Sosa

Pairing: Satoru gojo X F! Reader

Contains: MDNI, EVENTUAL SMUT, soft dom Gojo, Oral (f receiving), slow sex, a tinyyy bit of agnst, bad friend, Geto cameo , fluff, lovebirds in denial.

Summary!! Dragged into a blind double date by her best friend Yumi, Y/N expected awkward conversation and overpriced drinks—what she didn’t expect was Satoru. Charming, aloof, and beautiful in a way that felt dangerous. There’s just one problem. Satoru is falling for someone else—Yumi, the girl he wasn’t supposed to notice.

Part 2>>>

You never meant to say yes.

It all happened so fast, like most things with Yumi do. One minute you were swearing you'd stay in, wearing that one oversized t-shirt that smelled faintly like lavender detergent and denial, and the next she was standing at your door with lip gloss too shiny for reason and a mission too loud to argue with.

"A blind double date," she says, grinning like she’s delivering great news. "You're coming."

You blink from the doorway, socked feet planted on your apartment’s cool wood floor. “Why?”

She rolls her eyes, stepping past you like she owns the place. “Because I can’t go alone. Because I lied and said my best friend was super cute and single and down. Because you owe me for ghosting that rooftop party last weekend.”

You frown. “I had a headache.”

“You had a spreadsheet and a minor existential crisis about turning twenty-five.”

Fair enough.

“I don’t even like blind dates.”

“You like food,” she shoots back, toeing open your closet with her heel. “And you like getting dressed up, even if you pretend not to.”

You don’t argue that. Not when she’s already holding up a black dress you haven’t worn in months—the one that makes your collarbones look sharp and your waist feel small.

Somehow, by the time you’re in her car, you’ve convinced yourself it’s just dinner. Not a date. Not anything that means anything. Just a way to keep Yumi from bringing it up for the next three weeks.

But then you arrive at Summer Blue, a rooftop bar near downtown with velvet curtains, rich lighting, and a view of the skyline that makes you feel like you're stepping into someone else’s night. One where the air smells like citrus and high hopes.

They're already there.

Two guys, tucked into a corner booth where the lighting dips soft and golden like honey. One of them—tall, dark-haired, a little sleepy-looking—is sipping from a glass and watching the room with a kind of stillness that feels practiced. His presence is quiet but heavy, like an unfinished thought. That must be Suguru.

Next to him is the opposite. Leaning back, legs wide, arms stretched across the back of the booth, with snowy white hair that falls carelessly over his forehead. He’s wearing sunglasses inside.

Sunglasses. But then he pushes them up onto his head, and you see his eyes—bright, pale, too blue to be real—and it hits you. Hard.

He’s stupidly handsome. In that chaotic, dangerous, “you’ll ruin my GPA and my life” kind of way.

Satoru.

They both stand when you approach. Suguru offers Yumi a handshake and a polite smile, eyes flickering with a quiet warmth. But Satoru grins like he’s just been handed a game he plans to win.

“You must be Y/N,” he says, his gaze skimming over your face in a way that makes your skin hum. “Cute name.”

You smile, tight. “You don’t look like a Satoru.”

He cocks his head. “What do I look like, then?”

“Someone who wears sunglasses indoors.”

He laughs. Loudly. Like it actually caught him off guard.

“I like her,” he says to no one in particular, lips curving around the edges of a smirk. “She’s got claws.”

You glance at Yumi. She’s already sliding into the seat next to Suguru, laughter bubbling up like it’s been waiting to escape. Their conversation picks up like it never had to start.

Which leaves you beside Satoru.

You settle in, stiff at first. His cologne is clean and sharp, something citrusy beneath the warmth. You focus on the menu to avoid how your thigh brushes his every time you shift.

They talk. You listen.

You offer a few lines here and there—safe ones, nothing too revealing. Satoru asks what you do. You tell him. He nods like he's interested, but you catch the moment he stops listening. He laughs more at Yumi’s jokes than yours. Refills herglass before yours. Always looking across the table, never beside him.

It’s not obvious, but it’s enough.

You sip your wine slower. You try to focus on Suguru, who seems quieter, thoughtful, far more tuned into Yumi than anyone else. It makes sense. She’s magnetic tonight—glowing with that effortless confidence that makes people fall in love in record time.

You don’t blame her. You don’t even blame him. But it still stings. Because when you first sat down, he looked at you like he might actually see you. And now he’s not looking at all.

By dessert, Yumi’s practically in Suguru’s lap. She’s laughing in that full-bodied way that makes other tables glance over, and Suguru, though soft-spoken, doesn’t pull away. You see it. The beginnings of something. Or maybe just a really good first date.

Meanwhile, Satoru checks his phone. You realize he hasn’t asked you a single personal question in the last hour.

The check comes. Suguru reaches for it first, insists on covering it. Yumi mouths wow at you like she’s been proposed to. You force a smile.

Outside, the city hums low, busy and buzzing with Friday-night heat. Yumi’s hand finds your arm as you wait for the car. Satoru says something to Suguru—low, sharp, something that makes him laugh.

You look at Satoru one more time. He catches you. Smiles. And just before you turn away, you catch the flicker of his gaze sliding back to Yumi.

The ride home is quiet until Yumi turns and sighs dramatically.

“So?” she asks. “What’d you think of Satoru?”

You pause. The lights from the city flash against the windows, strobing your face in soft gold and shadow. You think of his grin. His jokes. His eyes. And then you think of how none of it was meant for you.

“He’s... not my type,” you say, gently.

Yumi doesn’t push.

She’s texting Suguru before you’ve even reached the freeway.

You turn toward the window, chin resting on your knuckles. You feel something shift in your chest—barely a tremor, but real.

And you wonder why something you didn’t even want hurts just enough to feel like a bruise.

You try not to think about him. You really do.

Monday comes with the same routine as always: your alarm buzzes too early, your coffee tastes too bitter, and the world outside your window glows that soft blue-gray of a city not quite awake. The date with Satoru and Suguru feels like something that happened in someone else’s life. A movie you watched, not a memory you lived.

You tell yourself it didn’t matter. You barely knew him. He barely looked at you. It shouldn’t linger the way it does, tucked beneath your ribs like a paper cut you keep pressing just to see if it still hurts.

Yumi, on the other hand, is thriving.

She’s been smiling more than usual, texting even more than that. You can always tell when it's Suguru she’s talking to—her posture changes. She sits straighter. Her eyes get a little dreamy, her words a little distracted.

It’s sweet, honestly. And it makes you feel like the side character in someone else’s romance arc.

She tells you about their second date on Wednesday. A gallery opening downtown, modern art and little hors d'oeuvres shaped like abstract nightmares. She wears a red dress and you zip her up with careful fingers, watching her in the mirror as she applies lipstick with hands that don’t shake.

“He’s so thoughtful,” she says softly, and you nod, even though she’s not really talking to you. “Like he sees me. You know?”

You do.

You say goodnight when she leaves, but you don’t turn on the TV or make tea like usual. You sit in the silence of your apartment, bathed in the dim light of your kitchen lamp, and wonder if you’ve ever had that feeling. The being seen.

Your phone buzzes with a work notification. You turn it over, face down.

The week creeps by.

You throw yourself into your job, into projects and timelines and the comfort of checklists. People know you as the dependable one, the calm one, the person who always has a backup plan. You like being that person.

But lately, something feels off. You’ll catch yourself staring out the window a little too long. Getting distracted by things that shouldn't matter—like the memory of Satoru laughing at something Yumi said, or the way his fingers tapped against his glass when he wasn’t paying attention.

You hate that you remember that. You hate even more that he hasn’t messaged. Not even as a friend. Not even as a courtesy. Not that he owed you anything. You remind yourself of that at least three times a day. Still.

Friday night, Yumi’s gone again.

Out with Suguru. You tell her to have fun and mean it, but when the door clicks shut behind her, the quiet feels heavier than usual. You pour yourself a glass of wine. One becomes two.

Somewhere around eleven, you scroll through your photos. Not to look for anything in particular. Just to feel something. And there it is.

A blurry candid that Yumi took at the bar. The four of you, half-smiling, a little tipsy. You and Satoru are barely in frame—his arm behind you on the booth, your body leaning subtly away. Your smile doesn’t reach your eyes. His does, but it’s not for you.

You should delete it. Instead, you turn off your phone.

Saturday, the sun burns bright and careless over the city. You run errands just to get out of the house—groceries, dry cleaning, a new candle you don’t need. The streets buzz with heat and movement. You slip your sunglasses on, earbuds in, music up loud enough to drown your thoughts. And yet— Somewhere between the fruit aisle and the checkout lane, you think you see him.

White hair. Tall frame. That walk—carefree but too aware of his own magnetism. You turn your head too fast, knocking your elbow into a stranger’s basket. They curse under their breath, and by the time you glance back, the man’s already gone.

It wasn’t him. Probably. But your heart still beats wrong in your chest for a few minutes afterward.

That night, Yumi comes home glowing again. She falls onto your couch in a heap of perfume and expensive fabric, sighing like a girl who's been kissed well.

“I think I really like him,” she says, almost shy.

You smile, this time for real. “I can tell.”

She leans her head on your shoulder. “Is that weird? Is it too fast?”

“Not if it feels right.”

And the truth is—he’s good for her. You can tell in the way she smiles. The steadiness in her. Suguru has a calming effect, like he doesn’t need to be the loudest person in the room to hold attention. Yumi’s usually the sun, but with him, she doesn’t have to burn so bright.

“I think Satoru might’ve liked me too, though,” she says absently, not even meaning it as a brag. Just letting it float.

You blink. “What?”

She shrugs. “It’s a vibe I got. Just for a second. You know how some guys are.”

Your stomach turns, slow and quiet. Not in jealousy, just... recognition. Confirmation of something you already knew.

“I’m not worried, though,” she adds, curling closer into your side. “Suguru makes him look invisible.”

You laugh, but it comes out smaller than you expect. Invisible. Maybe that’s how you felt that night too.

Later, as the city quiets and your room dims to nothing but the faint glow of traffic outside your window, you lie awake longer than you should. You think of his voice. The curve of his grin. The way your name didn’t sit on his tongue the way hers did.

You tell yourself it didn’t mean anything. You almost believe it.

The rain starts sometime around noon.

Soft at first. Barely a whisper against your windowpane. But by the time you’re out on the street, it’s turned into that steady, curtain-like kind—the kind that makes people duck under awnings and tighten their scarves and mutter about weather apps being wrong again.

You don’t mind it. Rain feels honest. Quiet. Like the world has decided to soften itself for a few hours.

You’d meant to just grab a coffee. Maybe wander a bit. Something about gray skies makes the city feel smaller, easier to breathe in. But your steps drift, carried by instinct more than intention, until you’re turning onto 9th Street and standing in front of a shop you haven’t been to in months.

Hoshino Books.

It’s the kind of place that smells like cedar shelves and old pages, warm and lived-in. No music playing. Just the gentle hum of a ceiling fan and the muffled sound of traffic from the other side of the glass.

You push open the door, and the little bell above it rings—a soft chime that tugs at memory like a thread.

The shop is nearly empty. A couple of people browsing. Someone at the back in a beanie, sitting on the floor with their nose buried in a thick hardback.

You shake off the rain, fingers brushing water from your coat sleeve. The lighting inside is soft, golden, like it’s been filtered through amber. You let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding.

This is what you need. Just an hour or two to disappear into fiction. Somewhere no one can find you.

Somewhere he definitely wouldn’t be.

And then—

You hear a laugh.

Not loud. Not even fully-formed. Just a huff of amusement, low and familiar and impossible.

You freeze.

Because even if you hadn’t seen him in a week—not in person, not on a screen, not in your dreams where he somehow still grins like he belongs there—you’d know that voice anywhere.

Satoru. You turn slowly.

He’s across the aisle. Leaning lazily against a shelf in the fiction section. One foot crossed over the other, a book open in his hands like it only half-interests him. His white hair is slightly damp, curling at the edges. His sunglasses are perched on top of his head again, like they’re part of him. His coat’s unzipped. Underneath, he’s wearing a plain gray hoodie that somehow makes him look more real.

And then he glances up. Blue eyes. Direct. Sharp.

Recognition flashes across his face like a spark on cold steel.

“…Y/N?”

Your name sounds wrong in his mouth. Not because he says it poorly—he doesn’t. He says it with surprise. A softness. Maybe even something close to regret.

But because the last time he said a name out loud in front of you, it wasn’t yours.

You swallow. “Hi.”

There’s a beat. Two heartbeats, maybe three. Then he smiles. A little crooked, a little unsure.

“Didn’t think I’d see you again,” he says, stepping closer. He closes the book in his hand and slots it back on the shelf without looking.

You try not to notice how tall he is, how easily he moves, how the rain has left a faint flush across his cheeks.

“I come here sometimes,” you say, and your voice doesn’t shake. “Didn’t think you were the bookstore type.”

He smirks. “You thought I couldn’t read?”

“I thought you’d prefer something louder.”

“Fair.” His grin widens a bit. “But sometimes I like it quiet too.”

You both stand there.

The silence stretches, long and uncertain.

You should walk away. You know that. You owe him nothing. You’re not friends. You were barely even dates. But still, there’s something about being near him again—something about the way he’s looking at you now, not past you.

Not toward Yumi.

Just at you.

“Didn’t think you remembered my name,” you say, quieter now.

He flinches—barely. But it’s there.

“I deserved that,” he says, voice lower. Honest.

The air between you shifts. It feels like the bookstore is holding its breath.

You turn, pretending to scan the shelf beside you. Your fingers trail the spines. You stop at one—Norwegian Wood. A story about memory. Loss. People who come in and out of your life like the tide.

He’s still watching you.

“I wasn’t trying to be a dick,” he says suddenly, like the words surprised even him.

You raise an eyebrow. “You weren’t?”

He rubs the back of his neck. “I just... I thought you weren’t into me.”

You laugh once. Sharp. “You thought I wasn’t into you?”

He shrugs, a little defensive now. “You were quiet. Kind of distant. I thought you were just doing Yumi a favor.”

“I was. But that doesn’t mean—” You stop yourself.

Doesn’t mean what?

That he didn’t affect you?

That you noticed every time he looked at Yumi and not at you?

He looks down. “I screwed it up.”

There’s a vulnerability in him now, barely there but real. Like a crack in glass. It’s not an apology, not quite. But it’s something.

You inhale, slow. The smell of old books and rain. The sound of the ceiling fan spinning above. The fact that you don’t owe him forgiveness—but also the fact that part of you still wants to know what might’ve happened if he had looked at you just once the way he looked at her.

You reach for a book at random. Hand it to him.

“You’d like this one,” you say.

He takes it without looking at the cover. Just watches you.

“Guess I’ve got some reading to do,” he says.

“Guess you do.”

You brush past him. Your shoulder grazes his sleeve. He doesn’t move.

And you don’t look back.

Not yet.

You don’t expect him to text you.

But he does.

Not that night. Not even the next day.

It comes two mornings later—midway through your commute, while you're sandwiched between strangers on the train, earbuds in, trying not to make eye contact with anyone.

Unknown Number

heyit’s satorubookstore was a surprise. you looked good in the rainmind if i send a book rec your way sometime?

You stare at it longer than necessary. You even lock your phone and unlock it again just to make sure you didn’t imagine it.

Your heart skips—annoyingly, involuntarily—and you hate that your first instinct isn’t to delete the message.

You wait almost an hour before responding.

I didn’t give you my number.

The reply comes instantly.

yumi did wanted to return the favor. figured i owed you something also wanted to prove i can read books that don’t have explosions

You actually snort at that.

And against your better judgment, you reply.

I like stories that feel like bruises.Quiet ones.

This time, he takes a little longer to answer.

you looked like one the other night a bruise, I mean

the kind that doesn’t show up till laterYou don’t respond after that.But you think about it all day.

By the end of the week, it becomes something of a rhythm.

A message here. A sarcastic observation there. Nothing overt. Nothing intense. Just this slow circling, like you’re both walking the rim of something deep, peeking over the edge without quite falling.

He never pushes. You never invite. But still, the tether stretches between your phones like an invisible thread.

You don’t tell Yumi. You don’t know how to. This isn’t anything, not really. Just two people who happened to be in the same place, and then again, and then again—until the randomness of it started to feel deliberate.

But sometimes, you find yourself rereading his messages before bed. Sometimes, you picture his eyes from the bookstore—the way they softened when they found yours.

Sometimes, you want to text him first. You never do.

It’s a Thursday when he invites you out. You almost say no. But the day’s been heavy with clouds, your brain fogged from too much time staring at your laptop, and you’re craving something that feels like breath.

He sends the name of a café tucked behind a used record shop—nothing trendy or loud, just quiet and narrow and easy to miss if you weren’t looking.

You find him there, seated by the window, coffee in front of him, hair a mess from the rain. He looks up when you enter. No grin this time. Just a small, surprised smile, like he wasn’t sure you’d actually come.

“You showed.”

“I said I would.”

“I thought maybe I imagined that part.”

You take the seat across from him and let the steam from your drink warm your cold fingers. The café smells like cinnamon and rain-soaked wood. The lighting is soft—yellowed and sleepy.

He watches you for a beat too long before speaking again.

“You have this way of disappearing.”

You tilt your head. “You’ve only met me twice.”

“Three times now.”

“Still doesn’t make you an expert.”

“No,” he says, smiling now. “But you’re hard to read. That much, I’m sure of.”

You sip your drink. “That bothers you?”

He leans back, fingers curled around his mug. “A little.”

You glance away. There’s something dangerously easy about talking to him now. Something that’s either going to turn into nothing—or everything.

He’s wearing a simple hoodie again, dark gray, sleeves pushed up. There’s a scrape on one of his knuckles, and your eyes catch on it before you realize you’re staring.

He notices. “Basketball game got messy. Suguru plays dirty.”

You nod, not trusting yourself to say anything light.

There’s a pause. Then—

“You were right, by the way,” he says. “About the books.”

You blink. “What?”

“Stories that feel like bruises. Quiet ones. I’ve been reading one you’d like. It’s slow. Kind of sad.”

“You’re reading something sad?”

“It’s not my natural habitat, but I’m trying,” he shrugs. “Feels a little like you. The kind of story that takes a while to get under your skin.”

You can’t look at him when he says it. You stir your coffee, like it matters.

He doesn’t press.

That’s the thing with Satoru: he could be so much—loud, arrogant, cutting—but when he’s still like this, he’s almost disarming. The way a sharp blade can sometimes look like silver in the right light.

He clears his throat. “So what’s your favorite sad book?”

You raise your eyes to his. “The Bell Jar.”

“Oof. That’s not just sad, that’s devastating.” He shakes his head. “No wonder you look at people like you already know how they’ll leave.”

That makes your breath catch. You don’t know what to say to that. You don’t know why he sees it.

He opens his mouth like he wants to say more, but doesn’t. Instead, he shifts, pulling a small book from his coat pocket and sliding it across the table.

“I brought you something.”

You stare at it, surprised. It’s worn and clearly used—no cover sleeve, spine bent like it’s been loved hard.

You flip to the first page. The Unbearable Lightness of Being.

“Thought you might like it,” he says, a little too casual. “There’s this line near the end—‘The only truly serious question is whether to kill yourself or not.’ Cheery stuff.”

You snort despite yourself.

“It’s not that bleak,” he adds. “It’s... delicate. Sad in a smart way.”

You run your fingers over the cover.

“Why give me this?”

He shrugs, eyes on you again. “Because I wanted to. Because I think there’s a version of you that lives in this book.”

The silence after that isn’t awkward. It’s thick. Heavy with everything unsaid.

You don’t speak until the rain starts again outside—light at first, then louder. You both look out the window at the same time, and for a moment, your reflections overlap in the glass.

You can feel his attention drift to you. Not like it did before—not with half an eye on someone else. He’s looking at you now.

And you’re afraid you might look back.

It starts with a book.

The one he gave you—worn at the edges, dog-eared like it passed through other hands before yours. You read it in pieces. On the train. Before bed. In the lonely silence after Yumi leaves for work. You underline a few lines, fold some pages, leave faint smudges on the margins. Not because you want to mark them—but because you're holding it tighter than you mean to.

One night, you text him:

The book is cruel. In a way I understand too well.

He replies less than a minute later.

yeah i think that’s why i wanted you to read it

You don’t answer right away.

Your room is dark. Your window slightly open. Rain is dripping somewhere—on leaves, on concrete, on glass. You stare at your phone. You wonder if he’s up.

And then you call him. You don’t plan it. You don’t rehearse. You don’t think.

It rings once. Twice.

“...Hello?”

His voice is hushed. Not groggy—just low. Like he was already awake.

You hesitate. “Sorry. I shouldn’t have—”

“No, no. It’s fine. I just... wasn’t expecting to hear your voice.”A pause. Then, quieter:“Hi.”

You let out a breath. “Hi.”

A longer silence stretches between you. But it doesn’t feel awkward. It feels like something being held in both hands, carefully.

You shift under your blanket, phone tucked close to your ear. “You read that book and thought of me?”

“I didn’t mean it in a bad way.”

“I didn’t say it was bad.”

He’s quiet for a second. Then he exhales.

“There’s this part I kept rereading,” he says. “Where she’s standing in front of all those fig trees—each fig a different version of her life—and she realizes if she waits too long, they’ll all rot and fall.”

“I remember that line,” you whisper.

“Yeah. Me too. Felt... familiar.”

You press your eyes shut, picturing it—the slow rot of imagined futures. The ache of wanting so many lives and choosing none.

“Do you ever feel like that?” you ask. “Like you’ve wasted something without even knowing what?”

“Every damn day,” he admits. “I think that’s why I talk so much. To fill the silence. To pretend I’m not stuck in my own head.”

You smile faintly, turning to face the window. “You never seemed like the type.”

“That’s the trick,” he says. “People like me are always hiding in plain sight.”

The rain picks up outside, tapping gently against your sill.

“What would you do,” he murmurs, “if no one was watching? If there were no figs to rot?”

You think about it. “Disappear. Just for a while. Not forever. Just... long enough to remember who I am when I’m not being watched.”

You hear him shift—maybe lying back now. “I think I’d follow you.”

The silence after that sentence is different. He doesn’t laugh to soften it. Doesn’t brush it off. Your fingers tighten around your phone.

“Why?” you ask quietly.

“I don’t know,” he says. “Maybe because... being near you doesn’t feel like pretending.”

You don’t answer. You don’t know how. It’s too soon, too tender, too dangerous. And yet—you stay on the line. He doesn’t hang up.

For a long time, neither of you speak. Just the soft sound of his breathing, and the rain, and your own heartbeat pushing against your ribs like it wants out.

Eventually, you fall asleep with the phone still pressed to your ear. And in the morning, you’ll wake up to a quiet “goodnight” he whispered after you stopped answering.

The next time you see him, it’s not planned.

Not really. Yumi drags you to one of Suguru’s low-key gatherings—more “wine and weird records” than loud party. You think about saying no, but it’s been a heavy week. The kind that lingers in your shoulders and makes your apartment feel too quiet. You need a distraction.

So you go.

The place is a loft somewhere in Nakameguro—brick walls, records scattered like confetti, an old turntable in the corner humming low jazz. Satoru’s already there when you arrive, sitting on the floor with a drink in his hand, legs stretched out in front of him like he owns the room without trying.

His eyes catch yours immediately. It’s subtle—just a glance, a half-smile—but it lands like thunder beneath your ribs.

You look away first.

Yumi is busy catching up with Suguru. There’s a girl beside Satoru now, too. She’s laughing at something he said, leaning in just a little too much. You recognize her from before—someone orbiting their circle. You don’t know her name, but the way she touches his arm tells you she wants to be known.

And the worst part?

He lets her.

At least at first. But then he sees you again—across the room, your back pressed to a bookshelf, wine glass untouched in your hand.

He excuses himself from the girl gently, politely, and then he’s walking toward you. And your breath—damn your breath—actually hitches.

“Didn’t think I’d see you here,” he says softly.

“You’re not as surprising as you think,” you reply.

That makes him grin.

But there’s something quieter behind it tonight. Less teasing. More focused.

“You okay?” he asks after a beat. “You look...”

“Tired?”

“Not tired,” he says. “Far away.”

You glance down at your glass. “Just thinking.”

“Dangerous habit.”

You don’t smile at that. And he notices.

You feel the shift between you—barely there, like a change in pressure before a storm. He steps closer, just enough for your arms to almost touch. The music from the record player croons something sad and slow, and the chatter around you fades.

“Want to get out of here for a second?” he asks.

You hesitate. “Where?”

“Just the balcony. You look like you need air.”

You should say no. You should.

But you follow him anyway.

Outside, the city glows beneath the early night. Neon reflections blur across wet rooftops. The balcony is narrow, barely wide enough for the two of you. You lean against the railing. He stands beside you, close but not touching.

It’s quiet for a while.

Then he says, “She’s not my type, by the way.”

You don’t answer.

“I saw you looking,” he adds, more softly. “And I don’t want you thinking—”

“Satoru.”

He stops.

You glance at him, tone even. “You don’t owe me an explanation.”

His jaw works for a moment. “Maybe not. But I still want to give one.”

You look back out at the sky.

“Do you do that often?” you ask. “Say what people want to hear?”

His eyes find you again. “Not with you.”

You don’t believe him. But you want to. And maybe that’s worse.

You feel the heat of his body beside yours. The way the air changes when someone wants to touch you but doesn’t. Your breath fogs faintly in the cool air, curling into the night.

“I’ve been thinking about you,” he says quietly.

You swallow. “Don’t.”

“Why not?”

“Because you’re not supposed to.”

He turns toward you then—really turns. His shoulder brushes yours.

“Then why are you here?” he asks. “With me?”

You don’t have an answer. Or maybe you have too many. The space between you narrows.

He doesn’t kiss you. Not yet. But his hand lifts, brushing a strand of hair from your cheek. His fingers linger for a second too long. His eyes fall to your mouth, and your pulse spikes.

You step back. Too fast. His hand drops.

You take a breath. “I should get back inside.”

He nods. But his voice is low when he says, “I’ll see you soon?”

You don’t say yes. But you don’t say no either.

Inside, the girl from before is laughing again—this time with Suguru. She’s spinning one of his records. Yumi is curled into the couch, cheeks flushed with wine, eyes bright.

You go to her. Sit beside her.

And that’s when you hear it. From across the room, Satoru says something. Laughs. But your name doesn’t fall from his mouth.

“Yumi,” he says, to someone who’s not her.

You freeze. You look up. He wasn’t talking to Yumi. He was looking at you.

Your name is not Yumi.

But that’s the one he said. His smile falters instantly. Your heart drops like a stone in water. The girl beside him glances between you, confused. You don’t stay long after that.

breakfast/lunch/dinner has been served!

P: TOJI X F!READER X SHIU

CW; MNDI, SMUT, Making out, three way kiss, fingering, yes Toji and shiu kiss too DUHHH

Toji’s lips were rough and familiar, always tasting faintly like smoke and something darker. You were pinned between him and Shiu on the leather couch, the air thick with tension, cologne, and lust. Shiu's fingers rested on your jaw, turning your face toward him just as Toji pulled away to watch.

“Don’t be shy,” Shiu murmured, lips brushing yours, eyes half-lidded and dangerous.

You didn’t get a chance to respond—he kissed you slow and deep, his tongue sliding past your lips, coaxing yours into a messy rhythm that had your thighs pressing together. His hand dropped to your thigh, palm warm and steady, but your mind went blank the second Toji joined in.

His mouth met the side of your neck, then trailed up, lips skimming your jaw, and suddenly both of them were on you—Shiu still tasting your mouth while Toji kissed the corner of it. Then Shiu pulled back slightly, letting Toji take your lips next, and the way their mouths moved around yours in sync made your whole body tremble.

Toji grabbed your chin, tugging it upward. "Tongue out, baby."

You obeyed, breath hitching. He licked into your mouth while Shiu pressed kisses along your collarbone, fingers trailing beneath your top.

Toji’s mouth was still on yours when his fingers slid under your waistband, rough calloused tips teasing over your slick folds. You jolted, a soft moan swallowed by his tongue.

“Already this wet?” Toji rasped against your lips, dragging two fingers up to circle your clit slowly, deliberately.

Shiu smirked beside you, his lips brushing your ear. “Greedy little thing… can’t even pick who to kiss first, huh?” His hand cupped your jaw, turning you so he could claim your mouth again.

The kiss with Shiu was deeper, slower—his tongue stroking yours in lazy, filthy swipes—while Toji worked you open, one thick finger sliding inside you, then two. The stretch had you whining into Shiu’s mouth.

Toji’s pace was rough, deliberate, curling his fingers up just right as his thumb pressed hard on your clit. “That’s it… take my fingers, baby.”

Your hips rocked against his hand without thinking, chasing the pressure. Shiu broke the kiss just to watch, his eyes dark. “Look at her—fuck, Toji, she’s squeezing you so tight.”

Toji grinned, leaning over to kiss Shiu right above your parted lips, the two of them tasting each other while you trembled between them. Your breath caught in your throat. The sight of Toji and Shiu tangled in each other’s mouths, messy and lowly groaning against your skin, had your knees buckling.

"Fuck," you whispered.

Their tongues tangled in a messy, wet kiss, and when Toji pulled back, he licked his lower lip and muttered, “She’s close. Feel how she’s shaking?”

Shiu’s hand trailed down your stomach, joining Toji’s at your core. He pressed his fingers to your clit, rubbing tight circles while Toji fucked his fingers in and out of you, curling them deep.

“Come for us,” Shiu whispered against your lips, kissing you again—soft, coaxing—while Toji growled in your ear, “Let go, baby. Wanna feel you soak my hand.”

The combined pressure made your back arch, your body tightening before the orgasm crashed over you, your moan muffled against Shiu’s mouth. Toji’s fingers didn’t stop until you were trembling, slick dripping down to his palm.

When he finally pulled his fingers out, he lifted them to Shiu’s mouth. “Taste her.”

Cw: ansgt but you get to ur own happy ending kinda, gojo cameo

a/n: based of a true story someone once told me

You met Toji when his world was falling apart. His father had just died, his mother was barely sober enough to remember what day it was, and the streets he roamed offered no comfort. But then there was you.

Bright-eyed, too gentle for the world he came from, too warm to ignore. He hated how much he liked you. At first, he pushed you away. Then he stopped pretending. You were the first person to ever look at him like he mattered—not as a fighter, not as a burden, not as someone to fix.

Just him.

And when he broke—when he punched through walls and bruised his knuckles and locked himself in silence—you stayed. You held him in silence. You made instant ramen for him in your tiny apartment. You curled into him when he cried, even if he never admitted it.

He loved you. God, he loved you. The kind of love that was messy and consuming and all he had to give. But life doesn’t always wait for people like Toji to heal.

It started small. Missed texts. Fewer calls. A distance he couldn't explain. He no longer laughed the same. He was haunted by the idea of becoming someone better—but not knowing how. And slowly, Toji shut down.

"I'm fine," he said too many times.

You stayed as long as you could. You gave him time, space, patience. But love isn’t enough when someone refuses to let it in. One night, you sat across from him and told him, “I miss the you who used to come back to me.”

And he just stared. So you left. Not out of anger. Just… heartbreak.

You met Satoru Gojo at work. He was different. Loud. Bright. Too charming for his own good. But he saw your pain. And he stayed. He held your hand the day you gave birth to your daughter, Hina, and said, “She has your eyes.”

He loved you in a safer way. A quieter, more consistent love. He didn’t fill the empty place Toji left, but he didn’t need to. You’d sealed that part away, like a chapter closed.

Toji married too. You didn’t know the details—just bits from mutual friends. A quiet wedding. A son. A different life.

It was a Sunday evening. You were dressed in a soft yellow dress, your hair tied up in a way Satoru said made you look like summer. Hina was in a matching dress, holding your hand, giggling as you walked into the restaurant.

Then the door opened behind you, and the air shifted.

You turned. Toji walked in with his wife and son. Your heart stopped.

He hadn't changed much. Older, yes. Wiser in the eyes, a little softer in the edges. His son looked just like him—same walk, same quiet stare. His wife was elegant. The kind of woman who knew how to stay composed.

He saw you. His gaze didn’t falter.

And for a moment—everything stopped. The clinking of glasses, the chatter, the soft piano music. It was like you were seventeen again, in his hoodie, sitting on a park bench with the weight of the world on your backs and the promise of forever in your hands.

But now you stood with your daughter. And he stood with his son. You nodded once. A soft smile. One that said: I see you. I remember. And he gave a slow nod back.

Just as Satoru looped his arm around your waist and leaned in to whisper, “They’re calling our name.”

You looked away first.

Toji watched you go. And for a fleeting second, he wondered what would’ve happened if he had stayed soft for you.

You never saw him again. But in a quiet part of your heart, sealed under years of dust and memory, the boy you once loved still lived. Not bitterly. Not painfully.

art credits to lilyxxssi on X!

PAIRING: Bartender!Nanami X Showgirl!Reader

SUM! At the Copacabana, a glamorous Tokyo nightclub, a showgirl and a quiet bartender fall into a secret romance. But in a world of obsession, danger, and power, not all love stories survive the spotlight.

CW: Angst, Major character Death, Angst no comfort, some fluff.

The Copacabana was the kind of place that swallowed men whole.

You could hear it in the hum of jazz pouring from the stage, in the clink of glasses behind the bar, in the sharp pop of a champagne cork right before someone's luck turned. It was Tokyo’s secret jewel, nestled in the heart of a war-brushed city trying desperately to remember how to live. And every night, when the red velvet curtains lifted and the lights dimmed to a warm, honey-gold glow — there she was.

You.

You stepped onto the stage draped in glitter and feathers, your smile a cocktail of danger and delight. The crowd adored you — men watched like wolves in suits, women whispered about you behind fluffed cigarette holders. But none of it reached you. Your eyes never scanned the room for the richest bidder. No, they always paused at the bar.

Nanami.

He stood tall, pressed white shirt and rolled-up sleeves, gold-rimmed glasses catching the light every time he glanced up from the glass he was polishing. Stoic. Handsome in a quiet, exhausting kind of way — like he’d seen too much of the world too soon. He never clapped when you finished a number. Never shouted your name like the others. But he was always there, watching. The kind of man who said everything with a look.

The two of you had a rhythm.

After your set, you'd walk past the bar, not looking at him directly. He’d set down a drink you hadn’t ordered — always exactly what you needed. No words. No names. Just a quiet transaction of comfort between the sparkle of your world and the stillness of his.

That night, the club was electric. Heat in the air, bodies pressed together, jazz horns wailing like sirens. You finished your last number — a sultry version of “Fever” — and the crowd erupted. The final note hung in the air like smoke.

You took your bow, walked offstage, and slid behind the curtain into the cool darkness. Your heart was still pounding from the lights and the spotlight, the weight of the gaze you felt — his gaze.

Nanami was already at the back hallway when you passed through. “You sang well tonight,” he murmured. That was the most he’d said all week.

You turned, just slightly, just enough to let your perfume linger between you. “Is that your way of flirting?”

He didn’t blink. “If I flirted with you, you’d know.”

You smiled, slow and teasing. “Maybe I do.”

But before he could respond, the doors of the Copa cracked open with a gust of warm wind and money. You didn’t need to look to know who it was. The whole club paused like it had inhaled and forgotten how to exhale.

Rico.

The yakuza heir, dressed in cream silk with a rose tucked behind one ear. Tall, arrogant, the kind of man who wore power like a second skin. He waltzed in like he owned the place. Maybe he did — no one really knew where the Copacabana got its funding. All they knew was when Rico showed up, trouble followed behind him in gold watches and iron fists.

He walked toward the stage and tipped his head toward you, lips curling in a way that felt like possession.

Nanami’s voice dropped. “Go to your dressing room.”

“Why?” you asked, not yet turning.

“Because men like that don’t see you as a person. They see you as something they can win.”

You met his eyes. “And what do you see?”

Nanami didn’t answer. His jaw ticked. You left without another word.

In your dressing room, roses were already waiting — a dozen long stems tied in a ribbon of blood red. No card, no note. But you didn’t need one.

Rico was watching from the floor, like he always did.

And Nanami… Nanami was still behind the bar, polishing glasses with hands that were slowly curling into fists.

Backstage was quieter than the stage, but not by much. Dresses rustled on hangers like gossiping ghosts, and the girls chattered between puffs of cigarette smoke and makeup touch-ups.

You ignored them tonight.

You pulled the roses from their vase and dropped them gently into the trash, one by one. They were beautiful. Too beautiful. Like Rico — all surface, no soul.

You knew Nanami had seen them, just like he’d seen the champagne sent to your table the night before, the silk gloves folded neatly on your vanity from “an admirer.” He never asked questions, never made a scene.

But he looked. And that look — calm, dark, furious — sat on your skin longer than any diamond Rico could offer.

Later that night, the club emptied out slowly. The regulars stumbled into taxis, drunk on music and whiskey. The band packed up. The neon signs outside flickered like dying stars.

You didn’t go home.

You walked the empty aisles of the Copa in your red silk robe, heels clicking against the marble, like a ghost retracing her last night alive. And you weren’t surprised when you saw him.

Nanami was behind the bar, sleeves rolled, shirt unbuttoned at the throat, tie loose. The lamplight turned his golden hair bronze.

He was counting cash, but his fingers paused when you slid onto the stool in front of him.

“Another drink?” he asked.

“No. I want the bartender.”

His brow raised just slightly, like you’d said something too bold, and he was trying not to smirk. “I hear he’s very dull.”

You leaned forward, elbows on the counter. “Maybe I’m tired of men who talk too much.”

Nanami set the register drawer down. His voice was quiet, low. “Then I’m exactly your type.”

The silence between you stretched, thick and warm. The club was empty — you could hear the buzz of the ice machine, the tick of the clock over the door. And his heartbeat, you swore, if you leaned in far enough.

“You didn’t like the flowers,” he said finally.

You tilted your head. “They weren’t from you.”

His eyes stayed on yours. Steady. “Would you have liked them if they were?”

You blinked. “Would you ever send me flowers, Kento?”

A pause.

“No.”His voice was soft. “I’d bring them. Put them in water. Watch you set them next to your mirror. Then I’d take you home.”

You felt it — something between your ribs snapping open like a curtain. The silence turned breathless. Heat coiled low in your belly, not from champagne or spotlights — but from him.

Nanami stepped out from behind the bar. Walked toward you slowly, like a man chasing something he’d tried to bury.

“You think I don’t care,” he said, stopping in front of your stool. “That I’m just some bartender. But every night, I watch you smile at strangers who don’t deserve you. And I think if I say one wrong word, you’ll vanish.”

You reached up — fingers brushing his tie, curling it around your hand slowly. “And what if I don’t want to vanish?”

He leaned in, forehead nearly touching yours, breath warm. “Then tell me.”

You whispered, “Stay.”

He kissed you. Slowly. Deeply. Like a man who’d waited too long and still wasn’t sure he had the right. His hands slid to your waist, firm and protective, holding you like you’d disappear if he let go.

The kiss tasted like gin and longing. You curled into him, robe slipping off your shoulder, lips parting in soft gasps. It didn’t feel like lust. It felt like finding a harbor in a city full of storm.

When you finally pulled away, he rested his forehead against yours. “Come home with me.”

You nodded. “I’m tired of being seen by the wrong people.”

And across the street, under the yellow glow of a streetlight, Rico watched from a black car, cigarette burning down to ash between his fingers.

The nights all blurred together in velvet and perfume.

You still danced — sequins on your hips, lashes like daggers, voice like velvet. The crowd never noticed anything different. To them, you were the same glittering showgirl — untouchable, untamed, perfection under gold lights.

But Nanami knew the truth.

He knew how your voice dropped when you slipped through the curtains and whispered, “Are you still here?”

He knew the sound of your heels kicked off under the counter while you sat barefoot on the barstool after hours, sipping his quiet company instead of champagne.

He knew the feel of your fingers tracing the scar under his wrist — the one he never talked about — like you were learning him one soft secret at a time.

It became a routine. Your routine. A glance from across the room during your final number.The quiet nod that meant: meet me after everyone’s gone.

You didn’t go to his apartment, and he never asked you to stay in yours. You met in between — in the spaces no one noticed. The upstairs lounge, long closed to customers. The tiny dressing room behind the back hallway. The freight elevator after closing, where he’d press you against the wall and kiss you like the world outside didn’t deserve you.

You never spoke of love. But you didn’t need to. He buttoned your coat when you forgot. You fixed his tie with sleepy fingers. He’d bring you soba when you skipped dinner, and you’d bring him records to play when the club emptied out.

Once, you traced your finger down the bridge of his nose and whispered, “I think you smile when I’m not looking.”

He replied, “Only when I know you’re safe.”

One night, after your final set, you found him in the staff hallway, leaning against the wall with a cigarette between his fingers and a furrow between his brows.

You walked up, heels silent, and wrapped your arms around his middle.

“Tough night?”

He glanced down. “Rico’s been asking questions. The owner’s nervous. He’s a good customer.”

“Rico’s a parasite.”

“You’re not wrong.”

You tilted your head, looking up at him. “Are you worried?”

“Yes.”

“About me?”

He didn’t answer. He just pressed a kiss to your forehead and said, “Let me walk you out.”

Outside, it was raining. He held his coat over both of you as you passed under the neon lights, your hand tangled in his.

At the curb, before the car came, he paused.

“Come home with me.”

You blinked. “But—”

“Not for the night,” he murmured. “For a while. Until things cool down.”

You looked up at him — this man who never said more than necessary, whose heart lived in the silences. And now he was asking, in his own way, Let me keep you safe.

You nodded. “Okay.”

But before he could kiss you, headlights cut through the rain. A long black car. Tinted windows. Stopped just across the street.

Nanami’s jaw clenched.

“Get in the cab,” he said quietly.

“Kento—”

“Go.”

You hesitated — then obeyed.

The car didn’t follow. But it didn’t drive away either.

You watched Nanami from the rearview mirror as the cab pulled off. He stood there, coat soaked through, jaw locked, eyes fixed on the black car like he knew what was coming.

And inside the black car, Rico lit another cigarette, watching you disappear.

Nanami’s apartment was nothing like the club.

It was tucked above a quiet bookstore on a side street no one walked at night. No neon, no mirrors, no red velvet. Just wood floors, warm light, a bookshelf heavy with dust and paperbacks, and the faint smell of coffee and cologne.

He opened the door and let you step inside first.

You looked around, taking it in. “This is where you disappear to?”

He gave a quiet shrug. “Peace isn’t much to look at.”

You turned to him, the door clicking shut behind you. “It’s beautiful.”

He didn’t kiss you right away. Nanami didn’t touch you like other men did. He moved slowly, reverently — like you were some sacred thing he couldn’t believe had walked into his space.

But when he did close the distance between you, it was with a kind of ache.

He cupped your jaw, brushing his thumb against your cheek. “I should’ve brought you here sooner.”

You leaned into his hand. “Then do everything slowly now.”

That night, you didn’t dance. There were no lights, no music, no eyes. Just Nanami and the quiet.

He made tea instead of pouring wine. He let you wear one of his old white shirts — it smelled like him, and the sleeves swallowed your hands.

You sat on the kitchen counter while he cooked simple noodles, trading stories between bites. You told him about the first time you fell on stage — he laughed, really laughed. You didn’t know you loved that sound until now.

He didn’t say I love you. But when he brushed your hair behind your ear and whispered, “I sleep better when you’re near,” it felt the same.

You fell asleep in his bed with your head on his chest, his hand resting on your waist, and the world outside finally quiet.

But peace is fragile. And men like Rico don’t like being ignored.

The next night at the Copa, a package was waiting in your dressing room. No flowers this time. You unwrapped it slowly. Inside: a single pair of earrings. Diamond. Expensive. Familiar.

They weren’t new. They were yours. The ones you’d lost last week, the ones you thought you dropped somewhere backstage. And tucked inside, a note. No name. Just four words written in deep red ink:

"You left something behind."

You didn’t tell Nanami right away.

Not because you didn’t trust him — but because you knew what he’d do. And because deep down, some part of you feared what Rico would become if Nanami stood between you again.

That night, you danced with a little more tension in your shoulders. Your smile was sharper. And when you walked offstage, Nanami caught your wrist in the hallway.

“You’re hiding something.”

You swallowed. “It’s fine.”

His eyes flicked to the side — the hallway door was slightly ajar. He stepped forward, crowding you into the wall, his voice low.

“Y/N, if something happened—”

You kissed him. Hard. Quick. Not out of passion — out of panic. A diversion.

“Please,” you whispered. “Just take me home.”

He stared at you for a long moment — then nodded.

The next morning, the bookstore downstairs opened like normal. Nanami made you toast. He handed you his sweater because the window was cracked and you were cold.

And across the street, inside a nondescript car, Rico sat with a cigarette pressed to his lips. Watching the window. Watching you.

The show went like all the others.

The spotlight kissed your skin. The crowd cheered on cue. You blew kisses to the front tables, dipped your hips with every note, and let them believe you belonged to the stage — untouchable, glittering, theirs.

But something was wrong. Off. Even before the final number, you felt it. A chill that climbed up your spine. A pair of eyes on you that didn't blink. You scanned the room, and there he was. Rico.

Sitting in his usual spot near the stage. Alone this time. No bodyguards. No show. Just watching — a crooked smile under shadow.

When you curtsied, your knees trembled. You didn’t wait for applause. You didn’t even fake your usual wink toward the bar, where Nanami stood.

You slipped offstage fast — heels clicking too loud against the floor.

You passed other dancers, ignored the usual compliments, and made it into your dressing room in a rush, heart pounding.

You locked the door. Took off your earrings. Sat down. Exhaled. And then — a knock. Before you could answer, the knob turned. A click. The lock didn’t hold. Your heart stopped.

The door creaked open, and Rico stepped inside. He shut it behind him.

“Beautiful performance, as always,” he said, voice too low, too smooth.

You stood quickly, robe tugged tighter over your body. “You shouldn’t be back here.”

He tilted his head. “Why? You’ve let other men in.”

Your breath hitched. “Leave.”

He stepped closer, slow and deliberate, like a man with all the time in the world.

“You’re too good for him,” Rico murmured, stopping just inches away. “He doesn't know what to do with a woman like you.”

You tried to move past him, but his hand shot out — grabbing your arm.

“Don’t touch me,” you snapped, voice cracking.

But he didn’t let go.

Instead, his other hand grabbed your waist, pulling you close, eyes hungry. “You don’t have to pretend, Y/N. I know you’ve thought about it. About me.”

You pushed at his chest, but his grip tightened. Fingers sliding down your side, grazing your thigh through the slit of your costume.

“I said don’t touch me!”You shouted, shoving harder now — panic building.

He grabbed your jaw. “You think you’re better than me? That you can parade around, act like a tease, and—”

“Get your hands off her.”

The voice behind him stopped the world.

Rico turned just as Nanami stepped into the doorway. No fury. No yelling. Just calm, bone-deep rage written across his face.

Rico didn’t move. “This doesn’t concern you, bartender.”

Nanami’s hands were at his sides. Relaxed. Empty. But you saw it — the tension in his shoulders, the promise of violence.

“It concerns me the moment she says ‘no.’” Nanami’s voice was low, steady. “And she said it more than once.”

Rico smirked. “You’re going to fight me over a showgirl?”

And that was the last straw. In a flash, Nanami slammed him against the vanity mirror, glass cracking behind Rico’s shoulder.

“Call her that again,” Nanami growled, “and I’ll break your jaw before your men even get up the stairs.”

You fell back into the chair, trembling, arms wrapped around yourself, mascara streaking down your cheeks.

Rico tried to push back, but Nanami punched him, clean and brutal — blood blooming from Rico’s nose like a curse. He hit the floor, coughing, stunned.

Nanami didn’t wait.

He walked over to you, crouched low, hands hovering just over your arms. “Y/N.”

Your eyes filled again. You nodded — you were okay, but only now that he was here.

He lifted your robe gently. “Let’s get you out of here.”

You didn’t speak until you were in the alley behind the club, wrapped in his coat, your body pressed to his side.

“Thank you,” you whispered.

His voice broke. “I should’ve gotten to you sooner.”

You turned to him. “If you hadn’t come in when you did…”

He touched your face, thumb brushing away a tear. “He won’t touch you again.”

But behind the cracked mirror in your dressing room, Rico bled — and smiled. Because now it was war.

It was supposed to be a normal night. You hadn’t performed in two days — Nanami made sure of it. The bruises on your arms were gone now, but the shadow under your eyes lingered. You hadn’t slept much. Neither had he.

The Copa was quieter tonight. Almost too quiet.

Nanami stood behind the bar, sleeves rolled, eyes tracking the room like a man waiting for a storm. He hadn’t touched you all night — not with his hands, but with his gaze. And that was enough.

You stayed in the staff hallway, peeking between the curtain slits every so often. The band was playing soft. No sign of Rico. You let yourself breathe.

Midnight came. Then 12:10. And that’s when it happened. The front doors slammed open. Rico. His suit was white. Snow white. Tailored. Clean. He walked like a man headed toward something he’d already decided.

You weren’t even on stage — you were still behind the curtain when it all exploded.

Nanami clocked him instantly. Set down his rag. Stepped forward from behind the bar. Rico moved faster. He pulled a gun from his coat — no yelling, no warning. His eyes locked on Nanami like the entire room had ceased to matter.

“You think you won, bartender?”

Chairs scraped. People screamed. Drinks shattered.

Nanami didn’t flinch. “You come here with a gun?”

“You took something from me,” Rico growled. “So I’m taking it back.”

He raised the pistol. Time split open. You saw it before you could scream — before you could run — that tiny motion in Rico’s shoulder, the twitch of a finger.

Bang.

The sound cracked like thunder through the club. Nanami staggered. Clutched his chest. Blood bloomed. The room fell to chaos.

You ran — heels forgotten, robe trailing behind you. You shoved through tables, through screams, through gasps and flashes of red light.

He was on the ground when you reached him. Eyes still open. Breathing, barely.

“Ken,” you choked, dropping to your knees. Your hands found his face, his chest, pressing against the wound, but the blood kept coming.

“Y/N—” he coughed. “I’m okay—”

“You’re not!” You sobbed, voice shaking. “Don’t say that. Don’t—don’t leave me.”

He looked at you then — even in pain, even bleeding — and tried to lift his hand to your cheek.

“You have to get out of here,” he said. “Before he—”

But Rico was already gone. He hadn’t waited. He hadn’t needed to. He just wanted to hurt you — and he had.

They took Nanami away in an ambulance.You went with him, covered in his blood. Still in costume. The lights of the Copacabana flickered behind you like a memory you couldn’t stop reliving.

They buried him in a quiet cemetery outside the city.

No one from the club came. Just you, and a man from the bookstore downstairs who didn’t know his first name — only that he made strong coffee and paid rent early.

You wore black. Not for tradition, but because the world felt dimmer now, and you couldn’t bear the thought of brightening it.

Weeks passed. The Copacabana didn’t close. Clubs like that never did. It rolled on — show after show, drink after drink, swallowing pain like ice.

You returned to the stage the way a ghost haunts a hallway. Quietly. Without sound. The costume still fit. The lights still hit you just right. The men still cheered.

But the sparkle was gone. Not dimmed — gone. You didn’t wink anymore. You didn’t laugh when the band made mistakes. You didn’t stop at the bar after curtain call.

Because the bar was empty now. His spot was empty. The glass rack still held one untouched drink — the one he used to make for you without asking.

“Y/N,” one of the girls whispered one night backstage, “you don’t have to keep coming back. You could leave.”

You looked at her and smiled — a brittle, tired thing. “Leave what?”

There was nothing beyond the Copa. Not anymore. You had poured your love into one man. And Rico had taken him from you with one shot. And no one had seen him since.

You wore the same red dress every Saturday. The one from your last show with him. The feathers had frayed. The sequins were falling off. Your lipstick never reached the corners of your mouth the way it used to. But still, you danced. Because you didn’t know how to stop.

Sometimes, when the club quieted, when the crowd thinned and the piano softened into smoke, you sat at the bar. Alone. You ordered the drink he used to make. You turned toward the empty stool.

And you waited. Just in case he might come back. Just in case death was temporary, and love could break the rules of the world.

But he never did. And so you sat there, every Saturday, a showgirl in a faded red dress, lips painted like a war wound, eyes fixed on nothing.

Still beautiful. Still broken. Still at the Copacabana.

KINKTOBER OCT. 1

summary. when you, the daughter of a van helsing, a famed vampire huntress are finally given the mission to kill count choso in his castle, you already know it’s fated to end in tragedy. but when you see him, and he’s hot, you can’t explain the attraction you feel toward him. but are his devilish good looks enough for you to forget the otherworldly being he truly is? or will you slay the beast, once and for all?

word count. 3k

content. mdni fem!reader, bloodsucking, vampire!au, hickeys, possessiveness, degradation, piercings, p in v, unprotected sex, creampie, humping, thigh riding, biting, marking, choking

author’s note. KINKTOBERRR IS OFFICIALLY HERE

you’d heard so many stories of vampires, of ivory white fangs gleaming and pale, and centuries-old skin that showed off decades of sunless slumber, of glossy mahogany coffins, and urges to quench an ungodly desire for scarlet-red blood.

in fact, your own father had warned you that the very feat that you had been sent to accomplish, would have sacrifices well beyond human comprehension.

because when dealing with sinful creatures of the undead, this wasn't just a matter of life or death, this was a matter of being damned to eternity as one of them.

paring: Fictional!Satoru X F!Reader

art credits to scarlettismm on X!

sum!! After staying up late reading an emotional fanfic, a college student wakes to find the fictional love interest—Satoru Gojo—somehow real and lying beside her. Confused and out of place in the real world, Satoru begins to unravel. As they grow closer, they share laughter, secrets, and something deeper… even as time threatens to take him away. But sometimes, endings aren’t what they seem.

CW: MDNI, Romance,Contemporary Fantasy, Soft Sci-Fi, Magical Realism, Bittersweet, Angst with comfort, Temporary Love, Borrowed Time, Soft Smut, First Time Together, nerdjo cameo, soft dom, Memory Loss / Fading Reality Unexpected Second Chance. WC: 10.9k

It’s 1:41 a.m., your eyes are puffy, your nose is running, and you’ve just finished sobbing over a fictional man named Satoru who doesn’t even exist. And yet, somehow, he broke your heart like he did.

You’re curled up on your side in bed, blanket cocooned around you, the glow of your laptop screen still burning into your tired, emotional retinas. You knew what kind of fic it was going in—CEO AU, enemies-to-lovers, workplace drama. Classic. But nowhere in the tags did it say “character death.”

You sniffle loudly and scroll back to reread the last paragraph, as if torturing yourself again will somehow dull the pain.

“I should’ve said it sooner,” he whispered, blood soaking into the snow, eyes never leaving hers. “It was always you.”

The lights from the city faded behind him. And he didn’t blink again.

[End.]

You slam your hands on the keyboard.

“You’re kidding me,” you mutter out loud, nose stuffy and voice cracking. “You killed him? Seriously?! You made me sit through twenty chapters of slow-burn sexual tension, one shared bed trope, three almost-kisses and a forehead touch—just for this?”

You groan, throwing your arm over your face dramatically.

“God, I hate you, Satoru,” you whisper into your pillow. “I hate your stupid perfect face, and your ice-cold business demeanor, and your secretly soft heart, and the way you just died before you even got to live.”

You roll over, flinging a crumpled tissue at your desk.You sniff, dragging your fingers cross the keyboard to angrily type into the comments.

You:

@shelovesosa HOW DARE YOU.
Fix it. Fix it right now or I’ll manifest this man into my bed myself.

“Stupid author,” you add bitterly. “Oh Sosa. May your coffee always be lukewarm and your favorite show get canceled on a cliffhanger.”

You slam the laptop shut and toss it aside.

With a final sniff, you curl deeper into your sheets. Your brain is spinning in post-fanfic grief. You mumble one last thing, more out of sleep-deprived delirium than real intent:

“…I wish he were real.” You fall asleep with the ache of unfinished stories in your chest.

The morning comes too fast. You’re groggy, head foggy from too many dreams and too little sleep. Your alarm bleats somewhere in the background as you reach to turn it off.

Except your hand doesn’t land on your phone.

It lands on something warm. And solid. And breathing. You freeze. Your eyes fly open.

There’s a shape beside you in bed. A weight. The blankets are shifted, your mattress slightly dipped like someone else is laying there. Slowly, you turn your head.

And the world tilts. There’s a man in your bed. White hair. Pale skin. Shirtless. Lean muscle. His face is turned toward the window, but even from this angle— It’s him. Your heart lurches.

Satoru. Not cosplay. Not a dream. Not just similar. It’s Satoru, exactly as he was in the fanfic. Down to the small scar above his brow the author described in chapter six.

Your lips part, no sound coming out. You're frozen. Shaking.

He stirs. Brows knit. Eyes flutter. And slowly, his lashes lift. Blue eyes. He sees you. And everything happens at once.

He jolts upright, sheets sliding off his bare chest. You scream. He flinches.

“Wh—what the hell?!” he chokes, eyes wild. “Where—what is this?! Who are you?!”

You scramble back, nearly falling out of bed. “Me?! Who are YOU?! This is my room!”

He stares at you, chest heaving. “No. No, this isn’t… This isn’t right.”

He looks around, dazed. Confused. His voice is raspy, like it hurts to speak.

“I was in Tokyo,” he murmurs, more to himself than you. “It was snowing. I was bleeding. I was with—” He swallows, eyes darting toward you again. “Where is she?”

You blink. “Who?”

He stares. His voice breaks.

“…You’re not her.”

Something cold seeps into your spine. Because you know who he means. The her from the fanfic. The girl he loved before he died.

“But you’re not real,” you whisper. “You’re fictional. You died. I read it last night—I read your death—”

“I remember dying,” he snaps, voice shaking. “I felt it. I saw her crying. And then I woke up here.”

You both sit in stunned silence.

He presses a palm to his forehead. “This is a nightmare. I’m dreaming. Or— Or I was rewritten. Or this is some kind of punishment—”

You crawl slowly to the edge of the bed, still watching him like he might vanish.

“I think I summoned you,” you say weakly. “I cursed the author. As a joke. I said I wished you were real.”

He glares at you like you’re insane. But underneath it all—his trembling fingers, the way he keeps glancing around the room, the panic in his breathing—you see it:

He’s terrified. And it makes your heart hurt.

“…I want to go back,” he finally says.

Your throat tightens. “I don’t know how.”

He stares at you like it’s your fault. Maybe it is.

You clutch your sheets and whisper, “You’re not supposed to be here.”

His voice is flat.

“You’re not supposed to be her.”

You’ve never wanted to faint so badly in your life. He’s still sitting in your bed—your stupid college dorm twin XL bed—with your blush-pink blanket slung over his lap like that’s the most offensive part of all this.

His chest rises and falls in shallow breaths, and he’s still staring at the wall like it might open up and take him back to wherever he came from. Fiction. Paper. Imagination.

But now he's here. And he’s not pixelated or made of words. He’s real.

“I need to go back,” he mutters again. “She’s waiting.”

You chew your lip. “She’s not real.”

He flinches like you slapped him.

“I mean, she was real to you,” you add quickly. “But… she’s just words. I read her. She’s a reader-insert. She’s a blank space.”

“No,” he says, voice firm. “She was real. I loved her.”

You fall quiet. What are you supposed to say? Sorry, she was just me with better confidence and no student loans?

You sit down slowly on the edge of the bed. Satoru tenses, but doesn’t move.

“This is going to sound absolutely insane,” you start carefully, “but I think I pulled you out of your story. I was mad at the ending, I said I wished you were real, and then… this happened.”

He scoffs. “So I’m a pity project. Great.”

You frown. “No! You weren’t supposed to actually show up! I thought maybe I’d dream about you or something, not… wake up with you in my bed, very shirtless and very confused.”

You realize you’re staring at his chest. You immediately look away.

“This is a glitch,” he mutters. “Some kind of cruel rewrite. I shouldn’t be here.”

You glance at him. “Do you… remember everything?”

He nods. “Every scene. Every chapter. I remember dying.”

There’s a long pause.

“God,” you whisper. “That’s so messed up.”

He finally laughs—but it’s not a happy sound. It’s dry. Hollow. “Tell me about it.”

You rub your eyes. “Okay. Look. We have two problems.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Only two?”

“One,” you hold up a finger, “we don’t know how you got here. Two… you’re glitching.”

He stiffens. “What do you mean?”

“You were flickering,” you say, voice soft. “Just for a second. Like… your edges blurred. Like a dream.”

He doesn’t respond. His jaw clenches, like he felt it, too.

“…So I’m not stable.”

You say nothing. After a moment, he exhales and slumps back slightly.

“God, this is pathetic,” he mutters. “I was the most powerful man in the city. I could ruin a company with one phone call. I had private jets. Now I don’t even have pants.”

You try—try—not to laugh.

“I can get you pants,” you offer.

His eyes narrow. “Don’t pity me.”

“I’m not pitying you,” you lie. “I just don’t think walking around shirtless in a college dorm is going to help your situation.”

He mutters something under his breath but doesn’t argue.

You grab a pair of sweatpants from your drawer and toss them at him. “Bathroom’s down the hall. You’re gonna have to sneak.”

He catches them with ease and stands, still moving like he owns a twenty-story skyscraper. You try not to stare at his back as he walks to the door.

He turns the knob, then pauses.

“…What’s your name?” he asks, glancing back at you.

You blink. “Y/N.”

He stares for a beat.

Then says, quietly, “I don’t remember that being in the story.”

You smile a little. “That’s because I wasn’t in it.”

He hesitates. Then opens the door and vanishes into the hallway.

You spend the next fifteen minutes pacing your room like it’s about to burst into flames. There’s a fictional man in your dorm bathroom.

You summoned him. You broke something. Maybe the universe. Maybe yourself.

He’s glitching. You don’t know how long he has. And he’s desperate to get back to a girl who doesn’t exist. But for some reason, he’s still here. Still real. And you don’t know what that means yet.

You’re sitting on the edge of your twin bed, clutching a lukewarm cup of instant coffee and trying not to spiral. Because this is real.

It’s not a dream. Not some grief hallucination brought on by staying up too late reading slow-burn fanfiction and eating sour gummies. There’s no typo, no delete button, no author’s note to reverse what’s happened.

Satoru is here.

The fictional man you loved and mourned and cursed the night before is now somewhere in your dorm’s communal bathroom, wearing your ex’s old sweatpants and the expression of someone who’s been yanked out of death and dumped into a college campus like a tossed USB file.

You stare at the door until it creaks open.

He steps inside cautiously, drying his hands on the front of his hoodie. His white hair is still damp, falling slightly in his eyes. He looks softer like this, like less of the towering CEO you met through carefully crafted prose and more like a very lost man who’s trying not to shatter.

You clear your throat. “Everything okay?”

He looks at you, nods stiffly, then glances around the room again like he still can’t quite believe where he is.

“I counted six women brushing their teeth in one bathroom,” he says, sitting on the desk chair like it offends him. “One of them offered me dry shampoo. I don’t know what that is.”

You snort into your cup. “Welcome to dorm life.”

He doesn’t laugh. He just studies you with unreadable eyes. Sharp and searching. Like you’re an answer he doesn’t want to need.

“This place…” he murmurs, gesturing vaguely to your walls cluttered with sticky notes and fairy lights, “this isn’t… scripted.”

You raise a brow. “No. That’s kind of how real life works.”

He leans back, rubbing a hand over his mouth.

“You said I’m not supposed to exist here. So what does that mean? Am I… fading? Am I going to just—stop?”

Your throat tightens. You’ve been wondering the same thing.

“I don’t know,” you admit quietly. “But you’re still here now. That has to mean something.”

He exhales, head tilting back to stare at the ceiling.

You watch him in silence. His hands are resting on his thighs, long fingers twitching slightly like he’s resisting the urge to reach for something. A phone. A pen. Her. You put your coffee down.

“Look,” you say softly, “I know I’m not her. And I didn’t mean for this to happen. But until we figure out what’s going on, maybe you should just… stay.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Here?”

You nod, cheeks warming. “Just for now. You clearly have nowhere else to go. And I don’t think you're ready to navigate student housing or explain why you don’t have ID.”

Satoru stares at you like the concept of help is foreign. Which, based on the version of him you read about, it probably is.

Finally, he murmurs, “I don’t want your pity.”

“It’s not pity,” you say gently. “It’s a blanket and some time to breathe.”

He looks at you, expression unreadable. But he nods once.

You set up a sleeping bag on the floor that night. It’s the best you can offer in a room barely large enough to fit two people standing up. He lies stiffly on top of it, arms crossed, staring at the ceiling like sleep is a stranger.

You lie in bed, eyes open.bYou think about how he held the love of his life while he died. And now he’s here. Not holding anyone.

“Do you miss her?” you whisper.

He doesn’t answer right away. But when he does, his voice is soft.

“I think I miss the way she made me feel. Like I wasn’t just a weapon in a suit.”

You’re quiet.

He adds, a beat later, “But maybe that feeling wasn’t even mine. Maybe I only loved her because someone wrote me that way.”

You turn to look at him. But he’s already looking at you. Neither of you says anything after that.

You wake up to the smell of something burning. Your eyes shoot open, heart already sprinting.

You stumble out of bed, nearly tripping on the sleeping bag where Satoru isn’t anymore. You hear the clatter of pans, the groan of the microwave, and a very muffled, very confused “Why is this machine yelling at me?”

You rush into the kitchenette area down the hall, still barefoot, to find Satoru standing in front of the microwave, poking at the buttons like they insulted his mother.

“What are you doing?” you hiss, half-laughing, half-panicked.

He points at the microwave indignantly. “It said ‘popcorn’ but there were sparks! Sparks, Y/N!”

You grab the bag—oh god, the foil kind—and toss it in the trash before it sets off the building alarm.

He stares at you, wide-eyed, hair slightly messy, wearing your oversized hoodie and sweatpants like he’s a very lost, very pretty houseguest.

“Have you never used a microwave?”

“Why would I?” he asks, completely serious. “I had a private chef in Tokyo.”

You stare at him. He stares back. And then, maybe for the first time since he showed up… you both laugh.

Real laughter. Yours high-pitched and breathless, his deeper, more surprised. It crackles in the small space between you. And for just a second, he doesn't look like a man unraveling.

He looks like a boy. New. Unwritten.

Later, you’re sitting on the floor together, eating cereal straight from the box. His hair keeps falling in his eyes. You reach out without thinking and brush it back.

He freezes. So do you. His eyes meet yours. And for a second—just a second—there’s something like electricity in the air. Not sparks from microwaves. Not glitchy fiction magic.

Something real. You pull your hand back quickly. But he doesn’t stop looking at you.

“…I didn’t feel this way in the story,” he says quietly. “Not like this.”

You glance at him, heart thudding. “Feel what way?”

He doesn’t answer. But his knee brushes yours, and neither of you moves.

That night, he glitches. You're the first to notice. It’s small, at first. You're talking about breakfast cereal—how you mix Frosted Flakes and granola together like a heathen—and he tilts his head, eyes clouding slightly.

“I’ve never had cereal,” he says.

You blink.

“Yes, you did. This morning. You ate like half the box.”

He frowns. “No, I didn’t. We went to that place. With the… tiny pancakes.”

“…Satoru,” you say softly, “that was from Chapter 11. Of the fanfic. The Paris trip.”

His expression blanks. And then something in his face glitches. Like static behind his eyes. It only lasts a moment—but it’s long enough.

He exhales, hand pressed to his forehead. “It’s happening, isn’t it?”

You don’t know what to say.

He looks at you, voice quieter now. “I’m not built for this world. I’m already forgetting.”

You kneel in front of him, gently placing your hand on his. “Then we don’t waste time.”

His breath catches. You hold his hand like it’s the only thing anchoring him here. And maybe it is.

You don’t go to class the next day. You don’t even pretend to.

You tell yourself it’s because you’re “monitoring the anomaly” or “preserving the fabric of reality.” But really, it’s because Satoru wakes up on the floor with the most lost look on his face and whispers, “Where am I again?” and it breaks your heart clean in half.

You sit with him until he remembers. Your name. The coffee spill. The dorm microwave. He laughs about the popcorn again, a little shakier this time. But it still counts. After that, you don’t leave his side.

The two of you walk the campus late at night when no one’s around. He keeps staring at trees like they’re the most fascinating thing he’s ever seen.

“I didn’t have these,” he murmurs. “Not like this. The ones in the fic were always perfectly sculpted. Background props.”

You smile softly. “These ones grow crooked. They drop leaves. Sometimes birds poop on you.”

He tilts his head. “I like them better.”

You take him to the library next. He walks the rows of books with reverent hands, trailing fingers across every spine like he’s scared they’ll vanish.

“I thought I knew words,” he says, voice low. “But this is different. These were made by people. Not an author playing God. Just… people.”

You nod. “People with lives. Mistakes. Ugly handwriting and messy endings.”

Satoru turns to you.

You don’t know what he sees in your face, but it’s enough to make him pause.

“You’re not what I expected,” he says.

You raise an eyebrow. “Expected from what? Fanfiction?”

He shakes his head. “No. From reality.”

You teach him how to use your phone. He FaceTimes the pizza place by accident and panics when someone picks up.

You try to explain memes, which leads to you both scrolling through TikToks on your bed for an hour straight. He becomes obsessed with cooking videos.

At one point, your head drops onto his shoulder. He doesn’t move. His breathing slows, steadies, like he’s memorizing the shape of you. Neither of you says anything about it.

You stay up one night talking. Really talking. You're lying side by side on your bed, not touching, but so close your arms are brushing.

“I used to think I was in love with her,” he says.

You stare at the ceiling. “The version of me from the story.”

He nods. “But she didn’t challenge me. She didn’t argue. She was soft in all the ways the author needed her to be.”

You don’t say anything. You’re not sure how to feel.

He turns his head to look at you. “You’re not soft.”

You blink. “Gee, thanks.”

“I don’t mean it like that,” he murmurs. “You’re… messy. Complicated. Real. You snore.”

You shove his arm lightly, and he grins.

But then his smile fades.

“I’m scared I won’t remember this,” he whispers.

You turn your head slowly. He’s staring at you like he’s memorizing you.

“I’m scared I’ll forget you.”

Your chest tightens.

You whisper, “Then I’ll remember for both of us.”

Something shifts in the space between you. Like gravity pulling tighter.

You don’t kiss. Not yet. But his hand inches closer to yours. And this time, when your fingers touch— You hold it tighter.

It starts small again. A pause mid-conversation.

A moment where Satoru tilts his head and says, “Remind me what this is again?” while pointing at something he’s already asked about twice.

You want to pretend it’s nothing. That he’s just distracted. But then you catch him standing by the window later that evening, staring out at the streetlight like it’s the only thing anchoring him.

“Do you remember this morning?” you ask quietly, stepping beside him.

He turns slowly. “…Was there cereal?”

You nod.

He gives you a sad smile. “I forgot the flavor.”

You don’t know what to say. So you walk over, wrap your arms around his torso, and press your cheek to his chest.

His breath catches. You feel his arms come up, slowly, hesitantly. Like he’s afraid he’ll crush you. Like if he holds you too tightly, he might disappear completely.

His chin rests on top of your head. His heartbeat is loud beneath your ear. Neither of you moves for a long time.

That night, he doesn’t want to sleep on the floor.

“I know I said I would,” he mutters, eyes flicking toward the sleeping bag. “But I just… I don’t want to feel far from you right now.”

You nod. You move over. He climbs in beside you. He stays on his side at first. Doesn’t touch you. But eventually, in the dark, his fingers find yours beneath the covers.

He holds your hand like it’s the last thread connecting him to the world. And maybe it is.

You dream of water. A soft tide pulling you away. Something fading. When you wake, he’s already looking at you. His hand is on your cheek. His thumb brushes just under your eye.

“I had a dream,” he whispers.

You hum sleepily, not opening your eyes. “What about?”

“I was back,” he says. “In the story. She was there. The office. The desk. The skyline.”

You open your eyes. He’s quiet for a long time.

Then: “But I didn’t feel anything.”

You turn to face him. “What do you mean?”

“I saw her. But she didn’t look like you. She looked like a blank space. Like a fill-in. She smiled at me, but it wasn’t you.”

He reaches for your face again.

“This world is loud. Messy. Exhausting. And I still want to stay in it.”

Your throat burns. “You might not get that choice.”

He leans in, forehead resting against yours.

“I know.”

Silence. Just your breath and his. Then he whispers:

“But if I’m going to vanish, I want to remember you.”

It’s quiet in the room. The kind of quiet that hangs between words never spoken. Between goodbyes that haven’t happened yet.

You lie beside him, breath soft, chest rising and falling in rhythm with his. His hand is still resting over yours beneath the blanket, fingers loosely entwined like a tether to reality. His thumb brushes gently along your knuckles.

“Satoru,” you whisper, your voice nearly lost in the hush of the room. “Are you okay?”

His eyes are already on you. He doesn’t answer for a long time. Then: “No.”

Your heart twists.

“I feel like I’m slipping,” he says, voice low, a little raw. “Like parts of me are coming undone. I try to remember the story, the office, the people... it’s all fog. But you—” His hand tightens around yours. “You’re the only thing I still feel.”

You swallow, throat thick. “Then hold on to me.”

His gaze drops to your lips.

“Can I?” he whispers. “Really hold you? Just once. Before I forget?”

You nod. The moment stretches. And then he leans in.

The kiss is slow. Uncertain at first, like he’s afraid you’ll vanish too. But when you sigh against his mouth, it deepens—his hand sliding to the back of your neck, fingers threading into your hair, tilting your head so he can kiss you fully. Thoroughly.

He kisses you like he wants to taste your memory. Like he’s carving the shape of you into whatever part of him still exists beyond the glitch.

You shift closer, and his hand slips beneath your shirt, splaying across your waist. His palm is warm. Steady. You shiver at the contact.

“Tell me what you want,” you whisper.

He pulls back just enough to look at you.

“You,” he says. “Slow. Real. I want to make it count.”

You sit up slightly, letting him pull your shirt over your head. His eyes trail over you, and something in them breaks. Reverence. Hunger. Grief.

“You’re so beautiful,” he breathes. “I can’t believe I almost didn’t get to see you like this.”

You press your hands to his chest, feeling his heartbeat thudding beneath your palm. His hoodie comes off next, followed by his shirt, and you press your lips to his skin—his collarbone, his sternum, the small scar just under his ribs like the one described in the story. But it’s different seeing it here. Seeing him here. Alive. Real. Yours, even if only for tonight.

He lies back and pulls you with him, hands exploring your body like you’re something precious—trailing down your sides, across your back, fingers gripping your thighs with quiet desperation.

When you grind against him slowly, feeling the thick press of him through his boxers, his breath catches hard in your ear.

“You’re killing me,” he murmurs, lips brushing your jaw. “You’re so soft—so warm—I didn’t know this part of the world could feel so… good.”

You roll your hips again, and he groans deep in his throat, hands locking tight on your waist.

“Need to feel you,” he whispers. “All of you.”

You shift your weight and reach down, guiding him free from his boxers, his cock hard and hot in your palm. His breath hitches as your fingers wrap around him gently, stroking once—slow and curious.

His voice is ragged. “Please.”

You press a kiss to his lips, then rise just enough to line yourself up.

And when you sink down onto him, he gasps—eyes fluttering shut, head falling back against the pillow.

“Oh god—”

You’re both breathing heavy now.

You pause, adjusting to the stretch of him, the tightness between you. His hands slide up your thighs, then settle at your hips, holding you still as he tries not to lose control too soon.

“You feel… perfect,” he chokes. “Better than anything I’ve ever known.”

You begin to move, slow and careful, your bodies rocking together in a rhythm that feels older than either of you. His hands roam—palming your breasts, sliding up your spine, gripping your hips as you roll against him with aching tenderness.

“Satoru,” you whisper, leaning over him, your forehead pressed to his.

He opens his eyes. And in them—desperation. Need. Love.

“I don’t want to forget this,” he says again, voice breaking.

“Then remember me like this,” you whisper. “Remember the way I feel. The way I look at you. The way you make me feel so full, like I was meant to hold you.”

He groans at your words, thrusting up into you with more force. You gasp, clinging to his shoulders, meeting him with matching urgency.

It builds between you—need turning sharp, trembling, sacred.

You come first—tightening around him, breath catching as you moan his name through clenched teeth, nails digging into his back.

He follows you seconds later, holding you tight to him as he spills inside you, your names tangled in breathless gasps.

Afterward, you lie on his chest, both of you still shaking. His hand runs gently down your spine. You feel him press a kiss to your temple.

“You’re the best thing I never got written for,” he whispers.

You don’t answer. You just hold him. Because you know what’s coming next. And he’s slipping again.

you lie with him for a long time. His body is warm, tangled with yours beneath the blanket, his breath steady against your shoulder. One hand rests lazily over your stomach, like he’s anchoring himself to your skin.

You’re not sure how long you stay like that—wrapped in the kind of silence that only comes after something true.

But eventually, you feel his fingers twitch. Then still. Then again.

“Satoru?” you whisper.

He blinks slowly, then furrows his brows like something's wrong.

“…What was your name again?”

Your heart drops.

You sit up, brushing hair out of his face. “Don’t joke.”

“I’m not,” he says, voice quiet. Distant. “I know you. I feel like I know you. But it’s slipping. Like I’m trying to hold water in my hands.”

You press your palm to his cheek. “You’re still here. You’re still with me.”

He nods, but he doesn’t look convinced. That’s when you realize—This is it. He won’t last much longer. Whatever brought him here—whatever magic, glitch, miracle—it’s running out.

And if he goes like this, half-glitched, half-lost, it’ll break both of you. So you do the only thing you can.

You get out of bed. Pull on a hoodie. And sit at your desk. The words don’t come easy at first. But then your fingers move. Not on your phone. Not in a fanfic comment thread. On paper.

With a real pen, real ink, real hands. You write him an ending. A soft one.

Where he’s not a CEO haunted by guilt. Not a tragic man doomed to die before he can fall in love. You write him waking up in a quiet home, sunlight through curtains, coffee in a chipped mug, a cat that curls on his lap. You write him laughing. You write him safe. You write him at peace.

And you write that he gets to say goodbye. When it’s done, you read it aloud to him. Your voice shakes.

He listens, seated on the edge of your bed, blanket wrapped around his hips, eyes full of something that doesn’t feel like a glitch anymore. It feels like gratitude.

When you finish, you look up. He’s smiling softly.

“You did it,” he whispers.

“I gave you an ending,” you say. “You deserved one.”

He stands. Walks to you. And kisses you again. This one is slower. Full of something final.

“Thank you for writing me something better,” he says against your lips.

Tears well in your eyes. “Thank you for being real. Even just for a little while.” His fingers linger on your cheek.

He vanishes in the morning. Not with fanfare. Not with light or thunder or spark.

Just… A flicker.

You’d gone to brush your teeth. You’d left him tangled in your sheets, watching you from the bed with sleep-soft eyes and a crooked smile.

You came back— And the sheets were cold. You say his name once. Then again, louder. But there’s no answer. No trace. No indent in the pillow. No warmth in the blankets.

Just a silence so sharp it cuts. You don’t cry at first.

You sit on the edge of the bed, fingers curled around the hem of your shirt, blinking at the place he had been just hours ago. You try to replay his voice in your head, his laugh, the things he whispered against your skin. You press your face into your pillow and breathe deep, desperate to find even a trace of him.

But all you smell is fabric softener and loss. He’s gone. Like he never belonged here at all.

You grieve quietly. You carry his memory in the scribbled pages of your notebook, worn at the edges from being opened again and again. But you don’t write for him anymore. You write for yourself.

You don’t talk about it. How could you? You go back to class. You go back to microwaving leftovers. You scroll past fanfiction tags and never click again.

Some nights you still whisper his name in the dark, just in case he hears it. But he never answers. You begin to believe maybe he was just a dream after all. A beautiful, impossible dream.

Three months later, on the first warm day of spring, you’re sitting outside the library, notebook open, headphones in, sunlight catching in your lashes.

You almost don’t hear it.

“Excuse me—,” someone says.

You look up. And your heart stops.

A young man stands hesitantly before you, holding a crumpled campus map. His glasses slip slightly down his nose, his hair tousled from the breeze.

He looks unfamiliar yet somehow familiar.

“Could you help me? I’m completely lost,” he says, voice gentle but uncertain.

“Do you know where the science building is?” he asks, sheepish. “I’ve been walking in a circle for like twenty minutes.”

You stare. He’s different. No polished arrogance. No CEO swagger. No tailored suit. But it’s still him. That face. Those eyes. That voice.

You slowly take out your earbuds.

“…What’s your name?” you manage, breath shallow.

He smiles at you—confused, but kind.

“Satoru,” he says. “Satoru Gojo.”

Your lips part. His gaze lingers on your face for a moment too long. Then—

“Have we met before?” he asks, tilting his head.

“No, we haven’t met,” you whisper.

He chuckles, eyes bright.

“Maybe it’s a good thing. A new story.”

And as the sunlight pools around you both, you realize some endings are just beginnings in disguise.

PAIRING: Surfer!Satoru X F!reader

CW: ANGST, summer love, fluff, angst mild comfort, strangers to lovers, bittersweet, water related accident, slow burn, longing,

SUMMARY!! You weren’t supposed to fall in love in Rio. Not with a stranger. Not with a boy who laughed like salt spray and kissed like the tide might steal him back. Satoru wasn’t from Brazil. He was just passing through—like you. But some people feel like home even when you’ve only just met. And some love stories end before they ever begin.

wc: 6.2k

You touched down in Rio de Janeiro with summer already wrapping its arms around your skin. The airplane window framed the city like a postcard—sapphire waves biting at the shoreline, the distant green folds of mountains, favelas spilling down like stories etched in concrete and red tile. Somewhere far above, the statue of Christ watched with open arms, but to you, he felt more like a warning than a welcome.

This was supposed to be a trip of distraction. A summer to forget routines and responsibilities. You arrived with five friends, a mess of tangled headphones, rolling suitcases, and group selfies, all drunk on the promise of youth and freedom. But beneath your sunglasses, your eyes felt heavy. And even as Lila wrapped her arm around your shoulder with her usual buzzed smile, something inside you whispered that this wasn’t just a vacation.

This was an escape.

You stayed in Santa Teresa—a hilltop neighborhood woven with cobblestone streets, colonial mansions turned guesthouses, and street murals that burst in color like stained glass. The hostel was bohemian in the loudest sense. Ceiling fans, open windows, thin mattresses, a roof deck with hammocks, and a bartender who mixed caipirinhas that tasted like melted limes and sugar.

That first night bled into the second. Music poured into the streets like smoke. Every corner vibrated with drums, clinking glasses, and the occasional distant shout of joy or heartbreak. Your friends dove headfirst into the rhythm of the city—hookups, bar crawls, samba lessons in alleyways, beach bonfires.

You followed. You smiled. You danced. But in truth, you were drifting—feet in the sand, mind somewhere else. Watching. Waiting. For what, you didn’t know.

It happened by accident.

You woke up early on the third morning, disoriented from too much noise and too little sleep. Your friends were still passed out, tangled in hostel sheets, and the room smelled like sunscreen, salt, and sweat. So you slipped out. No plans. Just your sandals and a linen shirt over your swimsuit, a tote bag slung over your shoulder.

You tried to get to Ipanema, but the bus you took went too far. You ended up somewhere quieter—Barra da Tijuca maybe, or some stretch of beach unnamed on your map. The tourists hadn’t arrived yet. The sand was wide, hot, and nearly empty. The wind tangled your hair and pushed the scent of ocean straight into your lungs.

And that’s when you saw him.

He stood at the edge of the surf, holding a longboard like it was an extension of his body. His skin was sun-warmed but not native, hair so white it looked unreal beneath the sun, and his eyes—when they flicked in your direction—were a blue so clear it felt like being seen all at once.

You were still staring when he noticed.

“Didn’t expect company this early,” he called, his voice rich and easy, touched with an accent you couldn’t place—maybe American, maybe not.

You blinked, flustered. “Sorry, I thought this beach was... public?”

He laughed and began walking toward you. “It is. Just quiet. Locals usually sleep in after carnival weekends.”

“You’re local?”

“God, no,” he said, grinning as he dropped the board into the sand beside him. “I’m staying in Rio for the month. Solo trip. Japan originally, but I’ve been everywhere lately.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Everywhere?”

He shrugged. “When you keep moving, no place becomes home long enough to disappoint you.”

You didn’t know why that line struck you the way it did. But it did.

“Y/N,” you offered after a beat.

“Satoru,” he replied, his hand brushing sand off the edge of his board. “Nice to meet a fellow wanderer.”

It started with small things.

He asked if you’d ever surfed before. You said no, not unless falling off a boogie board counted. He offered to show you, and you declined—until he added, “I promise I’ll laugh politely when you wipe out.”

That first lesson wasn’t a lesson at all. He let you try to stand on the board on dry land, corrected your stance with light hands on your shoulders, and when you both fell backward into the sand, laughing, you realized you hadn’t thought about anything else—not your life back home, not the things you came here to forget—in over an hour.

You sat under the sun together after that, sharing a coconut and stories that didn’t dig too deep. You told him about your friends, your job you needed a break from, your parents who worried too much. He told you he was taking a break from everything too—surf competitions, pressure, expectations.

“No one really tells you what happens after your dream becomes a job,” he said quietly, pulling a towel over his shoulders. “I used to love the ocean. Now I’m trying to fall in love with it again.”

You looked at him, watched the way he stared at the waves like they held the answer to some private riddle.

And just like that, the current began to shift.

You didn’t exchange phone numbers. He walked you back to the road, told you the best bus to take, and paused like he wasn’t sure if he should hug you or wave.

“You’ll be at the same beach tomorrow?” you asked, feeling a tug you didn’t expect.

He tilted his head, smiling. “Only if the tide’s good. And if you’re bringing better balance.”

You laughed. “No promises.”

When you turned to go, your heart pulled like a tide—out, and then sharply back in.

You didn’t tell your friends about him that night. You kept Satoru like a secret tucked into your chest, just for yourself.

And in your bunk, above the noise and late-night chatter of the hostel, you thought about the way he stood in the water—like it had chosen him. You didn’t know yet that something already had.

The next morning, you didn’t wait for your friends to wake.

The hostel room was a mess of tangled limbs and muffled snoring. Someone had left the balcony door open, letting in the sound of birds and the faint beat of drums from somewhere down the hill. You rose with the sun, slipped into your swimsuit and a linen cover-up, and let the door close behind you with a click that felt louder than it should.

You didn’t even need to think about it—your feet knew where to go. Back to the wrong beach. Back to him.

Satoru was already there.

He was waist-deep in the water, hair slicked back, his board cutting through the surface like a knife through silk. You stood barefoot at the edge of the sand, watching the way his body moved with the rhythm of the waves, unhurried and unafraid. He spotted you before you called out, paddling toward shore with a crooked smile.

“You came back,” he said, hopping off the board as the water lapped around his calves.

“I told you I might,” you replied, shielding your eyes from the glare.

“I thought you were bluffing. Tourists love promises in the sun.”

You smiled. “What if I’m not just a tourist?”

He arched an eyebrow, walking his board back up the beach. “You planning to stay in Brazil forever?”

You shrugged, settling beside him in the sand. “I didn’t say I wasn’t lost.”

He sat down next to you, arms loosely resting on his knees. “Good. I like people who admit they’re running from something. It makes them honest.”

You looked at him then, close enough to see the thin scar above his left eyebrow, the salt caught in his lashes, the faded string around his wrist—a bracelet that looked handmade, worn soft by sun and time.

“What about you?” you asked softly. “What are you running from?”

He didn’t answer right away. Instead, he reached for the wax in his bag, began rubbing it over the board in slow circles.

“When you win too young,” he said eventually, “people stop asking if you like it. They just expect more wins.”

You tilted your head. “Surfing?”

He nodded.

“So... you’re famous or something?”

He gave a small laugh, almost shy. “Not really. In the Pacific circuit, maybe. A few sponsors. My face on an energy drink once. But the real surfers... the lifers... they’re different. They love the ocean no matter what. I started to feel like I didn’t.”

Your fingers curled into the sand.

“Is that why you came here?”

“To remember.”

A pause.

“And maybe to disappear for a little while.”

He stood and offered his hand. “Come on. Today you’re getting in the water.”

You hesitated. “What if I fall again?”

“You will,” he said, grinning. “Falling’s the point.”

The lessons were slow, patient. He had a way of touching without hesitation but never without permission—guiding your shoulders, nudging your knees, lifting your chin. The first few times you tried to stand, you crashed hard into the water. Satoru didn’t laugh. He swam beside you, helped you up, and tried again.

“Relax,” he said once, brushing wet hair out of your face. “You’re fighting it too much.”

“It’s trying to drown me,” you muttered.

“No,” he said gently, “it’s just testing you. The ocean doesn’t want obedience—it wants respect.”

You blinked at him.

“Wow,” you said. “Was that a surfboard fortune cookie quote?”

He laughed—a bright, boyish sound that caught you off guard.

“Maybe,” he said. “But it’s true.”

The sun climbed higher. You fell and rose again, laughing louder each time, salt stinging your eyes, heart swelling each time Satoru reached for your hand without hesitation.

When you finally caught a wave—even just for three seconds—he whooped loud enough for the lifeguards to glance over.

“You did it!” he shouted.

You tumbled off the board into the surf and came up grinning.

“Barely!”

“Doesn’t matter. You were part of it.”

You looked at him, standing in the water, the sun catching the sea around him like light caught in crystal. Your smile faded, just a little. That moment—fleeting, glittering, full—was already starting to hurt. Because you knew, even then, that nothing like this could last.

That evening, he walked you to a spot above the beach, a small rise where the cliffs met an old weather-beaten shack and a bench carved with names. He said he came here every night he stayed in Rio. To think. To watch. To listen.

You sat beside him, silent at first. The sky exploded in watercolor—pinks, golds, blues bleeding into purple. The sea caught every color like it was reflecting memory itself.

He leaned back on his palms.

“I like the silence,” he said after a while. “It’s honest.”

You glanced sideways. “Is everything with you about honesty?”

“Most things should be.”

You exhaled slowly.

“My friends think I’m here for the adventure. What they don’t know is that I wasn’t sure I’d even come until the morning we left.”

He didn’t interrupt.

“I’ve been... stuck,” you confessed. “With my life. My choices. Who I am when no one’s looking.”

He nodded, like he understood more than you could explain.

“I used to be scared of that version of myself,” he said. “The one who couldn’t perform. Who didn’t win. Who just... existed. Now I think maybe he’s the one I want to know better.”

The sky turned darker. Lights began to blink on down the beach. People laughed somewhere far below. A lone gull cried out.

You turned to him. “Will I see you again tomorrow?”

He didn’t answer right away. Just leaned in slightly, eyes narrowing like the space between you was shifting.

“Yeah,” he said. “You will.”

The next morning, you woke with his voice still echoing in your ears.

“You will.”

You told your friends you had plans. Vague ones. No one pried. They were too wrapped up in their own hazy flings and hangovers to care that you kept slipping away, pulled by something they hadn’t noticed yet. And maybe you liked it that way.

You bought two cold açai bowls from a vendor on the walk. One topped with bananas and honey. The other with strawberries and coconut shavings. You didn’t even ask what Satoru liked—you just guessed.

When he saw you approaching the same beach, your usual tote on your shoulder, he jogged up barefoot through the sand and took the container from your hand like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“Banana,” he said, opening the lid. “How did you know?”

You smiled. “Guessed.”

He grinned. “Guess again tomorrow.”

You didn’t surf that day. He didn’t suggest it. Instead, he asked if you wanted to walk the length of the boardwalk that curved past the beach. You said yes.

You walked in slow rhythm, stopping to watch old men playing cards, kids doing handstands in the sand, lovers on towels whispering into one another’s necks.

He bought you coconut water in a shell and drank his with lime.

“Have you ever been in love?” you asked, surprising yourself.

He sipped slowly. “Yes. Once.”

You didn’t press. He looked at you then, like he could feel the weight of the question hanging between you.

“You?”

You hesitated. “I thought I was. He was more in love with the version of me I pretended to be.”

Satoru nodded like he understood.

“I think sometimes we get good at wearing masks,” he said. “Especially when we want to be loved more than we want to be known.”

That silence again. But now it wasn’t awkward. It was full.

Later, he took you to his rental—an apartment tucked into the hillside above the neighborhood, quiet and sun-washed, with an open rooftop lined in string lights. It was sparse: a single hammock, a speaker, two wooden chairs, and a fridge full of coconut water and beer.

“Do you bring people up here?” you asked.

“No.”

“Why me?”

He turned toward you, blue eyes softening. “Because you don’t need noise to fill silence.”

That night, you sat on the rooftop under the stars, barefoot, knees curled toward your chest. The sounds of Rio buzzed beneath you—music, car horns, laughter—and you let it all fade into the background as Satoru put on soft, instrumental music.

He didn’t try to kiss you. He didn’t touch you unless it was to pass another bottle or brush a curl from your shoulder.

Instead, he asked, “If you could disappear into any moment and stay there, what would it be?”

You thought for a long time.

“This one,” you said.

He looked at you then—really looked—and didn’t say a word. Just nodded slowly.

Before you left, he picked up a small, beat-up film camera from his side bag.

“Let me take a photo of you,” he said.

You almost said no. You hated photos. You hated the way they made you feel frozen, too visible, too performed. But something about the way he said it—soft, reverent—made you nod.

You sat on the ledge, hair wind-swept, city behind you. He crouched low, adjusted the focus with steady hands.

“Don’t smile,” he said. “Just be.”

The shutter clicked.

And it felt like something permanent had been made.

walked you halfway back to your hostel. The streets were quiet now, the stars dimming as morning threatened to rise.

Outside the gate, he paused. “Same time tomorrow?”

“Maybe earlier,” you said.

He leaned down just a little—close enough to smell the salt still caught in his shirt, the clean scent of his skin.

For a moment, the kiss almost happened. It hovered there in the air between you, heavy with promise and something unnamed.

But you both pulled back. Not yet. You watched him go. His figure shrinking into the quiet street, board under one arm, camera slung across his back.

You didn’t know it then, but that photo would become the last full memory he’d leave behind.

For a while, it became a rhythm. Quiet, easy, real.

You’d wake up with the sun creeping past the hostel’s balcony curtains, your friends still wrapped in bedsheets and sleep. And somehow—without texting, without confirming—he’d already be there. At the beach. In the water. Or sitting on the edge of his board, watching the horizon like he was waiting for something only the sea could give back.

Always alone. Always with one extra açai bowl in hand, just in case.

One afternoon, instead of the beach, Satoru met you outside your hostel with two helmets in hand.

“You ride?” he asked, nodding toward a rented motorbike waiting at the curb.

“No,” you answered, pulling your sunglasses down, “but I trust you.”

That made him pause. His eyes flicked up to yours. “You shouldn’t.”

“Why?”

He smirked, fastening your helmet. “Because I don’t know where we’re going either.”

You rode through Lapa first—the arches, the staircases painted in endless mosaics, children racing with kites, street vendors yelling in three languages. Then up into Santa Teresa again, where old colonial homes spilled over the hills like quiet ghosts.

At one point, you leaned your chin into his shoulder, just to rest. He didn’t speak, didn’t move, but you felt his fingers tighten just a little on the handlebars.

That night, you ate grilled cheese on sweet bread from a vendor in Glória. He made you try pão de queijo until you moaned with approval. You tried to guess the story behind each of his tattoos (wrong every time). He asked you what your middle name was, then said it sounded too pretty to be real.

You ended up back on his rooftop, barefoot again, sharing a mango and the same bottle of water like it was sacred.

He told you that day had been the best he’d felt in months. You didn’t say anything. You didn’t have to.

The next morning, he taught you how to paddle out properly—really paddle. How to read the break in the tide. When to sit. When to chase. When to let go.

Every time your arms shook, he was there beside you, grinning like he was proud anyway.

“You’re not supposed to be this patient,” you told him.

“I don’t do this for anyone,” he replied.

You tried to ignore the way your chest tightened when he said that. But later, as the two of you floated quietly past the breakers, boards side by side in the gentle lull of the sea, he said something else that stayed even longer.

“You feel like calm water.”

You turned toward him.

“What does that mean?”

He didn’t answer. Just reached over, trailing his fingers down the length of your forearm, slow, barely there. A shiver ran under your skin. His hand stayed, resting against your wrist.

“It means I don’t want this to end.”

And you didn’t ask what “this” was. Because you didn’t want to define it yet.

You just wanted it to last.

That night, you brought a bottle of wine to his rooftop.

You drank barefoot, legs dangling off the ledge. He showed you the stars he remembered from home, even though the smog blurred most of them. You showed him the scar on your ankle from childhood. He traced it with his thumb, so lightly you almost didn’t feel it.

The wine made everything warmer. At some point, the conversation dipped quiet again, and he turned toward you.

His voice was lower now.

“Are you scared of leaving?”

You blinked. “Rio?”

“No.” A pause. “This. Us.”

You swallowed, feeling the words slip down into something that hurt.

“Yes,” you whispered. “Because I’ve never had something that felt like it could vanish before I even touched it.”

He leaned in. You didn’t kiss. Not yet.

But your foreheads touched. And your hands found each other again. His fingers slipped between yours like he belonged there.

You fell asleep like that—still fully dressed, heads tilted toward each other on the rooftop. A breeze moving softly through his hair. Your legs tangled.

When you woke in the blue haze of dawn, he was still holding your hand.

You never talked about what you were. He didn’t ask. You didn’t push. And it was almost better that way—like the minute you said it out loud, it would crumble.

But in all the ways that mattered, he was becoming the center of your summer. And you were becoming his anchor.

It was one of those days where everything felt too quiet to be real.

The hostel had emptied out—your friends were gone on some boat tour up the coast, their laughter already fading in the distance as you closed the door behind you. You hadn’t told them you weren’t going. You just didn’t show.

Some things didn’t need announcing. You found him already waiting. No words. No plans.

Just the understanding: today is just ours.

This wasn’t the tourist beach. Not the one where your hostel sat near caipirinha carts and endless volleyball matches.

No, he took you further west—down a path of cracked pavement and tall green scrub until the city fell away and there was only sand and sea and sky. A place where the water whispered instead of roared, and the only sounds were birds and breeze and breath.

He laid out his towel. You laid beside him. No music. No sunscreen. Just silence and sun.

At first you talked. A little. About everything and nothing. He told you about his hometown again, a place by the sea where the water was colder and the waves had teeth. You told him about your childhood summers and how you’d always pretended to like the beach but secretly feared the way the tide pulled.

“I get that,” he said. “The ocean’s a little like people.”

“How?”

“Some pull you under. And some carry you back to shore.”

Your chest tightened. But you didn’t speak. You rolled onto your side, your knees brushing his. He didn’t pull away.

At one point, you reached for your necklace—a small, thin thing you’d worn since you were sixteen—and fumbled with the clasp. It had twisted. He reached over instinctively.

“Let me.”

His fingers brushed the back of your neck. Light, unhurried. Not possessive. Not bold.

Just... careful.

And something in you cracked quietly open, like a shell in gentle hands.

His fingers lingered just a little too long after fixing it. And when he looked at you, his eyes didn’t hold that playful glint anymore. They held something heavier. Something warm and unsure and real.

You leaned into his touch.

You walked into the sea together later, slow steps through the gentle break. He held your wrist without thinking, guiding you forward until the water reached your waist, then your ribs. You floated beside him, half-turned to the sky, your hair fanned out like seaweed in the tide.

“Breathe,” he said softly. “Just listen to it.”

You closed your eyes and did. The rhythm of the ocean. The sound of his breath.

The closeness of your bodies—not quite touching, but tethered, somehow, by gravity or want or fate.

The ocean curled softly around you, warm and endless. You floated beside him, the salt drying on your lips, your fingertips brushing occasionally with the gentle roll of the tide. Every time your skin touched his, it was like a spark that didn’t burn—just glowed, quietly, inside your ribs.

He was watching you again. And this time, you let him.

You turned toward him slowly, your chest rising and falling with the rhythm of the sea, the hush between waves thickening into something suspended. His expression had changed. No teasing now, no amusement or flirtation. Just something raw. Vulnerable.

Like if he looked away, he might lose this moment forever.

The space between your faces narrowed. Just a breath. One inhale. One choice.

Then his hand found the side of your neck—fingertips tentative, almost afraid. As if he didn’t want to shatter whatever it was blooming between you. His thumb brushed your jaw, a motion so light it made you shiver.

You leaned in. So did he. And then—you kissed. At first, it was just a press. Lips to lips. Barely there.

But even that soft contact sent something crashing through you—an ache and a warmth, like your entire body had been waiting for this exact moment without ever knowing it.

His lips parted slightly, like a question. Yours answered.

He kissed you with the kind of patience that made time slow. Like he wasn’t in a hurry to claim anything—he just wanted to feel it. Savor it. Understand it.

There was no battle. No dominance. Just this shared, sacred gravity pulling your mouths together, again and again. The taste of him—salt and sun and something clean—filled your senses, and the rest of the world blurred into white noise.

The kiss deepened slowly.

One of his hands slid from your neck to your waist, anchoring you as the tide swayed you both. Your own hands lifted to his chest, fingers fisting in the wet fabric of his shirt like you were holding on for dear life—because in that moment, it felt like he might float away if you let go.

His nose brushed yours. His lips moved against yours with more surety now—still gentle, still soft, but searching. Like he was learning your shape by heart, memorizing how to fit himself into your spaces.

The ocean moved around you, steady and wide, and he kissed you like you were the only person left in it.

When you finally pulled away, your foreheads touched. Both of you breathless. Your lips still tingled. So did your skin.

You opened your eyes, unsure what you’d see.

But his were already on you. Quiet. Blue. Wide open. And for a second, it felt like he wanted to say something.

He didn’t.

Instead, he just kissed your forehead—softly, slowly—as if sealing something between you. A promise. A pause. Something that couldn’t be named, only felt.

And then, he smiled.

“Still scared of the tide?” he whispered.

You smiled back. “No.”

But you would be. Just not yet.

You stayed in the water a while after that.

Not kissing. Not speaking. Just existing—drifting side by side, the sun slipping down behind the hills, the sky painted in gold and lavender. The kind of color that never shows up in photos. The kind you have to remember by feel.

When you left the water, his hand found yours without needing to look. And when you laid back down on the towel, curled into him, your head resting on his chest—you could hear his heartbeat like a drum under your ear.

Steady. Real. His lips pressed to your forehead once. That was all.

The morning didn’t feel right.

Not in the obvious way—not storm clouds or shattered glass. But in that quiet, invisible kind of way. The way the sky looked too still. The way the sun seemed too golden. The way you couldn’t quite keep your smile on your face, even as he kissed your cheek and handed you half of his papaya with honey.

He still wore that easy grin. Still looked like the same boy who kissed you in the sea the night before.

But something in his eyes… it wasn’t the same.

You sat on the rooftop ledge with your legs hanging off, a shared thermos of strong Brazilian coffee between you.

He asked you what your friends were doing today. You said you weren’t sure—you hadn’t checked your phone. He laughed, said maybe he’d finally show you how to actually surf. You rolled your eyes and promised to try.

It was all normal. But it wasn’t.

His touch was still gentle, but there was a new tension behind it. Like he was aware of the moment passing as it happened. Like he was trying to memorize it in real time.

You said his name once. Just softly.

“Satoru.”

He turned to you with a look that made your stomach pull.

“Don’t fall in love with me,” he said, teasing. Light.

But his smile didn’t reach his eyes.

Later, while walking down toward the beach, you told him something—something you didn’t think would matter.

You told him your return flight had been moved up a few days. That your parents wanted you home early. That your friends were booking their transport out of Rio.

“We’ll still have tomorrow,” you added quickly, seeing the flicker in his face.

He stopped walking. You didn’t mean to make it heavy. But he just stood there, silent, eyes on the water like it had called him suddenly.

“Hey,” you said gently. “It’s not goodbye yet.”

But he didn’t answer. He kissed your forehead. And then, without warning, he turned and started running—down the sand, toward the water, board under his arm.

You watched him paddle out fast, past the soft waves you were used to, past the calm shallows where the other surfers lingered. He went deeper. Farther.

You waited. At first, it was just him being dramatic. You told yourself that. But then the waves shifted.

The ocean wasn’t storming—not yet—but the rhythm had changed. The breakers were harder now, crashing sharper against the reef, pulling faster on the tide. You could see him out there, slicing across the water like it was something he needed to fight. Again and again.

Too far out. Too wild.

You walked down to the edge of the water. He caught a wave. And fell.

It didn’t look bad at first—he disappeared under the foam like always. You waited for the board to bob up. For his white hair to break the surface, laughing. But seconds passed. Then more. Your heart began to pound.

“Satoru!” you shouted, uselessly.

The ocean roared back. Then the board surfaced—without him.

You ran into the water. So did another surfer.

You don’t remember how long it took. How many minutes passed between screaming and freezing. All you remember is the sick, cold numbness in your chest as you stood waist-deep, scanning the horizon for the face you’d memorized.

Then— Someone yelling. Movement in the water. A man dragging a limp body toward the sand. And that white hair, soaked red with blood from his temple, tangled in seaweed and foam.

Satoru.

The hospital smelled like cold metal and bleach and fear. You didn’t remember the ride there.

You didn’t remember who called the ambulance, or how your legs carried you up the sand, or when your hands started shaking. You only remembered the moment they took him away from you—took him, like something stolen. Rolling him through double doors on a stretcher, wires and monitors already clinging to his body like second skin.

And how they didn’t let you follow.

You sat in plastic chairs that made your skin stick to the seat. Someone handed you a paper cup of water you didn’t drink. Your phone buzzed again and again—your friends, calling, texting, asking where you were, if it was true.

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t.

Your eyes were locked on the hallway doors at the end of the corridor, like if you stared hard enough, he’d walk through them—drenched and alive and smiling that cocky smile, already making some joke about the nurses. But the doors stayed shut.

An hour passed. Then two. A woman in scrubs finally emerged, and you stood so fast the world tilted.

“He’s stable,” she said gently. “But unconscious. There was a strong impact to the back of the skull. He swallowed a lot of water. We managed to resuscitate him on the beach… but it was close.”

Close. That word hit you like a slap.

You nodded, trying to hold your voice together. “Can I see him?”

She hesitated. “Just a few minutes. He won’t respond. But sometimes patients can hear.”

You didn’t care what he could or couldn’t do. You just needed to be near him.

The beeping was the first thing you heard. Rhythmic. Constant. Fragile.

Satoru lay there in a white bed too big for him, pale against the linens, his silver lashes damp against his cheeks. His face looked softer in the fluorescent light. Younger.

The bruising around his temple had bloomed into something dark and terrible.

But he was still breathing. You pulled a chair close and sat beside him. He didn’t move. You reached for his hand. It was cold. So you held it tighter.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered. “I didn’t mean for today to feel like a goodbye.”

The monitor beeped back at you. Steady. Unmoved.

“You idiot,” you said softly, brushing his hair away from his face. “You said I was calm water. But you’re the one who made everything feel like summer.”

His hand twitched faintly. Maybe. Maybe not.

Your thumb rubbed slow circles over the back of it.

“I don’t know what happens next,” you whispered. “But don’t you dare leave me wondering what could’ve happened if we had more time.”

A tear slipped down your cheek. You didn’t wipe it away.

“You said not to fall in love with you.”

You leaned closer, pressing your forehead to his.

“But I think it’s too late.”

The hospital room was still dark when you returned the next morning. He hadn’t moved. Same wires. Same bruises. Same deep, unmoving sleep.

You stood at the door for a long time, your suitcase still warm from the cab’s trunk. The wheels didn’t roll quietly, and the sound echoed too loud in the sterile silence. You felt clumsy, wrong. Like you were trespassing in your own goodbye. You had thirty minutes before the airport van came. You sat beside him one last time.

He looked a little better that morning. Color had returned to his lips. His chest rose more steadily. The monitors didn’t beep quite as angrily as they had the night before.

But his eyes never opened. And that silence—that awful, bone-deep silence between you—grew louder with every second.

You wanted to believe he was just asleep. That he was dreaming something vivid and sweet. Maybe about the kiss, or the papaya with honey, or the way the sun hit your shoulders when you laughed.

But you didn’t believe it. Not really.

You didn’t plan to write it. But the words came out anyway.

You borrowed a pen from the nurse’s station and scribbled onto the back of an old flyer from your backpack—a hostel event that had already passed.

The handwriting was messy. A little smudged. But true.

“Hey.

I know you might never read this. I know I might never see you again.

But thank you—for showing me that something could feel real, even if it doesn’t last forever.

You made me feel warm again.

If you wake up… I’ll be wishing I could be there.

Don’t forget the ocean. Or me.

—Y/N”

You folded it in half and slid it into his palm. Your fingers lingered there.

Then you leaned down and pressed a kiss—gentle and quiet—into his hairline. It was softer than your first kiss. It hurt more than anything.

You didn’t cry until you were in the van.

The city blurred outside the window as you left the hospital behind. And the ocean—your ocean—came into view one last time, sparkling under the summer sun like it didn’t know what it had taken. You pressed your hand to the glass. You didn’t say goodbye out loud. But inside, you whispered it.

“Come back to me. Even if I’m not there.”

The machines beeped softly. The light outside the hospital window was golden again—another warm morning that didn’t know what it had waited for.

Satoru stirred. It was slight at first. A twitch of fingers. A shift of breath. Then a quiet groan as his brow knit and his eyes fluttered open for the first time in days.

His vision blurred in and out. White walls. A ceiling fan. The sting of saline in his nose.

And then—something in his hand. Crumpled paper. His fingers clutched it without knowing why. When he finally blinked enough to see clearly, he turned his head, slowly, painfully—and saw it.

A note.

Unfolded by trembling fingers. He read it once. Then again. And again. Until his lips, chapped and dry, finally whispered:

“Y/N…”

You were back home.

Back in a bedroom that felt too clean. Too untouched. The kind of space that made you question whether the past few weeks even happened—whether the boy with the white hair and salt-kissed laugh had been real at all. Your friends had stopped asking. They assumed it was a summer thing—a fling that burned quick and bright before fading out.

But you couldn’t stop checking your email. The hospital line never rang. No number with a Brazilian country code ever appeared.

You tried to forget. But every time the wind picked up, every time you heard the ocean in a shell or passed the surfboard rentals at the beach back home—he came rushing back.

And the note… the one you left behind? You didn’t know if he ever read it.

It arrived three weeks later. Plain. No return address. But it smelled faintly of sunscreen and sea salt.

Inside: a polaroid.

Taken by a nurse, maybe. It was blurry—but unmistakable. Satoru, half-sitting in a hospital bed. Bruised but smiling. One eye bandaged. A peace sign lifted toward the camera.

In his lap: your note. And beneath the photo, in the corner of the envelope—barely legible scrawl:

“You didn’t forget the ocean.and I didn’t forget you.”