru who’d cried when his favorite character died in his favorite anime, nor did she likely know that Magic card collection he used to have. How could someone meld the two versions together?

“Definitely pretentious,” you murmur thoughtfully, trying to act casual when you can’t take your eyes off him, and you hate that. Utahime snorts in laughter, snapping you back to the frat house’s chaos, away from your daydream.

“Oh god, he’s coming over here,” she grumbles, your fingers tightening around your plastic cup as he suddenly breaks away from his little fan club, blue eyes so goddamn bright they’re hard not to look at.

“Why’s he coming over to us!?” You panic, heart racing as he walks over, one hand with a cup in it, the other tossing a pong ball up and down.

Why was Gojo doing things with just one hand so damn attractive!? Why was he so attractive?

"Still allergic to fun?" Satoru asks Utahime with a mean little smirk, then looks at you. “The two most un- fun girls at my party, aw.”

“Un-fun isn’t a word,” Utahime says, snorting. “I’m just allergic to you.”

Satoru laughs at that, tossing the ball up and moving his hand behind himself to catch it, grinning right at you, earning a roll of your pretty eyes. God they’re pretty, he’s lost in them for a moment even as he puts on his show, plays the role of the frat leader that everyone loves so much.

He was having fun in this role, until you.

“So…” he tugs at a lock of your hair, you smack his hand. He tries to ignore the overwhelming desire to pull it as he hits it from the back.

Or with your lips wrapped, that dark lip shade he wants to smear with his tip, leaking pre from whatever scent that was you’ve always had… vanilla, sugary, something so… homey. He can’t describe it, but it’s nowhere but on you, he’d smelled that scent across the entire field the first time he locked eyes with you again, wondering if it was in his imagination at first.

“So what?” His gaze slips down to your fishnets, imagining the sound of them when he ripped them in half.

“Beer pong competition, are ya up for it?” He tosses it again, swirling the little ball between fingers too big to make sense, ones fucking you up.

“I’m not gonna stay here long,” you grumble, eyeing the large table surrounded by drunk college students. “I just… don’t do parties.”

“A game or two then, hmm? Or are you too scared to lose?”

You snatch the pong ball from his hand, earning his big grin.

“Not at all. Game on.”

If there’s anything you are – it’s competitive, and Satoru Gojo clearly is competitive from birth. Even when he was a nerdy boy, he had no problem decimating anyone in any subject, whether it was debate team or the mathletes, and beer pong was no different.

Pleased smirk on his face, he’s tossing the ball only for you to smack it out of the way on its bounce, making him fucking glare over at you. Satoru’s jaw sets when you bounce one and he flicks it so hard it smacks into the wall, making you glare right back. He tosses another and lands it right in your front cup with a splash, grinning diabolically in victory. 

You roll your eyes, leaning forward just a bit, making his eyes dart to those pretty tits in that lacy bustier that fucks with him to distraction. Satoru practically can see those nipples about to bounce out, imagining how perfect one of those peaks would be in his hungry mouth, fingers damn near itching to grip one.

God he hates whatever this effect is you have on him.

He fumbles the next ball because of the sight of them, earning your said tits bouncing, pointing at him and laughing like the little fucking menace you are. Everyone around you both has gathered, starting to place bets, making Satoru even angrier when several men check out that ass.

It’s not like you’re his, fuck you don’t even like him – and he knows it’s probably due to back then. But he’s pretty sure his mouth could make you like him, if you just gave him enough of a chance. Satoru clears his throat, shouting your name across the pong table, giving you pause now.

“Guess what?” He says, walking over to you, holding his hands up to signal a break, you walk to him, crossing your arms, the little open hoodie falling off a shoulder.

He runs his fingertips across the bare skin, making you tremble just a bit, eyes dilating from just that – that’s when he knows, despite all your shit talking and avoidance, you want him too. Maybe not as badly as he wants you, but it’s there, goosebumps on your skin, making you tug it up and raise a brow.

“What, scared I’ll beat you?” You demand, he just chuckles, shaking his head and yanking your messy ponytail too hard again. “You’re such an ass!”

“A bet, best two out of three wins,” he challenges, sipping his drink, a little bit dripping on his plump lips, making you ache to swipe it away with your fingers, but you hold yourself back, flushed now. “Ya up for it?”

“I’m up for anything,” he grins deviously, and you curse. “Shit what’s in that head, lemme guess – public humiliation?”

“Well it’s in my head now,” he sips that drink again, as if to torture you. Why do you have to be ovulating and also buzzed around him!? “But no, sweets.”

Your eyes roll. “What’s the bet, then?”

“Well…” His fingers slip across the line of your jaw, your breath catches in your throat at how good they feel. “You said anything, right?”

“Out with it.” You smack his hand off. “You’re a menace to society, truly.”

“Says you,” he steps too close – why is this fucker so tall by the way!? – making your head tilt back a bit, but you luckily have on heels, making you a little closer to his height.

Satoru loves that.

He loves that he could bend you over in those heels and stuff you so full of his cock, sure he’d have to bend down a bit, but you’re goddamn near the perfect height for it. Except his thoughts right now aren’t necessarily of him fucking your surely pretty cunt… no.

“If I lose, I’ll eat your pretty pussy out,” you gasp now, hating that his husky words in a voice that’s too sexy to belong to this nerd makes you throb around nothing. “What, haven’t you done it yet?”

“Sure I have,” Satoru scowls. “What, you think I’m a virgin?”

“No…” He wishes he could have it first, it’s a fucking batshit thought and nothing he’s ever felt.

He didn’t want a virgin and doesn’t care about a girl’s past, never has, he likes experience. But he’d love to have slipped inside your cunt first – came inside it, made sure it only knew his shape. Toxic nonsense but how can he not when it’s you, the girl who’s been in the back of his mind for most of his life?

“Then why are you blushing again?” He touches your cheek, lips curved up, you just narrow your eyes at him.

“M’not…”

“You always do around me,” his thumb slips down your jaw line. “I’ll eat you better than anyone, you won’t even be able to stand up when I’m done.”

“You’re the most conceited, cocky ass man ever I swear…” You trail off just a bit though, thinking about it, his long fingers inside you?

Fuck….

“Conceited, hmm?”

“Will you finger me too?” Satoru blinks in surprise, and you blush more. “Can’t use both at once? Amateur.”

“You’re a slutty little thing, aren’t you?”

He tilts your chin up, your silky locks falling partly out of that ponytail over your pretty face. God he’s leaking too much pre, sticking to his jeans to the point that anyone could see his huge dick print at this point.

“You want my fingers?”

“They’re… well, long, okay?” His laugh is deep ass, seductive ass way that isn’t even fair to your fucking ovaries. “Don’t get too flattered.”

“All right, I’ll use them both, since you’re greedy,” your walls clench just picturing those thick fingers, damn him. “If I lose, that is.”

“And if I lose?” You take a sip of your drink, and his face is devious. “Oh god, you want a blow job, huh?”

“You’ll still cum, sweetheart,” he taps your nose and it scrunches up, making him think how cute you were for an evil succubus. “You’ll get my fingers then too, but not my mouth.”

“Well…” That sounds like a win either way, it’s not like you don’t want that thick cock in your mouth, looking down at the outline then.

If you can fit it all, that is.

“If you lose I won’t get you off,” you just smile all meanly at him. “You can jerk it in front of me though.”

“You’re so evil,” he sighs, god he needs you – mean thing that you are. He’s shaking his head, snorting – as if he wasn’t going to jerk his cock eating your pussy. “Deal.”

“But just know… we aren’t cool, just…”

“Just you wanna fuck me?”

“Hah – no!? I’m horny and competitive,” you shove him now. “Go on, you’ve got a game to lose.”

“Psh,” Satoru thinks he’s still as in love with you as he’s always been, when you were a sweet little thing. God, maybe he’s more in love. “Practice working that jaw, you’ll need it.”

You scoff and shove his big ass again, running back to your side of the table, shaking your head and throwing another ball before he can register, landing another and grinning. “Hah! That’s three.”

“Lucky shots for an amateur,” a girl comes up to Satoru, whispering in his ear, making your heart sink.

Why?

He doesn’t even acknowledge her really, bright blue eyes glinting, throwing the ball and landing it, making you have to drink again. “What is it, sweets? Kinda busy beating the new girl.”

“Well, I just thought…” She trails her fingertips across Satoru’s abs over that thin white material, he grabs her wrist and stops her, shaking his head. “Oh, maybe another time?”

Not if he gets a taste of you, no – you’ll fucking ruin him – he can already feel it, but he smiles, she has hooked up with him before and is a sweet girl. He doesn’t know what happened but since the moment he locked eyes with you at the football practice he’s been far too obsessed with you.

Constantly thinking of how and when he’d see you again, obsessive insane thoughts running through his head, how you’d look bent over, those tattoos right on the backs of those thighs begging for his hands. Leave prints all over your bratty ass, littering you with marks – bites, lip prints, suck the skin on your neck until you’re bruised with him.

“I’m busy for the rest of the evening,” he says, shrugging at her, seeing the way you look at him from his peripherals. “But thanks.”

She frowns and walks away, you smirk like you’re fucking thrilled he sent her off. Satoru tosses the ball and it bounces, you smack it away easily. “Aw, ya jealous?”

“No!? Why would I be?” You lie to yourself as much as you lie to him, and he knows it, tossing another ball and landing it in your cup with a little splash.

“Drink,” he orders, you roll your eyes and pick up that red solo cup, putting your lips to it. “That’s one.”

“You’re such an ass.”

“I know,” Satoru blows you a kiss, and you flip him off, earning the whispers and laughter around you both, mingling with the loud thrum of the bass, the music playing. “You’re losing, aww look how many cups you have!”

“Shut it,” You toss the ball again, and it lands right in his cup, making him glare. “Okay, it’s on.”

“Distracted me, just a lucky one.”

Do you think she can beat Satoru?

No way, he’s always the winner.

Satoru wins at everything!

Do you think they want each other or… hate each other?

Hmm, both.

Both of you are drinking again as each ball lands, and Satoru notices those hips of yours swaying a bit to the music, the slutty pleated skirt riding up just a little when you lean forward. He’s grabbing a ball that’s fallen on the floor, far too close to those thighs, imagining ripping those fishnets before he buries his face.

He looks up at you while he’s down there, almost under your skirt, you gasp and shove him. “You perv!”

“Can’t get a glimpse before I lose?”

“So you admit you are gonna lose,” you’re snickering, and he can’t help but wonder – are you wearing a thong or boyshorts? He saw a hint of black lace. “Get back over there, stop staring.”

He presses a sneaky kiss on your thigh, grinning all boyish and cute, making your heart hammer, thighs pressing together at his proximity. It’s hard to remember all the differences between you both – the pretty boy, popular jock and you – the social outcast. Once, you both weren’t so different, and in that moment he looks like a nerdy little teenager.

Is he still in there, the boy your little pre teen heart fell for?

Satoru’s back on his side, throwing a ball and missing on purpose – for once he was okay losing if it meant drinking your pussy. He can’t help but imagine pressing his tongue against your wetness through the fabric, eating you over those panties until they’re a mess. He’s sure it’s soaked, he just wants to fucking get drunk on you, if he loses or not he’s planning on licking all that angst right out of you.

He tosses the next ball, making another horrible shot, he’s too distracted thinking of your pretty pussy. You laugh and toss yours and he catches it.

“Shit!”

“Drink up,” he grins, tossing another and landing it. “Two, sweetheart.”

“Ugh m’not your sweetheart,” you drink quickly, tossing it down your throat, feeling dizzy. You’re fine either way getting Gojo’s fingers, but the way he’s licking his lips makes you crave winning even more. You toss the ball and land it in his cup, making him just grin. “That’s three.”

“I’m still winning,” he says cockily, leaning forward again. “You’re not gonna win, baby.”

“You don’t know that, and I’m not your baby either,” you toss the ball, missing and cursing, he lands another one. “No fair, you were yapping too much!”

“Such a sore loser, drink.” Satoru leans on the table now all casual, just smirking at you all victorious. “That’s three, you’re about to lose.”

“No the fuck I’m not,” you toss the ball, missing again, he laughs. “Damn it!”

You change tactics then.

Leaning forward, breasts almost spilling out of your little cami top, fluttering your lashes with a pretty pout and looking right at him. “Satoru…”

Fuck, when you call him that? His heart hammers, already so warm from the drinks, he can’t stand what your eyes are doing, your lips still somehow swathed with that dark lipstick he wants to kiss off you, wants it dragged across your cheeks and smeared as you drool on him. He…

“You little…” He realizes you distracted him on purpose with your mean little smile, sinking another, now two up. “Your slutty tactics won’t work on me again, trust.”

Shit, she’s winning?

Putting twenty on her.

I’ll put twenty on Satoru!

It is best two out of three, and each of you has won a competition, making it go down to the last couple throws, the beer pong is so fucking serious it’s like it is some damn sports match. People have money exchanged placing bets, you’re surprised when people start chanting his name – not yours though, they just go – 

New girl!

“Distraction won’t work this time, sweetheart,” Satoru puts more emphasis on that word just to fuck with you. You sigh, rolling your eyes, throwing your shot in, sinking it then.

Oh shit.

You sink another, the alcohol making it even easier, laughing maniacally like an evil succubus, which he’s convinced that you are. You’re throwing those balls over and over, and he’s missing all his damn shots, as the entire frat and most of the sorority – along with many other students and all their friends, watch Satoru Gojo lose to a damn art student goth.

The Satoru Gojo!

Before you cognitively realize what’s happening, he’s got you up the flight of stairs in his room at the frat, and he’s kissing you so differently from back then, when he was clumsy and your noses hit, when his braces brushed against your lips. No, he’s messy and filthy with just that kiss, possessing your mouth, tongue fighting yours for dominance.

You both stumble in there, hungry and needy, you almost trip on your heels as you cling to him tighter than you should, cunt already dripping when his thigh presses between your. His hands are slipping down your body, plush lips drinking up moans you wish weren’t that loud, little desperate breaths as his lips trail down your throat.

“Fuck this is crazy…”

“Is it?” He asks, pulling back from sucking on your pulse point that’s fluttering frantically underneath your skin. “Do you want it?”

You swallow then, biting down on your lip, lashes lowering.

Fuck, that look almost does him in.

“I won’t do anything you don’t want,” your eyes lock up then, seeing the same boy for the briefest moment, even hidden behind the height, the broad shoulders underneath your fingers, the cocky attitude. “Bet or not.”

He was still Satoru somewhere.

Your answer is not in sweet little words, it’s taking those fingers and trailing them down your body, slowly letting his fingertips brush over your outfit, until they touch you underneath your skirt. He moans softly, feeling the soaking mess you’ve made them into, sticky as his fingers swirl around it.

“Your answer,” you manage to say, biting down so hard your lip almost bleeds when his fingers press up between your slit. “Mnh!”

“You’re not too drunk?” He asks quietly, you see it again, the care in his bright blue eyes, even when he clearly wants you.

“I’m not,” you answer softly. “A little buzzed, but in my right mind.”

“Don’t you hate me though?” He’s taunting you even as he’s sinking to his knees, huge hands pressing your skirt up, looking at you in a way that ruins you.

You did say it the last time you saw him.

‘I hate you for… breaking my heart!’ you’d run off in tears, not realizing the reason Satoru couldn’t be with you.

It was because he was scared of you being affected by the fact that none of his life – including love – would ever be his choice. Yet he stood there holding it all back, unable to say his true feelings, fucking tongue tied.

And the day you ran away he swore one day he’d make it right.

If making it right was done by him sinking to his knees in front of you, Satoru Gojo was ready for it – looking at the slick glimmering in your inner thigh, toying with the nylon of your stockings and grinning deviously then.

“Hmm, how much were these?”

You blink a bit, trying to act like you’re not trembling from his breath against your skin. “Like five bucks, why? Ah!”

Rip.

Satoru moans as he slowly rips himself a trail, exposing your overheated cunt underneath those panties, the dark spot there drooling. You’re shaking with need, head falling back against that door, pretending like you’re anything other than soaking wet and needy for him.

“Really? You could have just asked me to take them off!?”

“Not as hot that way,” he murmurs, lapping the slick off your thigh first like he’s thirsty, cursing softly then as your flavor hits. “Fuck…”

“Mnh!” That’s the only sound you’re able to make, nails pressing into his shoulders, trying to stabilize yourself as his nose nudges you, as if he’s inhaling your essence, and then he opens his lips.

The first flick of Satoru Gojo’s tongue along your panties was torture, the way his pretty blue eyes looked up under those lashes was too much, him on his knees with his hands pressing into the meat of your hips. You gasp out, head falling back, your lashes fluttering shut, desperate little pathetic moan that doesn’t even make sense escaping your throat.

“Hah - cute little pussy,” he cooes those words, just endlessly annoying you even as he’s lapping at the cotton with his tongue, making it soaked. “Need something?”

“Y-you lost that bet,” you manage to whisper out. “So get to work.”

God, Satoru thinks he’s in love.

He tugs those panties to the side, looking at your perfect cunt, one he dreamed of jerking off so many times over the years it was just embarrassing, but nothing really prepares him for it. Glistening, puffy folds that are drooling for him, glossy and slick, your clit twitching when he lifts that hood and breathes on it ever so teasingly, making your nails press into his shoulders so hard they dig in and leave marks.

“Hah, you’re that soaked? I haven’t even started to touch you yet,” he taunts, swiping just his fingertip through the mess you’ve made, exhaling again and making your hips jerk. “Beer pong gets you wet?”

“Beating you at something did,” you whisper with a little satisfied smile, earning his glare, snowy lashes lowering. Then Satoru smacks your cunt, a sharp thwap echoing in his room, mingling with your panting breaths. “Ah!”

“You’re just so messy,” he’s grinning as you scowl down at him, hooking your thigh high now over a broad shoulder, so his tongue can tease your leaky hole for just a moment, groaning when your flavor soaks into his tastebuds. “You’re that easy for me, hmm?”

“F-fuck no m’not,” you’re trembling from a few flicks of his long pink tongue, hands enwrapping in those snowy locks. You don’t want to admit how good it feels – how good Satoru Gojo looks on his knees. “Will you just…”

“Just what? Ask me nice and I-”

You shove his face right against your cunt before finishing your sentence, and you feel that damn smile against your bare skin before he obliges eagerly, tongue slipping up your messy slit, gathering all that arousal that’s pooling. He drinks you up, his huge hands pressing on either side of the meat of your hips, picturing how good it’ll look when he hits it from the back.

Your eyes roll back in your skull – Satoru’s mouth had no right to be that talented, that hot and wet, he had no right to look so fucking good down there kneeling before you, his eyes locking so intense you can’t look away. Locked in the intimacy and rolling your hips as he moans from just your taste, your arousal pooling from your hole, already messy.

You struggle to cling to any sort of calm, you don’t want to act like you’re so affected, that long tongue slipping between your lips, flicking your little clit sharply. Fingers press into your flesh, parting your folds to open your hole for his tongue to fuck into, sticking the entirety of that pink muscle, letting those walls just flutter around it.

“Oh f-fuck…” Your back vibrates from the base of the music outside the little room the two of you are alone in, your lips still swollen from his kisses, mouth dropped open. “There, there!”

You’re not shy when you drag him where you need, Satoru moans, shifting on his knees and curling his tongue deep, spongy spot pressing and making you gush, so wet he’s missing rivulets, slipping down his pink lips, his chin. You’re rolling those hips like you’re riding his face, head slamming back hard with a thud, ragged gasps just urging him on more.

You’ve got him covered in your slick, his tongue lapping a filthy stripe with the flat of it, hands digging in and lifting your thigh higher and slipping a finger inside. “Oh my g-god…”

“You’re so tight, fuck…” He moans when he feels your cunt contracting on his fingers, spasming and drooling when he buries it to the knuckle, teeth nipping your clit with a sharp motion, you shove at him, screaming out now.

“D-don’t bite - oh m-my… gonna cum, gonna… stay…” You’re done trying to make sense of anything, you can’t remember why you were so hurt by him for so long.

You’ll think of that tomorrow.

Tonight?

You let Satoru swallow you, drink you up, hearing the slurp and the wet, messy noises echoing in your ears, fingers finding purchase in silky white locks and pulling at the roots.

“Oh yes,” he whispers, looking at you with blown out pupils. “Fuck my face, sweetheart.”

You’re doing just that, gliding your pretty cunt all over Satoru Gojo’s face – he slips two impossibly thick fingers inside you, buried to the hilt. You’re lost in it, cunt squelching and mixing with his own moans, his swallowing and gulping, you’re making noises you’ve never thought you could, screaming out and trembling as he pushes you over the edge.

“Cum for me,” he whispers, a little smirk on a face that’s embarrassingly soaked with your cunt, grippin’ his fingers so tight she’s sucking him in. “That’s it, lemme fuckin’ feel it, lemme see it sweetheart.”

You can’t remember exactly why you ever thought you ‘hated’ Gojo.

Deep down you know you’ll always love him, that he was it for you – terrified that this is just fun for him, and you’ll still go along with it. The way he makes you feel so fucking filthy yet precious, worshipped yet devoured, you lose all your senses but just how fucking good it feels.

Your thighs are shaky, he’s damn near holding you up while wetness drips down them, cumming so hard you can’t think, can’t see anything but white stars that blind you behind your closed eyes. “S-Satoru!”

Fuck, when you say his name?

Satoru palms his cock, throbbing and insistent, moaning at how fucking good your juices feel in his mouth, gulping them down – adam’s apple bobbing with every greedy swallow as he watches you come undone. He eases his thrusts of those long fingers, teasing flicks prolonging that orgasm until you lightly just squirt in little spurts down him.

“Look at you all fucked out,” you barely manage to open your eyes – Gojo looks positively ruined from drinking you, as fucked out as you are, his white hair sticking to his forehead just a bit, cheeks flushed pink.

How can he look that good?

He chuckles a bit – that cocky boy is still there – licking his lips as he pulls back slightly, fingers still buried deep inside you, curling just right, grinning as you jerk your hips.

“Too much, mnh!” You’re arching your back, tits bouncing at this angle he can’t help but imagine how you’ll ride his cock, which is leaking so much pre he’s sticking to his boxers.

He’s slipping those fingers out with a suctioned pop, the slick sound. Gojo brings them to his lips and slides the slick on his lips like a gloss, standing slowly, letting your thigh fall gently, you wobble.

“Aww, can’t stand? That fucked up from a little kiss?”

“Kiss!? You’re… so insane…”

Gojo is not just covered in you, he’s sucking them clean with deliberate slowness, his eyes dark aside from a light blue ring, and they’re fucking hungry. "So sweet for such a mean little girl.”

“Little girl,” you scoff, but you’re shaking, your own hands sliding up his chest, head falling back while he drinks you up, moaning. “You can’t call me that, m’not a little girl.”

“Bet you’ll call me daddy,” he taunts, you shake your head at him while he brushes your hair back gently. "Look at you, made such a mess of me."

You whimper – yeah you fucking whimper, damn him – clenching around nothing. "Not calling you that, but…”

He raises a brow, grinning. “But?”

You sigh. “You are… you do…”

“The best oral you’ve had?”

“Fuck you, yes,” he chuckles, for a moment his fingers brush your cheek, and you can’t help but lean close. You want him. “In this, you win. Not beer pong.”

“Tch, let you win,” you giggle – yeah you, you giggle then, the sound reminding him of a time long ago. He sighs now, studying your face carefully. “So, I’ll let you decide. You want more?"

Before you can answer, he leans in, kissing you deeply, you lean into it, arms wrapping his neck, sucking in a breath as you continue to pulse around nothing, nodding just a bit.

“Ah- ah,” he whispers, tilting your chin up, swapping your taste between you both. “You have to tell me.”

“Yes, I want more.” Satoru carries you over to the bed then with ease like it’s just nothing, the strong muscles underneath his skin bunching as he lays you on it, hovering over you and just looking then. “Satoru…”

“Want my cock to ruin your pretty cunt?” You didn’t expect that – the once nerdy, shy Gojo to say that, even now you’re at a loss for words, lips parting. “I have to warn you, no one will be able to hit it like me after.”

“You’re so conceited,” you mumble, but when he slips up your top and your tits bounce out for his view, you’re soaked all over again, still sticky from his spit coating your puffy folds.

That’s when Satoru is quiet.

Fuck your tits are so perfect, he can’t help but pause and grip them, feeling their weight in his palm, thumbs brushing them and watching the areolas tighten. “Oh just, look at how pretty they are.”

He’s not cocky then, no he’s enamored, lashes casting shadows as his mouth descends, sucking a nipple into it hungrily, flicking his tongue on that little piercing. You gasp out at it, his other hand gripping your left tit as he sucks your right, making you so sensitive. He moans, vibrating against your skin, your tummy clenched with hot need all over again.

“S’perfect,” his mumbled words mean way more than they should, your heart hammering in your chest like you are some little virgin again, all shy almost when he pulls back, kissing the soft mounds and pressing them together.

“Just fuck me, okay? Stop all… that.”

He chuckles a bit, sucking your other nipple with a messy pop, his fingers slipping over your trembling tummy to toy with your twitchy clit he’d just suck on, fingering the mess. “Stop what, the foreplay? Haven’t had much, huh?”

“Shut up - mnh!” He sinks a finger back inside, lips just an inch from yours, you taste the sweetness of him mixed with the alcohol from tonight, see his cheeks flushed with pink. “No, not really okay?”

“I’ll make up for it,” how could anyone get to touch your body, it makes him so angry, so possessive then that it’s nonsense. His hands glide over your curves before he flips you on your stomach, you gasp out. “Arch f’me.”

You do just that without thinking of a bratty retort, you’re not a submissive girl by any means and you still have so much hurt from Gojo, but you’re eagerly arching your ass, waiting for his cock. He unzips his pants eagerly, breath catching at the sight of your hole clenching around nothin’ in little spasms.

“She’s so needy,” his words mix with a trail of spit, spreading your cheeks wide, it slips from your puckered ass hole to your milky cunt in a bubbly trail. “Tell me what you want, use those words.”

“I told you, mnh! W-want you in me…”

“No,” he teases his fat cockhead through your glistening folds, huge hands gripping each ass cheek and watching them jiggle, mesmerized.

“What do you mean, no? Want your dick, okay?” Your words are slurred, about to cum when he slips his cock teasingly between your swollen folds, gliding with the mix of your slick and his spit.

The sounds are filthy as he fucks your thighs and nudges your cunt, not going in to torture you. “There, you have my dick.”

“I swear to – Gojo! Put it in,” you’re arching for more but he’s just pressing the fat of your cunt down so he can fuck your slit over and over, tip nudging your clit and making you gasp out. “Mmph!”

“What, did you want it inside you?”

“That’s what I s-said,” you’re close to cumming again from just his damn teasing, gripping those sheets underneath you. Your head falls back, Satoru leans on his knees and pulls it, making your spine curve.

“Want me to fuck your cunt raw, then? Cum inside her?” Satoru’s lost and pussy drunk, he’s never even fucked without a condom but he can’t imagine the barrier when he wants to feel those gummy walls on his cock.

“Y-yes,” you can’t believe you’re saying that shit then, but you’re too far gone, cunt still spasming, your nipples sensitive as they brush the soft fabric. “Just fuck me, god…”

“Impatient little thing,” his words are loving, his hands devotedly brushing up and down your waist, your hips. “I’ll give it to you.”

You look back at him, hair all falling over your face, Satoru pulls it into a pony tail, seeing the lightness of your irises swallowed by black, your lipstick all smeared off, revealing traces of the pink of your lips. You bite the lower one then, taking a shaky little breath.

“It’s just… mnh, sex?” You manage to ask, Satoru pauses then.

Of course it’s always just sex with him with any girl, he doesn’t get too attached, he doesn’t reveal all of himself.

Yet, for you? The girl who knew him way before, when he was just nerdy little Gojo playing DnD and a mathlete? You, whose eyes look drunk as you look back at him, your perfect ass arched in the air, fishnets ripped completely at the seams, the leftover material slightly pressing into your thighs.

You’re different, and he knows that, and it’s fucking terrifying, Satoru takes a breath then, gauging the situation, leaning over you to smack your ass, watching it bounce. He moans, smacking the other cheek, your cunt slips more and more sticky clear arousal out of it. He pulls at your hair, you eagerly arch.

You want him to dominate you – you, a dominant brat.

“Ya want me to make that perfect pussy cum? Over and over?” He asks softly, you swallow, nodding, hair tugging at the roots. “You want me to take you over, fuckin’ ruin you hmm?”

“Ruin me,” you gasp out, far past your usual act of hating Satoru. Maybe you do hate what he does to you, making a strong, dominant woman submit, beg, eagerly obey to his every command. But in that moment, you’d do anything to have that cock that he’s teasing deep inside. “Do it, fuck…”

“Say please,” you scoff, shaking your head.

“You say please,” you pull off and he drags you back, laughing softly, his teeth nipping your shoulder as his cock presses against your entrance. “Say it, – ‘please let me fuck your pussy’.”

“Hah, no,” when you clamp down on his tip that’s just barely popped into your hole, however? “Oh my f-fine, please, lemme fuck this pussy.”

You smile against the pillow he presses your head down on, arching impossible more than. “Then do it, Satoru.”

Satoru eases in at first, but then he fills you in three strokes, messy, filthy ones until your greedy cunt just sucks him up. “Oh my… g-god, s’tight baby fuck…”

“You’re s-so big I… mnh!” You want to be bitchy, you want to clap back, but all you can think of is just how full Satoru Gojo has stuffed you, how each drag of his cock is destroying your pussy, your mind, forgetting anything and everything but how good he feels throbbing inside of you.

“Perfect little cunt,” he mumbles, done for as he presses you down between your shoulder blades, easing back to watch your ass jiggle with every thrust, to see your greedy cunt suckin’ him up. “Look at you, takin’ me like this? Good girl.”

You want to laugh but…

You’re wetter.

Impossibly wet, every glide easier while Satoru Gojo buries his cock inside you to the hilt, hitting your cervix with every mean slap, his heavy balls hitting your clit as his fingers spread your ass cheeks, groaning at the sight. Your slick has coated all of his veiny length, every – fwap fwap fwap – sound echoing and mixing with the hum of the music lingering from outside the door.

Fuck any party, it’s just you, all you, surrounding and gripping his cock so good he can’t fucking stand it. He moans your name and it comes out like a whimper, but there’s no stopping anything from spilling from his lips, not when you’re taking him like that, not when he’s fucking your cunt so good all he can think of is making you his – all his.

Is it just sex? What a question, as if Satoru Gojo hasn’t been in love with you since he laid eyes on you, as if he didn’t jerk it to you the moment he saw you at that football practice with your slutty clothes, with those fishnets that still rest on your body, pressing into the flesh of your ass at the sides.

Ripped wide open he uses them as leverage, hearing your desperate shaky gasps around him, fucking into you so hard you scream out, head falling back. He moans and tugs at the black nylon, letting it press into your skin in little diamond patterns, cock twitching inside your slick heat.

That cock is so deep you feel him fucking everywhere, especially at this angle – bottoming out in your cunt finally and groaning in your ear, just the sounds of him alone are enough you’d record it and touch yourself to it. You don’t want to be so desperate, so needy, but you can’t stop it, not when he’s ruining you, not when his tip is pummeling your cervix.

The sounds echoing in the room are lewd, squishing, slapping, squelching, both of your whines high pitched and needy. Satoru’s grabbing your hips on either side now, drunker off you than off anything. He bites back nonsense like ‘i love you’ because he knows you still hate him, and he doesn’t want to scare you off.

Eventually, you’ll be all his.

For now – he fucks you brutally, but you want it, need it, crave it. Walls clamping down around his thickness like a vise, Satoru groans as you do, rocking his hips and feeling you start to spasm.

“Gonna cum again? So easy,” he whispers, as if he’s not two seconds from busting in your perfect cunt.

“Fuck off,” you respond back hoarsely, as if he’s not right, cocky ass hole that he is with his huge cock curving up deep in your snug channel. “Make me cum.”

He almost says ‘yes mommy’ but bites it back.

“Make you cum,” he grins and lays on top of you prone, his knee on one side of you, resting on an elbow and dragging you down his cock in a mean angle. “Then go ahead, let your slutty little hole squirt on me.”

“Ngh!” You’re shattering for him when he fucks you laying on top, cock moving your stomach with every filthy motion. You feel Satoru’s cock twitch inside you as your cunt spasms around him, clenching down so hard he groans – pressing his forehead to your shoulder, damp with perspiration, groaning softly.

His hand wraps your throat, taking you over completely, your eyes rolling back in your skull just blinded by pleasure, head falling back against his chest. His cock is stretching you beyond your means, but you’re so wet he’s slipping in even easier, squelching wetness dripping down between your thighs and his cock, slipping onto the blanket as he bruises that cervix.

“Takin’ it like you’re made for it,” he murmurs in your ear, lips brushing that delicate earlobe, you grip that wrist of the hand wrapping your throat, pressing. “Ah, want me to choke you? You’re a slutty, needy girl, aren’t you?”

“Mmhmm,” you just press and nod, giving Satoru permission, giving him so much trust with his long fingers that now encircle your neck. “D-do it.”

Long fingers tighten on either side of your windpipe, his length moving in and out of that messy hole, pounding harder, seeing what you can take as he squeezes just a little more. The pleasure is too much, taking over your entire body – that heady, fuzzy feeling addictive, making you chase that feeling, that release.

When he kisses you?

That’s when you lose any control or act you had left – pretending like this will just be once, like you’re not still hopeless for him, like you’re not about to spill your feelings if he doesn’t choke you more.

“Harder,” is your weak little command, mascara streaking down your cheeks as he slams his cock bruisingly inside your pretty cunt. “Please.”

“Sayin’ please, hah – you’re such a good girl,” he knows it fucks you up, damn him, you can just tell his conceited self loves making you like this. You’ll let him have an ear full later.

For now you just let his cock reshape your entire cunt to mold to his shape, just like he said, overwhelmed by every sensation that washes through you. You cum so hard again you choke – his hands gripping so tightly they’ll leave little bruises on your skin, a messy drool line spilling from the corner of your mouth.

“That’s it, so pretty, just a mess,” he whispers in your ear, letting go of your throat so you can gasp in greedy gulps, his thumb swipes off that mess and his lips press on yours, drinking your cries.

Those narrow hips of his that were in a perfect rhythm stutter at that kiss, thrusts becoming just a little messy and erratic, your walls quivering and pushing him over the edge. “Mnh, fuck…”

“Feel too good,” he’s so drunk off your messy hole, so fucking close to pumping everything inside of you, lashes fluttering shut when he whimpers.

Fuck, did you make him whimper?

You are too fucked out to notice, the smacking sounds of his pelvis hitting your ass cheeks echo louder now, those big hands sliding down to grip your hips, fingers digging in possessively. He murmurs your name like a devotion, his breath ghosting across a shoulder blade, teeth nipping the sensitive curve of it.

"Feel her," he rasps, voice thick with lust. "Take me s’good... aw, sweetheart you’re wrecked."

You whimper as he pulls out almost entirely, leaving just the tip inside, teasing your entrance and then pressing back in. "Please," you choke out, arching. "Back in me."  

He’s so close, taking a breath and pausing, turning your face to him. “You want all this inside you, or painted on that perfect ass?”

There’s no hesitation, your eyes looking back at his, lidded and dazed, sweat slicked skin brushing against each other. “In me.”

Satoru’s done for at your hasty little reply – slamming back inside so deep it hurts, busting his load so deep against your cervix, balls contracting as they fill you to the brim, leaking down him with how your muscles contract. “Oh f-fuck…”

He has no words for how perfect it feels cumming inside your messy little hole, flooding those walls and coating them in white, slowing his strokes and making you feel every inch as it drags on the spots in those spongy walls. He’s crying out softly, fingers dipping into the crook of your waist, pumping impossibly more inside, until you’re both so sensitive you’re just messes.

“Took me like that?” He whispers, easing out of you and looking at the mess you’ve both made, his chest heaving up and down with his breaths, fingers skimming your pretty ass and brushing over marks blooming. “Did such a good job.”

You take a moment, just trembling – Satoru watches his milky seed pool and bubble out of your hole, fingering the sticky mess and slipping it in his lips, moaning out. “Did you… taste us?”

“Mmm, of course I am. You should too,” he flips you on your back, leaning over you, your hands slip up his shoulders when the intimacy catches you, when he pours his own cum right back in your mouth. “Swallow.”

You obediently listen, before kissing him again, his still semi hard cock heavy against your inner thigh, even more spurts of white pumping hot and sticky. You’re shaking, breaths coming quicker and quicker, strings of saliva and white dripping between your lips. You taste his cum off him, the action so filthy, his fingers nudging the mess to shove it right back in your hole.

“Ah! Too much, j-jerk,” you huff, he chuckles then, shaking his head and sighing, lifting your thighs to spread them and eye that pretty sight of an utterly destroyed and puffy cunt. “You’re just… looking at it!”

“Yes I am, I beat it up,” he has the audacity to whistle, when there are knocks on the door. He glares back at it as you close your thighs, sucking in a breath at how sore you are. “What?”

“Gojo, they’re all saying you’re a little bitch for losing to a girl,” you snicker and Satoru scowls deeper. “Sukuna is saying he’ll stomp your ass at the keg stand record too.”

“Tch, he fucking wishes,” he sighs, not about to leave you, but you’re already standing, shaky legs having you almost wobbling. “Give me a bit.”

“You’re good, promise,” you murmur, grabbing your top and slipping it over you, he aches when he watches those tits gently bounce. “I should get going, I have a big ass test in the morning.”

“Leaving already?” He frowns, standing with his cock just hanging, your tummy clenches at the sight of it, with white and clear strands all around the thick length.

“I should,” you murmur, stepping back a bit when he comes close, leaning down over you. Your back against the wall, his palm on one side of your head. “You’re still naked, Satoru.”

“Sure am,” he nudges his cock again, slipping between your pressed thighs, earning a desperate little whine. “You don’t have to go.”

He hates how vulnerable he sounds, him so desperate, but he’s never felt anything like you, like that, the moments you took his breath away not just with sex, but with everything about you. “You don’t wanna win?”

“Of course I do,” you laugh, softly then, knowing if you stay – you’ll fall all over again, for this different Gojo who still has your heart. “Doesn’t mean you can’t stay the night.”

“I don’t wanna make it weird,” he opens his lips and you lean up, a hand entangled in his hair. “I… Is this just once?”

Satoru swallows nervously, looking at you carefully. “I don’t know, is it?”

You both just stand there, you don’t know how to answer his question – with so much left unsaid, but you press a quick kiss on his lips before you talk yourself out of it, and then just run out of the room.

He leans his head on that door, fists clenching, trying to think of anything he could say. He could say – no, it’s not just sex, not with you, how could it be?

But he froze.

You’re leaning against that door – heart hammering in your chest, a palm on it to feel it racing, head resting for just a moment until people start running around, too close to you. You try to gather your bearings, try to remember that it was likely a hook up for him, and you couldn’t do it again.

No way, when he almost casually fucked an I love you from his lips.

That night you dream of him, waking up in a cold sweat, staring at the mirror and seeing how fucked up you were off him.

Surely, he went back to playing games.

That night Satoru lays there, sighing and swiping a hand down his face, turning in bed that night, touching the rumpled sheets, inhaling your scent off that pillow.

This can’t be the only fucking time.

There’s never really been anyone but you, but especially now he realizes, he’s ruined from you.

*****

“Need a ride?” The voice echoes outside, and you know exactly who it is.

It’s piss pouring rain a week later, you’d avoided Satoru like the plague since then, you didn’t even have a number if you wanted to reach out.

What would you even say – oh hey, childhood crush of mine, I apparently got fucked so dumb I’m prety sure I’m still in love?

No way.

Yet there’s his voice, there’s his presence right next to you now, too close – when you stand under the awning in front of one of the college buildings, the sound of it pounding on the metal makes you almost tired, looking up to see Satoru with an umbrella in his hand.

“I’ll wait it out,” you mumble, the last thing you need is to jump him the way you keep thinking of, to say dumb shit that’ll make him run away again.

That’s your biggest fear, really, that he’ll just run off like he did that year after your kiss, that he’ll move on and this was just fun, a challenge, a fling. A guy like Satoru could just have whoever he wanted, he’s so unserious, you’re sure you’re the one who is concocting it all inside your mind.

“It’ll be raining all afternoon,” he says then, thumb slipping up the screen on his phone, raising a brow at you. “And all night.”

“Shit… I mean I don’t have too far to go, maybe you can… be generous and just lend me your umbrella?”

“Or maybe,” he leans close now, silky white locks falling over his brow, cupping your face. “You can stop being so stubborn and take a fucking ride.”

Your heart is racing, you’re ovulating and you shouldn’t be near Mr. Broke your heart, Mr. Three hundred dollar a spray cologne, especially with the rain enshrouding you both, with his heat too close. You clear your throat and press your hand on a chest that’s too hard, too muscular, too warm.

“I’m good.”

Satoru’s eyes narrow at you, a vein pressed up underneath his skin. “Just take a ride, I won’t… try shit if that’s your concern. You pretty much made it clear you only wanted it once, I get it okay?”

You blink then, stepping back. “You think… I don’t ever think you’d try something, okay? That’s not it.”

“It’s not?” His brows draw together. “You don’t regret it?”

“No,” you shake your head, sighing then. “I didn’t know you were thinking that way about it.”

“How am I supposed to think?” There’s a harshness to his words then, your hands still resting as he steps even closer. “You haven’t said shit since you darted out of my room, drippin’ my cum.”

You almost whine out then and there, shaking your head again. You can’t say the truth – that it scared you, the intensity, the feelings.

“I had fun that night,” that’s an understatement. “A lot of fun, yeah? You felt… good in me.”

He almost moans out loud, looking at your pretty lashes lowering, this long pointed line of eyeliner just a little smudged off each eye. He runs a hand down the small of your back as people rush off to their cars, hidden under umbrellas or jackets over their heads.

“Yeah?” He asks softly, you roll those pretty eyes at him.

“You already know I liked it, it’s just… do we do it more or… do we just forget it?”

“Forget it?” His brows lower then, the thunder clapping from the distance. “You think I’d forget?”

“It’s probably not shit to you,” he glares, his jaw setting now. “You should go before the storm gets bad.”

“And you’re coming with me.”

“You can't just tell me what to do –” Satoru is already grabbing your hand, pulling you toward the parking lot. His umbrella pops open, a big clear one that you instantly recognize.

It's the same he had the day you met all those years ago.

Affection tears at your chest though you feign the irritation when he's tugging you under it, one of his arms wrapping around your waist to keep you close. The proximity makes you too warm, tugged against his lithe frame while the rain pours, wind picking up.

You weren't dressed for soaking rain clearly, shivering when your boots rushed across forming puddles on the road, cold droplets hitting your bare legs. You're still firmly pressed against his side, feeling the heat of him through his letterman's jacket, smelling that familiar expensive ass cologne mixed with rain. Thunder cracks overhead, making you jump just a bit, and his grip tightens.

“Almost there,” He's calming when he speaks, almost soothing actually, you swallow nervously, heart hammering as you remember the last time you saw him.

Underneath him.

His fingers pressing into your throat, cock wrecking you. Fuck you hadn't been able to even walk the next day, you'd taken a day from classes to just soak in the bath. He had every right to be cocky when it came not just to his size but how he worked it.

It makes you blush thinking how he'd been inside you, you hardly can focus on anything but the burning memories in your brain as you get to his pretty silver sports car.

"Shit it's gonna get bad, let’s go," he mutters, fumbling with his keys when you reach the Mercedes, rain pelting the sleek black exterior. His hands are shaking – from cold or something else, you can't tell. The locks finally beep and he's yanking the passenger door open, you rush inside before you watch him jogging around to the driver's side.

His door slams shut behind him, pushing to start the car and letting the heat start up, shaking off the umbrella into the back seat as the storm worsens around you both. Suddenly it's quiet, just the muffled drumming of rain on the windshield, soft music turns on when he presses the button.

You're both just a little out of breath, a couple little drops of water dripping from your hair down your neck, the heat warming you as you shiver. The windows are already starting to fog just a bit from the condensations and your breaths.

“You good?” He asks then, you nod quickly, holding your books close to your lap for a moment. “Any new cool drawings of me?”

“You wish,” he chuckles just a bit, looking back and putting an arm over the back of your seat, looking impossibly attractive as he backs up, the line of his jaw illuminated with a little flash of lightning.

You could draw him right now, too damn attractive to even exist, his blue eyes flickering across your face for a brief moment. “You’re quiet.”

“Well, I’m quiet in general,” he scoffs, turning to start down the quick little road towards your dorm. “What? I am.”

“You weren’t quiet underneath me,” you roll your eyes and glare all cute, his jaw sets a bit, tongue against his cheek. “Did you not wanna do it again?”

“I just figured it was… the bet, the drinks, the…”

“Yeah, you think all that?” You don’t know what to fucking think.

“Doesn’t that happen a lot at your parties?”

“Ya callin’ me a slut?”

“Very much so, I’ve heard of many escapades.” Satoru snorts and shakes his head, hand turning the wheel with ease. There’s something so comfy and homey about being around him again, even with the awkward tension lingering.

You remember so much.

“It’s raining bad, here,” Satoru held an umbrella up for you, smiling all nervous, his cute little bowtie just askew, glasses fogged up from the rain pouring.

“Oh, thanks…” You’re not a talker, you’re a little shy, and now a boy is talking to you. He brushes the damp strands of your hair back, and you look up at the clear umbrella, watching the rain pummel it, bouncing off in a little halo around you both in the darkness.

“You should carry one, y’know.”

“Yeah, I always forget,” you mumble, you’re so close to him. “You’re Satoru Gojo, right?”

“You know me?” He blushes and you do just the same, he turns a bit. “Yeah, that’s me. Are you waiting on your parents?”

You almost laugh.

It’s not like your parents would ever pick you up, half the time they forget to get anything for you to pack for lunch. “No.”

“My driver will be here soon,” you blink in confusion, he uses his free hand to rub the back of his neck. “Yeah, my parents don’t pick me up either.”

“So they suck too.”

He laughs, a little nervous one, before sobering up. “Do yours suck?”

“Bad,” you mumble. “I’ll be okay if I get a little closer to-”

“Let me have them drive you, they make plenty of money, not like they’ll mind.”

“I couldn’t!”

“Sure you can,” he takes your hand then. “Come on.”

“You’re very quiet now,” his voice breaks your day dream, you realize you’re already in front of your dorm, having been lost in the memory. “Where’s that pretty head at?”

Pretty.

Satoru called you pretty.

A lot of people do, it’s not like men don’t shoot their shot at you, it’s more… you’re uninterested in them all. The men you’ve been with have just been out of boredom or craving experience. Yet when he says it, there are two different feelings. 

One, he means it. Two, he just says that.

You see the girls around him constantly, you’d even snuck into his game to watch him the other day – not that you’d ever admit it. He was truly amazing, not just ‘some jock’ no – he excelled at it. Everyone cheered his name, girls all around him, men even cheering for him, everyone around the school as you hid behind the standing crowd, hoping he wouldn’t notice.

Satoru probably wouldn’t even consider you now, if he didn’t then.

“Just thinking I guess, of that time we met,” shit, you hadn’t meant to let it slip like that, but it’s there, lingering in the warmth of his car. “You had a whole driver.”

“Yeah, I guess I still could, but now I am on my own,” you blink a bit at that, seeing his knuckles whiten on the steering wheel. “They wanted to mold me into their perfect CEO and I really make ‘em mad, not mad enough to fuck my trust fund though.”

“Hence this,” you brush a finger on his gear shift, he grins. “I kind of told my parents to fuck off too. Art school is not it.”

“Especially after they were mad you wanted to do astronomy,” your lips part. “Yeah, I remember.”

“And now you’re doing it.”

“Astrophysics, yes,” he sighs, relaxing just a bit. “I kind of think I wanna teach it one day. Is it weird to think, a rich heir of the Gojo corp wanting to teach?”

“No, I think that shit’s cool as fuck,” he turns toward you, lips quirking up. Lips that were all over your body, a mouth that was on your pussy. The memories have your heart pounding in your ribcage like it’s just gonna fall out, hands gripping the papers, seeing the storm still raging. “You always were meant to study those stars.”

Satoru can’t take it.

He can’t take knowing he could have had years of this, of a high school sweetheart by his side, but he pushed it off – he thought for your own good, but now he sees the damage. In every apprehensive movement, in every bite of your lips that are just a little chapped from the chill.

“You think that?”

You turn your head, and he’s close – too close, so much so you taste his breath on yours, something sweet and so Gojo. You nod just a bit, leaning into his touch when he runs the backs of his knuckles across your cheek, the one reacting to his touch by getting so warm,

“I do.”

You can’t stop yourself from kissing him then and there – you lean and kiss him this time – his lips pause just a brief moment, parting in shock, before his arm wraps you, dragging you against him, a soft moan drank into your own mouth. The kiss means more than you can even admit, than you can comprehend in that heady moment, warm and cozy as it is sensual.

You’re leaning back in the passenger seat of Satoru’s fancy Mercedes benz, ostentatious and annoying sure, yet – you love it, you love being in there with him. You love the rain bouncing on the windshield and creating a halo around the car, enshrouding the two of you.

You love his lips on yours, love his hand entangling in your hair, his teeth nipping your lower lip hungrily, pushing him to sit as you take over the kiss now. He lets you eagerly, your hand slipping down his flat stomach, feeling each rippling muscle over his soft tee shirt, the windshield wipers flicking rain side to side with quick clicks.

“Fuck,” he murmurs then, looking up at you, pink cheeked and big blue eyes blown out. You see it then.

The boy he was.

Your first kiss, your first love.

Your kisses move down his neck, hearing his hitches of breath, a hand gripping your little black sweater as his head falls to the side for you. At this moment he’s not cocky Satoru Gojo – all star, no he’s soft and sweet, cock tenting his jeans when you rub him over it.

“Keep doin’ that and I’ll die, sweetheart,” he mumbles, you can’t help but giggle, the sound making him leak more. “I’m serious.”

“You mean you’ll cum?” You tease now, pulling back and turning so you’re on your knees in the passenger.

Satoru’s heart pounds in his chest, he’s experienced of course but thinking of you sucking him is like some insane dream that he can’t believe exists. He tries to keep it together, brushing your hair back when it falls to the side like a curtain hiding your pretty face, your movements firmer over his thickness.

“Yeah, I’ll cum,” he manages to breathe out.

“Good.” Satoru’s lips part when you undo his belt buckle, his own chest rising and falling with his quick breaths.

“Thought you said only once?” He taunts, when you eagerly unzip him, pressing your thighs together with need. You scoff, rolling your eyes and then swallowing nervously when you see his cock.

“I never said that. You just thought it.”

You had it inside of you, but you didn’t really see it, pink tip leaking so much pre, it’s fat and thick, so big you know it’ll choke you. You spit down on it, earning his surprised gasp, swirling the stream of spit around his cockhead then ever so slowly, feeling his hand entangle in your silky locks.

“Mmm!” His little moan makes you ache.

“Haven’t had a good blow job I bet,” you taunt him like he did. Satoru snorts then, but once your lips wrap his tip, he’s whining out. You giggle as you pull back, and he grips your hair harder, tugging you up. “You just whimpered.”

“Fuck off,” he grumbles, cock already pushing more milky drops out of that little hole. “Thought you hated me?”

You don’t, not really.

“Don’t you hate me?” You ask, he lowers his gaze.

No.

“You’re just a mean ass brat, that’s all,” he says softly, touching your bottom lip and feeling the plush of it. His hands are rough from years of football, slipping across your skin. “The emo girl, so edgy.”

“Edgy?” It’s too intimate, making you swallow nervously. “Do you want me to suck you, Satoru?”

His answer is a little nod, before he says something fucking dumb, and you lavish his tip with your tongue, swirling it around and sucking hard enough to make him cry out before he can control it, arching his hips up for more of your mouth. You push your mouth down deeper, taking as much of his thick cock as you can, gagging yourself a little and making that drool spill.

“Oh f-fuckkk,” he’s moaning now, feeling you sucking him up and down deeper into your throat as the rain pummels the windshield out side. You feel tears pricking your eyes when he hits the back of your throat – he’s thick and long and you can’t fit him all at this angle, but you make sure to fucking try. “Just like that.”

Your spit coats him and makes him glossy as your hand moves in time with every messy stroke, filthy suctioned pops and the gagging in your throat mixing with that thrumming rain in the background and Satoru’s breathy cries. Those fingers tighten in your hair, forcing you down even harder as you work him, hearing every hitched breath escaping his lips.

“That’s it, g-god you’re s’good,” he’s babbling, every time he hits your throat your core clenches, cunt dripping, soaking through your panties. He senses it or something, reaching around to rub his fingers over them, cursing softly. “Ya this wet suckin’ me off, soaked…”

You want to tell him to fuck off – that’s sort of your love language – but you are that needy, that desperate, every glide of his cock in your throat making you choke on him. You breathe through your nose, letting him fuck up into it, stroking your clit with his impossibly long arm reached around your arched ass.

Your throat flutters around his cock, he’s so sensitive then, feeling your little throat stretch, forcing your head down even deeper. Your long nails dig into the denim, pressing against his thighs, ass working up and down, dying for more when he just teases your slit instead.

“Mnh…” You’re moaning, your eyes watering with the stretch, with the need building for the boy you loved.

Love.

You still love him, you know it even as you act so casually, when it’s intimate, all of it – Satoru’s ragged groans, the drumming rain, your slick sounds as you choke on his length. His salty pre pulsing against your tongue as you drag him closer, your own drool slipping down your hand, feeling him thicken in your mouth.

Satoru arches against the leather seat, his trembling fingers of his left hand guide your head, while his right ones continue to toy with the mess your panties have become, snug on your plump pussy. 

“Taking all of me?” He huffs out, your answer is a whimper.  “Oh sweetheart, y-you…” His voice breaks when you glance up through smudged eyelashes, your dark mascara trailing down your cheeks from where you’ve gagged on him. “You’re so goddamn pretty like this.”

“Mmm…” You pull back a bit, spit collected in strings as you look up at him – his face is flushed, pupils blown dark, lips parted, he’s utterly wrecked. “I want your cum in my mouth.”

You’re a demon, Satoru is sure of it.

You’re sucking that throbbing cock again harder, taking him even deeper than you thought you could, when he yanks you up suddenly by your hair. You gasp – thrown on his lap so quickly you’re dizzy, he drags you down for a kiss, lapping his own cock off your lips. “No, I wanna cum inside that pretty cunt.”

Satoru lifts your hips up so you’re on your knees and grips his sticky cock at the base, his pretty tip already spurting white when it bumps your clit, you’re clinging to him, thighs shaking.

“Satoru, what are you doing…”

That cock gliding against puffy folds sends hot waves of pleasure through your mind, making you whimper against his mouth as rain drums harder on the roof. The windows are completely fogged now, the car humid, leather sticking to your thighs as you sink down on him, that gear shift pressing on your thigh when he sinks inside, stretching you out.

“Too tight,” he murmurs, pulling back and spitting on his tip, smearing it before slipping it back to your hole, pushing in a couple more inches. “Take me, go ahead, lemme see you.”

Your nails press into his shoulders over that jacket as you move just a bit, angling so you’re gliding easier and easier on him, ragged little gasp escaping as he shoves you down even harder, filling you to the fucking brim suddenly, both of you gasping out, your head falling back for his mouth to press kisses up it.

"Fuck – so deep I – ah!" You're so full, stretched around him in the cramped space, your back hitting the steering wheel as he grips your hips and guides you down further. "S'too much, I can't–"

"You can," he breathes out, forehead pressed to yours, blue eyes hazy and vulnerable in a way that makes your chest ache. "Take all of me, sweetheart. Please..."

That undoes you.

‘Please.’

You're riding him now, gliding up and down on his lengthy cock, steering wheel against your ass, his hands lifting you and slamming you down. They're everywhere he can reach, almost fumbling in his eagerness to claim every part of you. Grippin' him too tight, you're not stretched enough to take him so she's strangling his cock.

His hands slip from your ass up to your tits, one gripping and squishing it while the other moves to your throat – like he can't decide where to touch, like he needs all of you underneath his fingers then and there. Rain streaks down the windows in fat drops, the world outside completely disappearing.

It's just his cock hitting that spot inside you that makes you see stars, just his eyes, just his lips, just that tip grinding on your cervix, white soft hair over his cock grinding your neglected clit. You reach down to toy with it when he grips your wrist, leaning back and putting his thumb there instead.

"Need your cute little clit played with?" He huffs those words out, you nod eagerly, no pretense left, whining and grinding. "There you go, look at you riding me."

"Gonna cum," you gasp out, nails digging into his shoulders through his shirt, little circles working faster. "Satoru, I'm–"

"Look at me," he demands, hand cupping your jaw, forcing your eyes to his. "Wanna see you fall apart on my cock."

You do just as he asks then, like you're obeying his soft, sweet little demand – clenching around him as pleasure crashes through you, and he follows with a broken moan of your name, spilling inside you as he pulls you impossibly closer. His cum spills down him with that gravity, but he keeps lifting you and lowering you gently, his lips never leaving yours.

You fall into the kisses, into the aftermath that’s so heavy, the very atmosphere so thick with tension that both of you can't breathe, the heat still blaring, bringing a slick of sweat to your skin. His palms reach underneath your top, slipping up your spine soothingly, his eyes fucked out and dilated.

What does he say?

What do you say?

You're both breathing hard, bodies still connected so intimately the lightening pattering of rain the only sound now aside from that, you hear your own racing heart just thudding in your ears. The rough pad of his thumb traces your cheekbone, wiping away a little streak of smudged mascara, and there's something in his expression that makes your heart ache.

"That was…" He starts to say something, but it wouldn’t even come close to describing what just happens. He just… trails off slowly, swallowing

‘Just sex’, ‘just fun’, you keep thinking, waiting for him to say it. ‘Such a fun hookup’. Just–

"Y-yeah," you whisper, climbing off him before he can finish, before you hear words that'll shatter you, your guard is already down, you’re already too terrified of what may be the truth.

You thought you could have control, but you pounced him, you sucked him and begged for him to cum inside you again. You’re struggling to control your racing mind then as the leather squeaks underneath your movements. You adjust your clothes with shaking hands, fumbling with your zipper, slipping over to the other side, just lost in your own fucking brain.

Does he feel anything? Or is this just another conquest, another girl in his car. Some fun with a girl of his past?

"Wait–" His hand catches your wrist, but you're already reaching for the door handle, gathering your books in your arms.

"It's fine, Satoru. The rain... it's all lightened up now."

"Just wait a minute, fuck," he exhales, tugging you close against him, you still feel cum dripping from your cunt, so intimate - something about it, about how he just looked at you, even now, cupping your face, drowning in you. "What are you doing tonight, hmm? Drawing me as a cat in some emo ass outfit, staring out your window all sad?"

You can't help but laugh a little, the tension easing just the smallest bit. You’re shaking your head. "No, I’m not drawing you tonight."

"Ah," he adjusts himself, sighing, looking as the rain eases, a light drizzle now. "I have a party tonight, maybe we can redo that beer pong match?"

"You want your ass beat again?" He smirks, it's easy again, so much fucking left unsaid between you both however, tension filling his little car.

"If you think you can beat me, by all means sweetheart," he tilts your chin up, sighing now. "We didn't talk about..."

"I'm on the pill," you murmur softly, clearing your throat and seeing his eyes dart to your skirt, his thumb slipping up your inner thigh, touching the creamy drips slipping down. "And I'm clean, I've never not used protection."

"I haven't either," a faint blush decorates his cheeks.

"Really?"

"Yeah, we seem to... get caught up," he manages to say, as if he doesn't just wanna cum inside you for all kinds of reasons. Possessive, insane fucking reasons. "So I am too."

"That's good to know, like if you ever…” You trail off, blushing now. “You know, hook up regularly with someone else... Will you tell me?" You ask, brushing your hair back.

"Yeah, of course," as if there's anyone but you in his fucking mind now. "Would you tell me?"

"Not much chance of that happening, I don't like people," he chuckles, then the laugh grows, throwing his head back, earning your scowl. "What is so funny, hmm?"

"You hate me but you sure have no problem cumming all over my cock," his hand entangles in the nape of your neck, tugging and making you gasp out in pleasure. "Or do you actually like me?"

"Psh, you wish," you love his ass, even now you fucking know it, but you can't let him know. That little girl deep inside you still hurts. "Do you even like me?"

"Maybe I do," he smiles too fucking cute. You roll your eyes at him. "You think I don't like you? Should I show you how much, pretty girl?"

"Pretty girl, you're so cringe Toru... I mean... Satoru," you called him that name you did as a kid, it makes his heart hammer in his chest.

"Can't call ya pretty?”

"I mean you can," he chuckles again. "What!?"

"Your blush, it's all over your neck, even your chest," he says all husky, tugging at your top and exhaling, studying the blush your skin has taken. "Blush everywhere, you like me calling you pretty."

You do.

But fuck saying that.

"I'm just overheated," he smirks, lidded gaze penetrating through you, the soft sloshing of mist still making noise on the road around you both. "That's all."

"Mmm, sure sweets," you gather your things carefully, trying to avoid that knowing, cocky ass gaze of Satoru Gojo's. "Will you come?"

"You're actually inviting me huh?" He nods. "All right, what time?"

"Ten ish, come whenever, I'll be ready for the rematch."

*****

Seeing Satoru at that party tonight was a rude awakening.

The girls and guys around him as always, they’d just nailed a game – yeah, you watched it again, damn near incognito in your hoodie, the way he ran across that damn field was more than impressive, it was insane. He so clearly had fun too, seeing him after with all his friends and the entirety of the college almost cheering.

Tonight was absolutely a celebration of the team, and a celebration of Satoru himself. Bright, laughing, beautiful Gojo, catching sight of you from across that room, lips parted ever so slightly, before smiling at you. You’re nervous suddenly, you’ve worn this little red plaid skirt and another pair of fishnets.

You’re praying he’ll rip those too.

It’s toxic of you, you’d just had him inside of you in the car earlier, but all you can think is how much more you need – let him fill you constantly, let him touch you anywhere he wants. Yet you realize when you look around the crowded frathouse, with the music blaring and everyone hyped up from the game?

You’ll never, ever fit in, never be that cute girl by his side who is murmuring something in his ear. You’re not peppy, you’re not ‘full of school spirit’ , you're just a girl hopelessly in love with a boy you don’t know anymore. You really do want to learn more of him, you can’t help but think of how badly you do.

Can you let go of the past with no explanation?

Are you overthinking it?

You’re so lost in thought you don’t notice a guy asking you to dance with him, he’s all sweaty and his cheeks are flushed, you straight up say – no – and then say that to the next guy that comes up too, as Satoru tries to make a way over to you. You’re so uncomfortable then, you can hardly take it.

He’s so far away, in too many ways, every motion closer he’s stopped by someone gushing over him. Satoru Gojo, the most popular boy in school, whose eyes keep locking on you. Instead of coming over to him however, you just go grab a drink hastily, downing it and feeling tears burn your eyes.

Why?

Why were you this affected? And you chose it, asking him to come inside you not once but twice, kissing him and initiating it, begging to suck him. He brings out things that are too hard to admit, too hard to let rise to the surface, making you remember the girl you were back then, when you came really far to be the woman you are now.

“Sweetheart,” his murmur touches you, his hand on your waist, you blush nervously, looking around. “You came.”

“Um, yeah, Satoru, they'll think…”

“Think what?” His words make you tremble, tilting your chin up a bit when he gets called over again. He sighs, rolling his eyes and looking back.

“Speech, speech!”

“They’re annoying,” he grumbles. You shake your head, trembling lips curving in a weird attempt at a smile.

“Go ahead all star, give ‘em the speech.”

You watch a bit of it before you can’t anymore, maybe he’s looking at you still? You’re not sure. Every time you peek up his smile lights the entire room, people are cheering loudly, chanting his name. He owns them entirely, owns this moment.

You turn and someone bumps into you harshly, beer spills onto your skirt. “Oh shit, I’m so sorry!”

“It’s fine,” you mutter, grabbing paper towels and dabbing at the wet stain.

“Let me help?” He asks, you feel like crying from something this dumb!?

What’s wrong with you?

“No, it’s fine really,” you clean yourself up, heading through the crowded room of bodies slowly, making your way, looking over your shoulder and losing sight of him.

You shouldn’t have come.

The party's too loud, too crowded, and you find yourself slipping out to the back porch, then further – to the patch of grass behind the frat house where the noise fades to a dull thrum. You're tugging at the ripped hem of your skirt, a little nervous habit you’ve grown to have, looking up at the sky, trying to find constellations through the light pollution.

You remember that night so vividly.

"Running away from my party?"

You don't even turn around, somehow you hoped he'd follow you out, feeling his warmth permeate from behind you. You lean back just a bit against him, eyes fluttering shut at how good it feels, strong hands pressing into your arms gently, slipping down and leaving goosebumps in their wake.

"Your party's giving me a headache," you mutter, not looking at him as he drops his hands, before sitting down beside you on the grass, you sit next to him, hugging yourself around your knees. "Too many people pretending to like each other."

"Grungy as ever," he teases, but there's something affectionate in his voice. He lies back on the soft bed of grass, hands behind his head, looking up. "Remember when we used to do this?"

Of course you do.

“Yeah, I remember,” you admit, resting your chin on your knees, so many feelings coming to the surface.

It’s a quiet, comfortable silence as the breeze gently blows your hair around your face, coolness brushing against your bare skin, doing nothing to calm how overheated you are, how many words are threatening to spill. Things you have been trying to hold back, to try to compartmentalize in your head.

You’re thinking too much about a physical connection, seeing how Satoru was and how you were? You’re too different, how would you fit into his world? And would he even ever want you to?

"You pointed out Cassiopeia,” he breaks the silence, you gasp, looking down at him, catching the glint of his pretty eyes in the night. “You said you wanted to study astronomy, map the stars, and get as far away from here as possible."

Your chest tightens. "You remember that?"

"I remember everything about you," he whispers, you tremble now, feeling emotions hot and heavy in your throat. “Every moment.”

“How? With your life now do you… remember me?”

“How could I not?” He tugs you down to lay next to him on that soft grass tickling your skin, you turn to your side and look at him. "So what happened? Why aren't you at some observatory right now, doing what you love? Or do you just… enjoy drawing them instead? That’s okay too, you know."

You laugh softly, shaking your head. "Life happened, I didn’t get the best grades for a scholarship. Money happened. But also yes, I did end up falling in love with art.”

Satoru brushes his fingers across your cheek, sighing. “You’re amazing at it.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” his gaze dips to your lips. “Do you ever draw the stars anymore?”

“No, I guess I don’t," you finally look up at him, fingers gripping around his wrist now, thumb brushing the veins that press up. "It was more you that I loved to…”

Shit.

His lips part as you trail off, shaking your head.

It was never the stars you loved, it was the boy who looked at them.

“What about you?” You ask instead, not ready to say it all. “You were supposed to go to MIT. Your family had it all planned out I think, from young even."

His jaw tightens, eyes narrowing a bit. "Yeah, well. Fuck his plans."

You blink a bit, sensing his pain. "Oh, Satoru… I…"

“You don’t know, I never told you,” he turns back to look up at the stars, eyes fluttering shut. “All I was supposed to do was study business, finance, and take over the ‘family company’. All that bullshit. And that included…”

You lean closer, a hand on his chest, your eyelashes lowering just a bit as you study the boy you love. “Included what?”

You’re so beautiful then, with the glimmery stars as your background, perhaps the prettiest thing Satoru has ever seen, the combination of the two things he’s loved for so long. Your hair falls to the side like a curtain, he brushes the silky tresses back and sighs.

“They wouldn’t let me date you if I wanted to back then, not anyone… not from money. Because they’re fucking shit.”

“Oh,” you blink back tears. “And I…”

“I never wanted to hurt you with them,” he takes his own breath, leaning up on an elbow, bringing his lips so close. “I should have just told you, but then I was so scared, even when I finally got free of them… Well, you hated me.”

“Satoru, I never hated you, not really,” you’re swallowing down your tears now. “I just was hurt.”

“For good reason,” he muses, sighing now. “To answer your question, I’m not at Ivy league because they wanted me there. I want to study what I want, I’m playing ball because I like it, not because they ever wanted that. And I don’t regret it, despite how fucking mad they are."

“How can they be mad? You’re top at everything?”

He laughs without humor. “They’d only be happy if I married a rich girl, gave them heirs immediately, became a stuck up upper crust fuck. No amount of good grades made them proud, or accomplishments. I’m a Gojo, and that’s all I am supposed to be.”

You cup his face now, shaking your head, the warmth of his palm seeps into your bare skin at your waist, hair tickling his collar bone. “You’re much more than that, you’re… you’re Satoru, okay? Former nerd, conceited little shit, annoying ass Satoru.”

He chuckles then, shaking his head at you, sighing. “Yeah?” You just nod, swallowing down your emotions.

“You should have just told me.”

“I know,” he tilts your chin up a bit, tracing the curve of your jaw. “You know one good thing about being here? Being where you are, getting to kiss you again."

Your breath catches. "Don't."

"Don't what?"

You back off, blinking hot tears that slip down your cheeks. "Don't say shit like that when you've got cheerleaders waiting inside for you. When you're this,” you gesture at him, "And I'm still just..."

"Still just the girl who kissed me under the stars?” You shake your head, he’s pulling too many emotions and you don’t know how long you can hold them back. “The pretty artist, the mean little brat that has me fucked up over her?”

“Satoru…”

“The girl who wanted me for me,” his own emotions catch in his throat, swiping a tear that’s just a little black from your mascara. His voice drops an octave, spreading through you like honey. “You’re just the only person who ever made me want to be myself instead of what everyone else wanted?"

You're both quiet then as his words fall from his lips, the distant bass of the party thrumming and fading, the wind gently blowing his soft white hair around him. “I made you want that?”

“You accepted me for who I was, a nerd yeah,” you giggle through your tears, and Satoru laughs with you. “I never regretted anything more than just running away after that kiss. I was so scared of it, of everything I felt with you.”

“I was scared too,” you admit, swiping tears now. “I was mad at you for a long time.”

“Ya still mad?” He asks softly, tugging you onto his lap now, you brace yourself over him, your silhouette shaded by starlight. “I don’t want any of those girls.”

“But they’re-”

“Not you,” he cuts you off now, hands pressing into your hips as he sits up, kissing your brow. “They’re not you. They want the all star, popular, rich Satoru Gojo – they don’t want that skinny little nerd I was.”

He kisses your nose, a sweet little peck, your arms wrap his neck, feeling his cock pressing against your heat and exhaling, eyes locking. “I liked you as the skinny nerd, with your cute little braces. With your big glasses and how you didn’t know how to kiss for shit.”

Satoru glares now, you can’t help but laugh, shaking your head. “You sucked back then too, you were just so pretty I didn’t say so.”

“You’re such an ass!” You playfully push him down onto the ground, only for him to flip your positions, hovering over you – and for just a moment, he's that nervous boy again, and you're that girl who loves him.

The space closes as he leans down, studying your face carefully. “You got much better at it, but I can’t help but be so fucking mad it wasn’t me who taught you.”

“Yeah, I feel the same,” you arch your hips, earning snowy lashes fluttering shut, his breath ghosting against your skin. “All those girls got you first.”

“Guess what?” He lifts a thigh, pressing his cock against your heat – you gasp out at it, biting down at your lip.

“W-what, manwhore fratboy,” he smirks.

“Slutty goth girl.”

“Conceited dick,” you’re arching for more, he pins your wrist to the soft earth below, weight pressing over you. “Say it, then.”

“I am still in love with that girl on the rooftop,” you take a shaky breath, breasts rising and falling then. “I never fell out of love with her. I was just fucking dumb and ran away, and I’m hoping she’ll forgive me, and that she’ll date a conceited jock idiot.”

“He’s still a nerd deep down,” you answer, lips trembling now. “You’re gonna make me mushy, you dick.”

“Good, I want to see mushy, I wanna see what’s under your mean little exterior,” he whispers, pressing again. “Like when you’re a mess underneath me.”

“Satoru…” You drag him down for a kiss, mouths clashing, tongues dancing along each other, the sound of his soft moan and the grass underneath you mixing with your little whimper. “Mmm, Satoru, I fucking love you too. Okay!?”

The words hang in the air between you both.

Satoru just stares at you for a moment, his blue eyes wide and vulnerable in a way you've never seen before. His lips part like he wants to say something, but nothing comes out, closing again, before his Adam's apple bobs up and down, taking a breath.

"You…" His voice cracks. "You still love me?"

“Of course I do dummy,” you whisper, but your own voice is shaking, vision swimming with all of those emotions coming to the surface. His forehead presses to yours, his hands trembling where they cup your face.

"I thought I'd fucked it up so bad that you'd never… that we'd never…"

“No, Satoru, you were just a kid,” you sigh now, tears slipping down your cheek. “I was scared that this was just fun with the weirdo from your past.”

“No, sweetheart,” he shakes his head, swiping more of your tears. “It was never just that.” He laughs then, shaking his head at you. 

“What’s so funny?” You shove at him, glaring as he continues to laugh.

“What an fucking angry love confession that was!?”