Lovesick

you felt that there was a sense of freedom associated with the idea of flying. as though the very act could release you from your mind, which caged you inside of its deprecations far earlier than you'd like to recall. something about the carelessness, the ease, the way birds would leap from branches and glide through the sky, flapping their feathered wings to carry themselves overhead seemed as though it would provide the answers to all of your problems.

you longed for such lightness, such liberty, the lack of fruitless responsibility, the very cycle of life serving as your only worldly concern.

but instead, you were grounded. damned for eternity to live within the body you possess, forced to serve a sentence out on earth with no means of escape.

you'd prayed for such mutations, for god to grant you grace after having planted you in a world, in a home which always subjected you to far too much cruelty. you were only seven when the first thought of ridding yourself from the world planted itself into your hardly developed mind, for the stinging buzz of your cheekbone and the orange circle of fire that sizzled into your arms left you very little reason to want to stick around much longer, to stay within such conditions.

you remember trembling hands clasping tight with your elbows digging into your bed as you whispered frantically under your breath, tilting your head up to the ceiling where you believed the ruler of all life, of the universe resided. you prayed for peace. you prayed for a chance. you prayed for flight.

at first, you had merely believed that your prayers had been delayed. that there was a long line of similar wishes stretching out before yours, and that the provider would eventually find the time to handle your mess, to unweave your sorrows, to gift you life.

put time went by. cigarettes burned brighter, hands swung down harder, lips busted, eyes swelled, and your hands locked tighter as your prayers grew more desperate.

you elected to take matters into your own hands a few times, to attempt to help god speed up the process by slipping away in the middle of the night, attempting to flee. but every time, police reports feigning devastation and worry always brought you back, back to captivity, clipping your wings that hadn't even begun to grow.

the years went by, and you eventually gave up on sprituality. religion. god.

mercy.

scars inflicted by those meant to care, to love faded into darker marks, past memories of savagery that even the heavens could not salvage. by ten years old, the light had drained from your eyes. the world no longer held the possibility of something new, something better. your mind could no longer trick itself into conjuring lies about a brighter future, where your skin was smooth and your heart was full, where your innocent words were not maliciously twisted in order to inflict some kind of rash punishment, some excuse to belittle, abuse, dehumanize before your brain had even started to differentiate right from wrong, weak from strong.

and no one ever helped you. you'd go to school with full eyes and bruises beating beneath your uniform like a million heartbeats. you'd fall mute in class, during lunch, at recess, subjecting you to further negative attention. kids picked on you until you developed the habit of retaliating.

what you'd learned from home swiftly transferred to your place of academics, and your little fist would fly into a snotty girl's jaw before you let the mockery slip from her mouth again.

it was the only semblance of control you had. the only way you could release the monstronsity building up inside you. the only way you could seek justice for yourself, if god refused to do it for you.

a blur of meetings with the principal, with guidance counselors, with security officers and police who never truly saw you, never truly heard you flashed through your childhood. the bloodier your nose became behind closed doors, the bloodier your fist became in public. you had become a bully, transitioning from the victim of circumstance to the aggravator inflicting it.

until you were expelled at thirteen, and life was consequently almost torn away from you by your abuser.

you lay awake that night on your carpet in a pool of blood, crimson dripping from your mouth, drenching your squished cheek to the floor. you didn't bother moving as you stared up at the ceiling. eyes lidded. lips parted and smushed. lashes fluttering.

and that stain on the ceiling you'd always stared at morphed into the odd shape of something living. no longer a smudge, but a bird with crooked wings, still flapping relentlessly, flying away.

you shuddered a breath that tickled the strands of the spattered carpet beneath you.

the curses manifested pretty early. the monsters that trailed behind you as you trudged your way to school, their slippery claws ripping at your skin, whispering absurdities into your ear, willing the worse thoughts to become somehow darker, somehow heavier.

no one talked to you much as you as you grew older, as the air about you grew thicker with distain and malice and sorrow. they could always sense something off, some energy about you not quite vibrating at the same frequency as theirs. something scary, and impossible to name.

you transferred between schools rather frequently, never quite setting roots anywhere. the only thing that was home to you was the pain that constantly circled through your body and mind, conjuring up masses of cursed energy that flared and swarmed like diseased flies, like sicknesses you could not seem to shake. your yearning for animal life, for flight manifested in the curses you subconsciously brought to life, and you merely thought you were losing your mind as you watched their shadows dance across the walls in the middle of the night as your comforter tugged over your mouth.

nothing quite fazed you much after that. your mind had gone long ago, therefore anything strange, anything new that was gruesome and foul just sank deeper into you like it belonged.

you wanted to die. you'd wanted to die since the moment you could conjure up a thought. since the moment the world reared its ugly head to you before you lost your first tooth. life had nothing for you if it was only going to remind you of your misfortune, rip you away from pleasant dreams where the ghost of you quietly slipped away into the clouds, past the stars.

your feet hurt with every step you took over the ground, for every step that was not lifted by flight. you hardly noticed that the curses you'd left in your wake slowly began to mutilate those who wronged you, every classmate who whispered, every counselor who overstepped, and with time, your abuser. your aunt.

it wasn't until then, when you were sixteen years old, when you finally lowered your gaze from the sky to meet another one before you. in the shape of pools beneath snowy lashes, a terror so wrecked in them that you could not look away.

you stared at him over your shoulder, and gradually, your eyes grew wide. his hand was thrusted into the direction of the now flayed monster that you had only believed yourself to be able to see. the body of your aunt lay just before the exterminated curse, blood splatter mixed with some kind of alien purple decorating the kitchen oven

a boy with moonlight hair stood amidst your mess, and the gurgling chatter of your monsters had suddenly gone silent under the pressure of his presence, of his destruction.

but what you'd first thought to be terror and disgust in what he'd stumble upon turned into steely grief for you instead, his eyes as tired and dull as yours as he lowered his hand and scanned the area solemnly.

then his gaze is back on you, and the two of you could only stare. for you don't recall anyone ever having looked at you the way he did then, ever quite piercing you with his gaze like he had, ever quite seeing you so clearly before.

like you were raw and exposed before him. all your monsters he crushed. all the thorny misery that inspired them. blood stained your clothes, but he looked only at you and not at what you did... like you were a person. like you were just as real as the sorrow you felt. like he was exhausted to see such a thing happen again.

and you never did forget the frown the tugged his lips downward, and what felt like a hundred miles separating you before you collapsed to your knees with a thud, hoping for some final relief, hoping that the boy strong enough to erradicate your curses could do the same to you.

you closed your eyes when you felt footsteps approaching after a moment of silence, his cursed energy warping the very air that surrounded you. tears dribbled down your cheeks as you began to think that this was it, that the end of your life had finally come, that wings to flutter you away were just around the corner, gifted by the angel with eyes that match the neverending sky.

instead of his wrath, however, you are met with a hand extended once you peel your eyes back open upon not feeling any pain. you stare up at him, eyes blown and watery, and his brows drag together as he looks at you, something weighted and torn behind those sapphire irises.

you'd never touched a softer hand when you dared to reach.

the higher ups wanted you dead, especially since your appearance and the death caused by your negative energy transpired mere months after another boy's defection. though every sign pointed toward a likely evil nature, satoru didn't give up on you.

he always says that when he looked you in the eye, he knew that you just needed a chance at grace.

the white haired seventeen year old roped yaga into his argument when he brought you back from the mission as asked, pleading, begging him to look - to really look at you for one second and decide whether you deserved penatly or not, whether you had asked for what befell you.

you became satoru's indirect responsibility after that, so yaga enrolled you into the strange school, the very last school you would ever transfer to again.

you noticed that the higher ups often pulled satoru away from you at the best of times, using him to their advantage, as a weapon for humanity by sending him on mission after mission, leaving you to the hands of your professors, yaga, and the principal who always eyed you suspiciously when he walked by.

and while the urge to fixate on the old man's hostility toward you was strong, you found that his and the other higher ups' were the only hostility you'd come to know in this place.

for students didn't run away from you when they saw you coming. they didn't glare, or murmur, or wish you dead. no, they offered their hand to you just as satoru did that day, introducing themselves, welcoming you into their lives.

and satoru had become your closest friend, always rushing to your dorm the second he'd return from a mission to check in and see how you were doing, to flood your darkness with what you'd come to call his corny jokes and demanding presence, his obsessive need for your attention as though you'd known each other all of your lives.

it didn't take long for you to grow attached. though he paraded about as the jolliest boy in the world, you always saw the soul past his bright eyes, the pain he burrowed deep that touched yours. you'd catch him gazing off into the distance sometimes thoughtfully, or watching you close from the corner of your bed as you did homework. a million words hid behind his mouth that he never spoke, but his stare always told a deeper story.

and you, a former alien to kindness, gained light as you gained trust and control over your cursed energy. that resentment toward the world still lingered, but morphed into heavy guilt along the way, as you witnessed the horrors that curses inflicted upon human society.

satoru has always known you to be depressed. he thinks of the day he first saw you more than he is willing to admit, how easily you dropped to the ground before him, hoping that he'd take away your pain with the snap of his fingers.

it haunts him.

you don't smile with your eyes, and you spend more time staring at the clouds than you do on planet earth. he feels your anxiety buzzing through your body every day, and while you've grown into yourself as a sorcerer, as a person with time and age and friendship and love, your heartbeat still skips along like it's trying to kick its way out of your body, like you're trying to break through.

your cirumstance is strange, unlike suguru geto's. you didn't ask for the curses you bred. you didn't ask for the abuse that you endured. you didn't ask for this natural, unbridled, dangerous power that you harnessed the best you could for good.

but with age and time also came further strength, and just like satoru, you posed a threat to the jujutsu world in the higher ups' eyes, leading them to place further restraints on you as a graduate, and eventually as a young teacher.

for no matter how much control you gained, your trauma still remains. your depression still lives. and at any given moment, you could snap.

the guilt swallows you whole in your young adulthood. you wake up in the night from the cold slap of a woman you accidentally killed, your chest heaving up and down as you stare into the darkness. you think of all those missing classmates. of those who suffered at the hand of your subconscious anger, even without the manifestation of those curses.

the scars on your knuckles remind you of your cruelty.

and now that you are tasked with the protection of humanity, now that people like gakuganji are there to remind you of who you really are apart from satoru's affections and your friends' empathy, you stew in your responsibility. in all the bad that you've done. in the cycle that you've repeated, and are likely to repeat again.

you hate yourself. you always have.

you feel like an imposter when you first notice the soft way satoru looks at you in the lamp light of your dorm desk when you're kids, his head resting in your lap, his knees to the floor and his arms around your waist as you read. your shared privacy became a treasured thing as you grew together, your internal anguish molding into something warmer in the other's presence, for you acknowledged one another's independent struggle.

and satoru sees what suguru could have been in you. the kindness. the authenticity. the shared depression.

he finds that he doesn't want to lose you the way he did suguru. not in any way, for that matter.

and you consistently find it difficult to believe that satoru truly cares about you. you expect him to disappear one day, to turn on you, to walk away and antagonize you like every body else you've ever allowed yourself to be vulnerable around has.

you tense around him, because that softness, that gentle quality he gains in the empty spaces of your silence and company frightens you. you don't allow yourself to think it's real. for who could ever truly care about someone like you? someone beaten and tormented all of her life, hardly seen as a human at all? ignored, shamed, broken.

someone like satoru could never love you, someone so needed and desired by the world. what could he possibly do with the woman he ended up stuck with? with the woman who further complicates his already complicated life?

he's the strongest, and for the honored one to pledge such loyalty to you, to nothing, doesn't make sense. you can't think of yourself as any more than a burden.

so when his hands come down to rub your back as he intrudes on your studies in the libary, the teasing lilt in his tone hardly matching the way his fingers tenderly linger, you go rigid. has another person's touch always been so gentle? have hands always had the ability to ease such grievances?

you feel like an imposter to experience so, staring skeptically and shyly when he flashes you warm smiles, or offers to try to (horribly) paint your nails when he notices that the polish has chipped, are drops his head into your chest when he's tired after a mission, murmuring a weak request for your hands to slip through his hair and stroke his scalp to sleep.

you never understood how easily he touched you, despite your history with having hurt so many before.

you felt like an imposter when you realized you'd fallen in love with him in your early twenties, when he proved to stick around and wrap himself tighter around your finger in spite of your darkness, and even more so when he grabbed your cheeks in the rain and pulled you into longing kiss some time after.

you remember the way the rain soaked your clothes, and the way his drenched strands of ivory hair stuck to your skin. you remember your body feeling cold, yet your heart warm in a way you'd never quite felt, in a way you didn't know was possible for someone like you.

you feel like an imposter now, at twenty five years old, by the strongest sorcerer's side as his girlfriend. while the higher ups continue to seethe. and you continue to doubt. and satoru continues to love, with everything inside of him.

it only makes you feel worse. and after a while of peace, the noise gets loud again, reminding you of your origins, of who you are and not who you are currently trying to be.

you think satoru doesn't see right through you, but he knows. he always knows just exactly what you're feeling. he's seen you at your worst. he knows your tells from the inside out. he knows your depression like it's his own, recalls how it can eat one alive from the inside and chemically alter the makeup of their brain.

satoru worries for you every day that he is alive. he worries for your safety, for you pose as a danger to yourself. he notices the way you avert your gaze whenever he smiles lovingly at you, as though you feel as though you aren't deserving of the happiness he provides. he notices the way your cursed energy warbles and twitches like a trapped bird, how it constantly battles against your own psyche as you try to prevent yourself from posing as a bigger threat than you already are.

he knows that your obsession with birdwatching stems from something deeper. that the way your eyes longingly gaze at their flight speaks volumes that you will never amplify.

he notices how when he tells you that he loves you, your eyes glaze over and go distant, for this love you share is the first and only authentic connection that you have approached. he knows that. and he strives to show you how much he loves you all the more.

but he knows you don't believe him. and god, it scares him. it scares him that you could one day choose to do something to yourself under his nose, thinking that you'd be ridding him of a burden when in actuality, you'd be taking away the best thing that ever happened to him.

so satoru watches you like a hawk 24/7, keeping a sharp eye out for you, for your heart's patterns, and the messages behind your beautiful eyes. he kisses you softer each day, holds you tighter every morning, preserving that precious intimacy between you to keep your head steady, to show you that he would sooner see the entire world face extinction before you.

he thinks it works for a while.

everything changes one day, however, when the higher ups send him overseas for a few weeks, leaving you alone with the school and the rest of your peers. satoru hates when he is sent away for any period time, for abandoning you stresses and ails him like no other. he knows how you feel about being separated from him in such an environment, and he believes that gakuganji and his goons are starting to pull him away more and more again on purpose.

he creates a fuss, but inevitably leaves with no choice.

"i'll be back as soon as i can, pretty," he tells you gently as he holds your cheeks in his hands, tilting your face up for him to see your solemn expression clearly. his heart aches at your permanently sad eyes, and he curses every old giezer that pulls him away from you. his sweet girl. he dots a kiss to your forehead and smiles when he pulls back. "i promise."

you nod quietly with a light exhale. your hand holds over his as he holds you. "just be safe, please."

"safe is my middle name," he beams.

you crack a weak laugh, and satoru grins. "no it's not."

"for you, it is," he kisses your nose. "will you be okay while i'm gone?"

your expression slightly dampens again, your smile fading as you nod once more. "of course," you say swiftly, too swiftly. "i'm fine, satoru. you don't have to keep worrying about me. i'm a grown woman. i can handle you being away."

the blue eyed sorcerer's jaw clenches. he senses the tension in your words, but attempts to lighten it with a dramatic pout. "you won't miss me?"

you scoff and roll your eyes with that hint of a smile. "of course i'll miss you," you retort. "...i'll miss you a lot."

the strings of satoru's heart tug as he tilts his head, his eyes softening. he ducks down to peck your lips, and your lashes flutter. "i'll miss you too, baby. more than anything," he murmurs. "i'll drop in to check in, yeah?"

"you don't need to do that, toru. you'll get in trouble."

"i know. but i want to," he shows all pearly whites again, and you can't help but smile once more. you never can help it when satoru is around, showering you with sunshine.

he kisses you once more, long and sweet this time, before pulling back to peck your cheek. "answer the phone when i call," he whispers.

"i always do. i should be telling you that."

"you know i will. i'll drop anything for you."

you don't like the tight feeling his statement leaves in your chest.

it takes a while for satoru to finally pry himself off of you and leave, but the second he does, he steals all the light with him. and your classroom is suddenly empty, the silence blaring. you stare off, face and arms dropping slowly, and you ache.

and just as you suspected, a week or so after satoru left, the higher ups call you in for a meeting.

you tremble with anxiety as you approach, standing in the middle of the room with candle light circling you, distant, ancient voices laced with anger ringing out to shame you. to reprimand you for a recent report nanami filed on a mission you were sent on with him the previous week. how you can not cling to satoru as an excuse for your presence here, how the restrictions they have put on your cursed technique are not to be tampered with, as they almost were during that mission. when your emotions almost spiraled.

"you are a liability!" gakuganji huffs. "if i am to hear about one more incident where you almost will yourself to slip away from all the work we've done to keep you in check, then we will have no choice but to suspend you and re-evalute your execution!"

such words would only be uttered in the absence of satoru gojo.

you feel the world shrinking in around you, seeing the faces of your aunt and classmates surrounding you in the closed shutters of the higher ups' private offices. you hear the words that your aunt used to hiss at you before hands came flying. and what was once rage at such memories and treatment has dampened into sorrow, for you leave that meeting with shuddering breaths hiccuping from your throat and eyes glossing over with tears.

you don't notice the way the laterns sway as you stomp down the corridors. you don't notice that way your shadow trembles and splits in two. you don't notice anything but the pit in your gut, and the voices in your head telling you that this is all you will ever be.

someone the world wishes to be rid of.

you don't remember how you got here.

the sun sets behind the skyline, the wind viciously tossing your hair and clothes to and fro from this height. your feet are bare as they grip for footing along the cement ledge , your tight shoes discarded somewhere behind you.

the city's distanct cries almost sound quiet from here as you look down at the ants dotting the sidewalk and the tiny blinking lights lining the road. your cheeks are stained with drying tears, your eyes red. you can feel the rumble of curses behind you, rampant along the rooftop, but you don't hear them. not fully.

your mind is numb, your ears are ringing, and a strange sense of lightness overtakes you as you regard the world from above, wondering if this is the same view that birds have when they are soaring high above. you wobble slightly along the ledge, peering down over the bridge of your nose. the wind attempts to toss you, but you remain balanced. in control.

it's a long way down. the drop will certainly bring death quick.

your mind replays the sound of your body smacking the ground, as it has for many years over, but you don't flinch upon the imaginary impact. instead, you picture how the flight down must feel. how the gravity will grip you and pull you through the air as you go limp, nothing more connecting you to the earth but the deadly contact with the pavement that awaits.

a huff of amused air shoots through your nose, your lips twitching slightly at the thought. for you will no longer have to worry anymore. you will no longer have to be mindful of your technique, of your emotions, of how satoru will look at you when he comes back, how he makes everything in his life about you when he should be worrying about himself.

your heart lurches. you never believed yourself to be capable of love before, whether receiving or giving. therefore, you convince yourself that it was all a brief fantasy, that satoru felt pity toward you and all that you are not able to do. but now, you can no longer tell yourself that you deserve this. that this is your life. that satoru wouldn't have been better off never meeting you.

for what are you, truly, but a pestilence? but another ant beneath someone's feet? a monster the world must destroy?

you're a sorcerer. your job is to protect and to fight of imposing danger. you have never been anything different from what you have sworn your lift to erradicate.

you don't have the strength any longer. to live with the scars of your past. to perform as a fraud in a school that once protected you. as far as you are concerned, the higher ups have every right to want you dead.

for you want yourself dead just as much, if not more.

so here you stand atop this tall building, ready to serve one last duty to this unforgiving world. ready to free yourself.

ready to fly.

you close your eyes, and everything goes mute save for a bird's imaginary melody floating through your ears. you see the vision of that smudge on the ceiling flapping its wings, then satoru smiling with pinched dimples and rosy cheeks, hair fluffy and glowing in the crack of early morning sun.

you could hear the birds then, singing through the window, just as you do now.

your foot raises. curses hiss and croak louder. the air tightens, your body wobbles.

and you step off.

you plummet, your body twirling about until you shoot down head first. your fingers twitch, and you savor what it finally feels like to be airbone. the wind is harsh against your body, unforgiving in a way that only nature could be. you give yourself completely to the feeling, awaiting the harsh pound of death.

instead, the sound of the atmosphere warping cuts through just miliseconds before something familiar and compact collides with you, rocketing by and swopping you up just before you can hit the ground.

something guttural and shocked flocks from you as reality shifts, that same sound coming and going quick, and you fall to the ground under the weight of what hit you.

but the ground isn't hard or painful. it's soft like carpet as you lay flat against it. your own heaving breaths are matched by another's, and you blink your eyes open to see those white strands peaking out as the owner's face shields itself in the crook of your shoulder, breaths hard against your skin.

you stare upward in your stupor, your mind slowly registering what happened. are you still alive? are you dead? dreaming?

satoru's scent and the pressure of his body overtop of yours leaves you confused, for you think that you'd only experience such a thing in the mercy of the afterlife, knowing that satoru is away at the moment... or at least, should be.

but no, you know it is real, that you are still alive, when you feel the sharp tremors of the honored one's firm body pressing into yours, his abdomen tightening with each shake, and something dampening on your neck.

your heart drops, and your eyes shoot wide.

you're alive. satoru saved you.

you don't have any words. your mind is still trapped elsewhere, with the sky and the clouds and the air and the birds. satoru's interruption is jarring, and even more so is the way his heavy breaths shudder into stifled sobs. you feel him fighting it, choking against the cries as he presses himself to you tighter, all of his weight snug and heavy and safe over your body.

you remain limp with your arms sprawled out and yours eyes to the ceiling, and soon, guilt shakes you again.

satoru had to stop what he was doing because of the duty he feels toward your every move. he couldn't even allow you to do this one thing for him, for everyone.

i'll drop anything for you, his voice echoes, and your chin wrinkles with the drage of your brows tightly together.

tears blur your vision once more as it all hits you. the pain. the desire to rid yourself and the world of it. the higher ups. satoru's responsibility to you.

you wanted it all to just go away. but now, under satoru's warmth, you are reminded of his warm gaze, and the possible weight that he declarations of love always carried.

you know now, especially, as he falls apart over you, either of you too stunned to speak.

what is there to say? that you couldn't take it anymore? that death is the one thing you've longed for all your life, though you've battled against it ferociously for the sake of those around you? that satoru's love for you never once made sense in all the years of him sticking by your side, that the way he looks at you, the way he touches you, the way he treats you has never once aligned with what you believe the world to have destined you for?

that the only way you thought to repay him for all the good that he has been in your life for nearly the past decade was to leave?

you feel his arms tuck under you and you jolt. he snivels, keeping his face to the crook of your shoulder as he shifts, wrapping up your waist, holding you flush to him. he rubs his head back and forth against your skin.

tears drop like the rain that fell when he first kissed you, and you let him hold you, crying, marveling over why - why you would do this.

but he knows why. it's the same reason why suguru lost his mind all those years ago. the same reason why you often avoid his eyes, and still hesitate to return his kiss when he closes in. the reason why your cursed energy is so unstable.

why those scars line up your arms and legs. why there's a chip in one of your big teeth. why your eye is a little lazy every time you wake up.

why you don't believe yourself worthy of anything but hurt.

it tears satoru apart, for he can not imagine what you see in yourself when all he sees in you is beauty, strength, a determination to fight back and overcome in the face of adversity. he sees you, and what he sees is perfect.

and he almost lost you because of how fiercely you think otherwise. because of what the world did to you before you met.

the moment he hears the soft, shaky inhale from you that mirrors his own, satoru plants a hand to the carpet and lifts himself slowly from you.

a frown is so deeply etched into his face that you see his pretty dimples poke. his blindfold is still on, but he reaches up to pull it back, pushing his hair from his forehead, revealing his eyes, crescents of devastation and bloodshot.

but your face kills him.

you look tormented by yourself, unsure of where you are, where you stand in his life and your own.

it’s raw on your expression. tears dribble and your chest heaves, and all you can see are the eyes that once saved you staring down like you’ve committed the ultimate betrayal.

you hiccup, beyond yourself. “i-i’m sorry…”

the apology has barely made it out of your mouth when satoru brings his hand to your cheek like he always does, his large palm shaking as he swipes away tears from your heated cheeks.

as if to dismiss your apology. as if to tell you to forget it.

you want to ask him how he knew, but he beats you to it.

“i got a call,” he croaks out into the emptiness which you’ve come to realize is the floor of your own room. “yaga saw you leave the higher ups. he saw you upset.”

his voice is shaky and quiet, hardly above a whisper, afraid that speaking any louder will ruin him. his lips tremble.

“he saw your energy. he said it didn’t look good… worse than it - it ever has. i had a horrible feeling, but i...”

“satoru, i’m sorry,” you wheeze again, hoping it will erase everything, but his nose wrinkles at your apology.

“don’t,” he whispers. “please. please don’t. please. i don’t want your apology, (y/n). i have to know what they said to you.”

you tremble. "...who?"

"the higher ups, (y/n). what the hell did they say to you to make you - " gojo can't even bring himself to finish his sentence before a lump cuts his words. his snowflake lashes flutter as his lips press together tight. you don't think you've ever seen your boyfriend so broken, so openly distressed.

he keeps his hand to your skin as if afraid to let go, to pull back and realize that you are already gone to him. his eyes scatter about your face and figure, searching for any further physical damage, counting every detail he notes that remains in place, that he could have lost had he not swooped in at the right moment.

his jaw clenches hard, a tear straying down the curve of his nose as he takes in another sharp breath. "what did they say to you, baby? what did they say to my precious girl?”

you feel your chest tighten as the air leaves you. your nose flares as you struggle to inhale, overwhelmed by the world that satoru holds in his gaze just by looking at you. how can you deserve his care? how can you deserve his love, when all you continue to do is hurt him?

you thought that you'd be doing him a service, but laying beneath him now as he fights unraveling completely before you, you realize your mistake. that you had almost traumatized the man who never knew love before you.

you think back to gakuganji's coarse words, how he's always regarded you and treated you from the moment you set foot in the jujutsu society. you think of the scars on your body, the healed cuts on your knuckles, that empty pit in your soul that carried you to such drastic actions.

and that momentary feeling of flight.

you break. "nothing that isn't true," you whimper. "i'm a monster, satoru, i don't belong here. i never belonged here, or anywhere."

an unexpected sob floods past your lips as the tears run, chasing after one another. you sink into an overwhelming sadness and awareness regarding what just happened.

satoru's brows curl upward, and he moves quick, shuffling over to sit close beside you and carefully pull you upward, into his chest. your cheek slumps against his shoulder as you cry. his large palms sprawl over your back, sliding up to your hair, rubbing all over to soothe you, to keep you close, to show you that you're safe.

that you aren't alone, and he is here for you. just as he always will be.

his chest aches at the feeling of your body jerking so violently against his. he winces hard, pressing you closer, turning his lips to your ear as he strokes your hair.

"you're not a monster, baby," he murmurs through breaks of shuddered breaths and cries. his throat is tight as his breath fans against your earth, and you focus on the sensation to balance out the indescribable agony you feel. "i'm sorry. you're not a monster. of course you belong here. you deserve to be here. on this planet. with me. with your friends. i love you. i love you, princess, you're not a monster. you never have been. please don't say that. i'm so sorry."

you give into your weakness - your boyfriend, and lift your shaking arms to grip the back of satoru's dark uniform, fingers digging into the fabric as you cling tight, turning your nose into the curve of his muscular shoulder.

he's so warm. you just felt so cold, and he's so warm.

satoru snivels, hands pressing tighter into you. "you deserve life."

you always thought life was a bad thing. a prison. but the way the word flutters from satoru's mouth makes a shiver roll down your spine, for it encpasulates a gift, a way of living that was foreign to your upbringing.

but is possible with love. with love for yourself.

"oh, god, you scared me so much," satoru grumbles under his breath, pressing a frantic kiss to your neck. "i'm so glad i got to you. i shouldv've never left."

"no," you whimper. "i hate that i'm your responsibility. it's too much for you, satoru. you're... you're better off-"

"don't say that," he interjects sternly, holding you tighter. "don't you dare."

you stare hard at the floor as your tears soak the satoru's sleeve. "but-"

"i've spent almost ten - ten years trying to show you how much i love you. do you have any idea what i'd do without you? what i'd do to those stupid fucking higher ups? to the world?"

you still slightly as you mull over the severity of his words, your heart pounding in your ears. "that's not good for you," you whisper.

"you're good for me," he hisses. "you always have been. i'm not anything without you. not the strongest. not a man. nothing. i love you so much. you're my other half. i can't lose you. anyone but you."

satoru catches wind of your silence, and he pulls back. you keep your eyes down, ashamed, but satoru's hand finds your cheek again and tilts your head up so that you meet his eyes. such a familiar action he's done a million times over, but it feels different now. his eyes are sharp, almost angry, but not at you. at your mind, at all the horrible things anyone has ever said and done to you to make you feel this way.

"when will you realize that you're not a burden?" he frowns. "you're the best thing that's ever happened to me. that's why i stick around. that's why i worry. i love you. and i'm here for you. i'm here, so please - please don't - please just wait for me. don't do this again. god, don't. you're so much more than - you're everything. i want you so badly to see that you're everything."

you twist your lips as you look up at your boyfriend sadly. he curves a finger delicately across your brow, down along your cheekbone.

"and more than what you are to me, you're you," he continues gently. "powerful, smart, and kind. you don't think you are, but i see it. everyone does. how mindful you are. how you always put the needs of others before your own even when you shouldn't."

you start to shake your head and look away, but satoru's hand finds your chin and keeps your gaze.

"you're thoughtful. you're beautiful. you're a force. you're perfect, and you are on this planet for a reason."

he catches another tear on his knuckle, and cranes his head slightly to look up into your eyes.

"you have to stay."

"i wish i could see all those nice things you see, satoru," you croak, shrugging. "but i can't. i just can't."

"that's why i'm here to help you. to tell you. these aren't just words, pretty, they're the truth. and i don't care how long it takes. i'll help you see."

he presses a kiss to the center of your forehead and you squeeze your eyes shut. "i'm sorry," you blubber.

"i told you not to apologize, (y/n), it's not your fault. don't blame yourself. i beg you, don't." he pulls you back into his embrace with a heavy sigh. "my girl," he mumbles.

"i love you," you say into his chest. "you mean the world to me too. i just don't know what to do. i don't know how to feel different. i can't stop thinking about just going to sleep. i didn't mean to scare you. i didn't think - i thought i was -"

"shhh. it's okay, baby," he murmurs soothingly, eager to prevent you from working yourself up again. you need to rest. your mind needs a break. "you don't have to talk about it anymore. it's okay. i'm here."

you finally melt into him, sinking into his solid comfort with exhaustion. you keep your eyes closed as he soothes your cries away, caressing your skin. the silence envelopes you as you gradually resort to sparadic sniffles.

and in the safety of satoru's arms, grounded peacefully, your heart soars as your dream of flight fades for just a moment.

you drift away into lethargic sleep as satoru counts every star above for keeping you alive, and plots his confrontation with gakuganji the moment he sets foot in that school.

but for now, you need him. so with you, he'll stay.

────────────────────────

suguru geto:

somehow, suguru feels like your attempt is his fault.

like he has corrupted you with his own illness, and made you feel like doing such a thing to yourself would ever be okay.

but it's not. it's far from okay. because you aren't him. you're better. you always have been.

suguru knew that you suffered from the same illness as him long before this attempt. you stopped eating regularly after the riko incident, just like he did. you grew thin. and you always seemed to be thinking about something else, always asking people to repeat themselves after they spoke, as though nothing but water flooded your ears.

but to have found you in your garage with the car running and all doors shut years later, having had rainbow dragon burst through the garage door to get to you from the outside, still astounded him. while his depression took a turn to insanity, yours took a trun toward self mutilation and torment, and suguru was terrified.

the dark haired man can not lie to himself. he knew that something like this was coming. you've been a shell of yourself for years. further drifting into a darkness that suguru has attempted to cushion, but he knows that nothing can truly battle the hell that is your mind when it reaches to a certain point. he knows all too well.

still, for you to try to kill yourself? and in such a way? the cult leader can't begin to name all the emotions that overtake him at the memory.

the gas clouded through the space, and you lay there in the driver's seat on the brink of unconsciousness. his curses smashed through your car window without a second thought, but that look in your eyes haunts him.

half lidded. empty. (e/c) voids staring ahead, waiting for death to melt over you.

it makes the hazel eyed man nauseous, for he has seen men die and killed others in far more gruesome ways, but having beared witness to you in such a state ruined him.

he thinks of the way your limp body felt in his strong arms when he pulled you out of that car and out into the driveway. he thinks of how your head rolled back, and coughs spewed from you endlessly while suguru knowingly, sadly stroked your hair, pearly tears welling in his eyes that he refused to let fall as he observed you.

the sun beat down hot. the pavement burned beneath his buddhist robes. and you whimpered with disappointment, when your mind finally pieced together that suguru kept you planted on this earth and prevented you from leaving.

even now as he sits with you on the sand, he feels your anger and frustration.

he had taken you away after the incident. after you'd regathered your bearings and taken the time to properly recover. he stole you away from the cult. from your job. from the pressure of society's expectations, and brought you to the closest vacant beach, where you could simply exist. where you didn't have to speak, or work, or interact with anyone but him if you so desired, and the water washing up against the soaked sand before you.

the sun sits lower in the sky, casting the sand in a glittering orange hue. the water sparkles before you, and you stare out emptily as you listen to the sound of waves crashing, watching as fragments of rock wash up mere inches away from your bare foot.

your lashes flutter as salty air tickles your face, and you think you know why suguru brought you here. the air is open and free, unlike the garage you attempted to give your life to.

he wants you to take a moment and breathe.

suguru's reputation is built on composure. he ridicules non-sorcerers when they are out of earshot, long after they have paid him handsomely, or right before he prepares to slaughter them with the same cool poise. he presents himself as a wise, thoughtful leader, though his patience is string thin and his temper is rather short.

but still, for his followers, he keeps himself together. only allowing them to see the pieces of himself that he wants him to see.

with his family, he is far less tightly wound. but suguru does not really yell. he doesn't burst into fits of rage or emotion unless provoked to that point perhaps in battle. and even when confronted with emotional circumstances by his girls or you, he keeps calm, serving as the stability, the rock for those he loves.

but in the simplicity of this scene, and the memory of your recent actions, suguru significantly struggles to hold it together. on the outside, he appears stiff, his face blank as he looks out at the sea beside you, but inside a war wages. his throat is tight and it feels like an elephant is sitting on his chest. he doesn't think he's felt this way since high school. since riko.

and how could he not? what you need right now is his listening ear, his understanding, his support, but how can he feel anything but pure rage and agony at what has transpired? how can he be expected to move on, to think of anything else now that he's witnessed you try to take your life away? how can he feel as though he has done you any service in life if this is where you stand today, in pieces, searching to put yourself together by reaching the afterlife far too soon.

suguru inhales and exhales slowly, trying his best to remain calm, but his mind is roaring. the stench of carbon monoxide still stains the inside of his nostrils, and the way your eyes rolled into the back of your head still torments his thoughts.

you tried to kill yourself. you certainly would have if suguru hadn't gotten to you in time.

his jaw clenches.

he tries to focus on the sand beneath him. he tries to focus on the sound of the water crashing. but he can't. he can't think of anything but you.

everyone knows how fiercely and proudly suguru loves you. everyone sees it. he goes out of his way to watch over you, to protect you, to cherish you, to hold you dear, as he does with all the members of his tight knit family. the two of you have always been close, having only grown closer over the years and after a heartfelt confession that brought the two of you into one another's arms as lovers somewhere along the way. for as long as you can remember, no one has ever seen one of you without the other.

you're a pair. a team. a unit.

you sought after the protection of the weak together, spiraled into depression together, defected together.

and yet, somewhere along the way, as suguru fed into his hatred for mankind, you fed into your hatred for yourself.

you know it started after riko too. you didn't understand how everyone recovered so quickly, for the second you heard that the young girl had been killed after having spent so much time with her during that mission, you felt all hope for the future, for yourself, drain from your body.

you started moving throughout the earth like it physically ailed you to do so, and if no one else was, suguru was right beside you. sharing your pain. sharing your helplessness.

but suguru has always been a bit more arrogant than you. he fell into his narcissistic ideals and tendencies, and you fell into a cycle of self deprecation, constantly asking yourself what the purpose of it all was if you couldn't even save a little girl from an ordinary human being? if everyone you ever knew, including haibara, would eventually float away and succumb to the horrors of jujutsu, anyway?

but what bothered you more than anything was how weak you felt in comparison to someone as strong as suguru, and satoru - though you know he's on a completely different playing field. if someone like suguru could come close to death as you were all trying to find your footing in this world as developing sorcerers in training, then what hope did you have?

your self image has always been poor. but under the weight of expectation and grief and hell, it worsened. you couldn't see the value of your life any longer, as long as the higher ups would use you all as pawns to rid the world of diseases that humans themselves caused.

none of it made sense anymore. the sun's warmth. the leaves' bright green. the sky's blue. the laughter of children as they played. the taste of food when it touched your tongue.

everyone melded into grey when you discovered your lack of importance, and while you love suguru with everything in you, you can't tell whether that love is real anymore. for how can you love him properly when you have so much hatred for yourself? for your talents? for what you do?

you couldn't take it anymore when you'd done it. suguru had smiled at you so warm and lovingly that morning, and it killed you, for he shows more feeling toward you than you've ever felt for yourself, and you can no longer believe the authenticity of his affections when you yourself have absolutely none. not for you.

you couldn't take another moment of the world mocking you with it's sounds. a car's horn, the wind's blow, a snapped twig on the ground, a dog's bark - it all makes you feel sick, as though they are elements of a strange simulation that you have been damned to explore for eternity.

you couldn't handle the cruelty of existence. so you elected to cut yours short.

yet, suguru could not even allow you that luxury.

you know that you're awful. you know that you've done something to suguru that you can't reverse. you know that you've forced him to relive his darkest moments, that you've troubled him beyond repair, but you know all the same that suguru understands you. he knows because he's been in your shoes. perhaps not your exact ones, as he has never tried to kill himself before, but he's thought about it. he's fantasized.

but that was long ago. he'd almost forgotten until now.

and you, of all people, shouldn't have been the one to live out that distant dream.

so you sit in silence with the waves, a foot separating the two of you.

until he finally speaks.

"how are you feeling?"

you sigh. "fine. you don't need to keep asking me."

"are you angry with me?" he asks, his voice mellower than how he truly feels.

you don't respond right away. you're a bit spaced out as you gaze at the horizon, your tongue darting out to run over your lips. you don't even quite register his question until a few seconds later, and suguru hangs onto every second of emptiness that you provide.

"yes," you finally say.

suguru knows, chest growing even tighter. the air whips through his long strands, brushing a few out of place as they swipe over his face. "tell me why."

"you know why." this time you answer rather instantly, and suguru furrows his brows slightly.

"i wasn't letting you die. that's not an option, nor will it ever be."

"yeah. figured you'd think that."

the hazel eyed cult leader finally turns to look at you, a cool fire blazing in his eyes, his expression poorly masking his hurt. "you understand that i would never let you die, (y/n). right? i don't care how. it's not happening."

"like i said. i figured. made that very clear."

"so why are you angry with me? because i didn't let you kill yourself?"

"don't fucking say it like you've never thought of it," you throw in his face, and suguru's frown deepens.

"i've thought of it, but i didn't try to execute it like you did."

"congratulations."

suguru feels himself getting worked up, but he tries to fight it. this is about you. not about him. not about how he feels. he has to get through, he has to understand where your head is and has been for you to do something like that.

"don't mock me. this is serious."

"do we have to talk?"

"yes, (y/n). we can't just pretend like it didn't happen."

"why not?"

"because what if it happens again? are you going to try to hurt yourself again?"

you bite down on the inside of your cheek, keeping your eyes forward. "don't ask me that, suguru."

"how could i not? especially when that leads me to believe that you will."

"stop," you hiss, closing your eyes. "just stop asking me questions. stop talking."

suguru watches you closely, his heart hammering in his chest. he knows he's not good at this. he can feel this beginning to take a turn south, for his composure slipped the second he spoke - the second he found you the way he did.

but what do you want from him? he wants to respect your boundaries, your space, your time, but how can he when you speak like this? when you're so far gone, that you hardly even care about what you've done, other than the fact that it was interrupted?

he stares at you intensely. you feel it. you always do. but you try to ignore it. you try to fight the way his words eat you up inside and try to make you truly think about what happened.

"you know i love you right?"

you blink your eyes open and look down upon hearing his soft words. you feel something inside of you start to crack, and you bite down harder on the inside of your cheek. "i know, suguru," you say quietly.

"do you really?" he asks, and you don't answer this time. "i love you more than anything on this earth. i love you like i've never loved anyone. or anything."

"i know," you say harshly. "i already know that, you don't need to keep telling me."

"but you don't truly understand. not if this is what you're willing to do to yourself when i'm not around," he shifts slightly to face you better, sand dusting across his clothes. "you don't understand how it felt to see you like that."

"i don't want to hear-"

"but you have to hear it. alright?" he interjects. "you have to, or else you'll go on thinking that your life is nothing and that's not the case."

"you don't think that this isn't already hard enough?"

"then talk to me, (y/n)," suguru urges, "you have to talk to me. all you've done is shut me out, and i can't take that anymore."

"as if you've never shut me out before," you finally rip your head to face him, glaring hard. "you did it back in high school. you do it all the time when you're with the cult, like you're so high and mighty-"

suguru squints. "what does the cult have to do with-"

"- and you always look at me so judgmentally. like you're above anyone and everything. like you've never been depressed in your life, when that's all you were for the longest time before you changed and left me to feel like a fucking alien."

"(y/n), what the hell are you saying?"

"you want me to talk, so i'm talking! what, you don't like what you hear now?"

"you're attacking me instead of telling me how you feel."

"why would i want to tell you how i feel?!"

"because i just pulled your half dead body from the garage!"

"you should have fucking left me there!"

"do you even hear yourself right now?!"

"i didn't ask for you to swoop in to save me."

"if i hadn't, you'd be dead!"

"good!" you explode.

the dread expands inside of suguru's body as his face scrunches with the severity of your words. you stare hard, stubborn, though your eyes are glossing over and your lips are set in a firm line.

suguru shakes his head, beside himself. "i don't want you to die."

"it's not about what you want, suguru."

"but why would you - " he pauses, turning away to rub his hand over his face. his fingers slide to pinch the bridge of his nose as he struggles to keep himself together. his shoulders tense then fall, and you watch with steely eyes, fighting the way his reaction kills you inside. "why would you want that for yourself? why are you talking like this? i love you, (y/n), don't you understand how this is eating me alive? to hear how you belittle yourself? to hear you wish for death more than..."

suguru trails off, growing quiet as he keeps his fingers pinched over his nose.

your defensive cruelity slowly starts to chip away. as you watch suguru, you see what your words are doing to him. you see what your attempt has done. ever the composed man, suguru rarely lets his mask slip unless around you. and even then, he doesn't quite talk about his depression anymore. you know it's still there. you know it's just morphed into something... else, but for so long, he's kept that side hidden as though he does not want it to exist.

but such suppression can only make things explode.

and you don't think you've seen suguru on the verge of tears since... well, you can't remember.

so as he freezes in his position, keeping his eyes closed, his body tense as he manually focuses on his breathing, you slightly relent. for this is a side so rare that it almost feels foreign.

and you realize that what happened this morning is in fact a big deal. though you've dreamt of it every day for as long as you can remember, you recall that this is new for suguru. that anyone would react this way if they were to stumble upon the person they love in such a condition enforced by their own hand.

and suguru does love you. you know he does. just as much as he says, and then some.

your nose twitches, your teeth sinking deeper into the inside of your cheek. you watch him for a long time, feeling the dread you've been narrowly escaping for the past twenty hours creep over you. you blink hard, settling back, and turning your head back to the ocean.

you feel the familiar sting of oncoming tears and curse yourself. you can't stand how weak you are. "i love you too," you say shyly, voice trying to be firm despite itself. the corner of your lips tug to the side for a second as you swallow thickly. "i really do. more than... more than life."

suguru looks up with wounded hazel eyes that catch the gleam of the sun. you keep looking ahead. "more than your own life?" he reorganizes your words.

your brows raise as you stare off. "yeah. i mean... that's a common saying."

"no, but it's different when you say it," suguru speaks lowly. "because you don't want your life. you don't like it. so of course you'd love me more than it."

you grimace slightly, turning back to look at your boyfriend's face. "that's not why i said that. that's not what i mean. i do love you suguru, you know that."

"i do know that," he says gently, his voice pillowy soft, a stark contrast from a few minutes ago. "i do," he repeats, truly pondering your connection now, and how much it means to him. "but you think so lowly of yourself, it makes me worry so much. more than i let on, and i'm sorry if i haven't shown you that enough."

"...no, you have," you say quietly. "you always have."

"and after today, i don't... know what to do. i don't know how to make it better. i wanted to intervene properly before something happened, but it did," he laments. "and i know how you feel about yourself. i know how long you've thought about doing this. i always have. so trust and hear me when i say that i won't let it happen. i won't ever let you die. you have far too much value alive, and that's what i'll keep you until you can see that for yourself."

you roll your eyes through the blurriness of tears, looking away to hide them out of embarrassment as two drops rocket from your lashes without warning.

suguru immediately melts, his emotions surging to his sleeves as he moves to shuffle closer to you. his arms open as you bring your knees to your chest and rub away at your eyes with your forearm.

"my angel, please come here," he requests with glassy eyes and that tender, honeyed voice you adore.

he knows you won't voluntarily scoot toward him, so he presses himself to you as you subconsciously fall into his arms. your head rests against his shoulder as his arms encircle you. he rocks you slightly, kissing your temple, letting his lips linger.

oh, how grateful he is to still have you here, to still be able to hold your soft body to his, to feel you.

"i'm sorry. i know this is hard for you. i'm so sorry," he mutters. "i just don't want to lose you, beautiful."

"i'm tired, suguru," you murmur tightly into his chest.

suguru closes his eyes, tears bringing his lashes as he holds you closer. "i know, baby. i know," he sighs into you sadly. "i'm sorry. i know you are."

"i'm - i'm sorry for making you worry. for snapping."

"you don't have anything to apologize for, i shouldn't have gotten angry with you."

"you have every right to be angry after what i did."

"this isn't about me," he kisses your temple again. "i understand you, angel. i really do. it kills me that you feel this way and i'm sorry. just please. let me in a little bit. let me remind you of how loved you are."

the notion almost brings you discomfort, as you that part of you tells you that you couldn't possibly be worth this. but the other part of you aches, for you feel suguru geto's passion through his touch, through his voice, in his gaze. and you marvel at such graciousness, continuing to question it.

but suguru will be there to rectify each doubt. each fear. each negative thought that blinds you from how wonderful you are. inside and out. flaws, and perfections, and everything in between woven into a knot in his heart.

────────────────────────

choso kamo:

what is the value of a human life?

how do human beings view their mortality? how do they go about living by it?

choso has always found himself pondering such notions in his mind, but the moment he met you, he determined the answer to the former: the value of your life triples that of many others. at least, in choso's eyes. your life is precious. you are the only one of you to exist in this world, just as choso is, and his brother, and everyone else.

but you are irreplacable. the way you pick at your nails is irreplacable. the way you use a fork and bring your food to your mouth is irreplacable. the way you walk is irreplacable. the way you you say his name is irreplacable.

every part of you is our own, and choso does not know what he did to deserve your unique, beautiful quality of life and company, but he cherishes it. your love included.

so he struggles to understand, to rip through his mind for the answer as to whether human beings view their lives differently from those who care for them.

for he can't comprehend how you view yourself as so much less than he does, and therefore, believe that your life has such little value. little enough for you to attempt to toss it away. more times than choso was previously aware.

the news was broken to him on a tuesday morning. choso remembers how the clouds slightly covered the sun in the sky to warn the inhabitants below about the incoming rain. you hadn't been answering your phone, and when choso left you to head to work that morning, you claimed to be sick and stayed in bed under the covers.

choso remembers the look in your eyes when he kissed you and told you that he loved you, that he'd be back as soon as he possibly could to help take care of you. your eyes grew distant somehow then, as though you were harboring a secret that burned you to keep.

choso now knows that it was because you hadn't planned on still being around when he got back.

something sat heavy on the brunette's chest that entire morning, but he could not put his finger on exactly what. he was a ball of nerves and anxiety, constantly checking his phone to see if you had responded to any of the texts he sent to check in. his notifications remained empty, only leading him to further spiral. to begin thinking the worst.

he tried a few times to slip away to go check on you after having clocked in, but yuki and yaga insisted that you were fine, that he could not just up and leave in the middle of a work day while there were tasks that needed tending to. choso subconsciously fell silent after that, internalizing his concerns that everyone always claimed were outlandish.

choso knows he is dramatic. he cares too much. more than the average being, but the violet eyed half curse never believed this to be a bad thing about himself. especially when he was surrounded by those he cared for. when his brother looks up to him in spite of his strange countenance, and his girlfriend reciprocates the intensity of his love.

he has every right to be as passionate as he is, and every right to stress over your wellbeing when you're home allegedly sick and failing to answer his messages.

choso was so sure that he knew you so well, before the news. he knows when you're lying, when something is on your mind that you are afraid to voice, and he knows that was the case this morning. perhaps that is why he is so frantically stressed about you, about what it is that you have going on, whether you are just really sick or if something worse is a foot.

and lately, you've been a little off. your head has seemed to be in the clouds, your mind elsewhere as you daydream and disassociate for brief periods of time. you're a bit spacey, disconnected from your present circumstances, and choso has eyed it up until today. the only explanation you provide is that you haven't been feeling well, that those moments were all just symptoms of an oncoming fever or cold or something.

choso always trusts you. always takes your words into deep consideration. always first determines that you are honest and open before the opposite, for choso does not know you to be a dishonest person, but he does know you to be withholding at times. as though you are afraid to burden him or overstep, as though your very presence and voice are invasive and must come with a warning in order to be forgiven.

that trait about you almost reminds choso of himself, and it uneases him a bit. you've always been better than him, after all. at many things. at least, that is what he believes. that is how he views you. to think that you could harbor such insecurity toward yourself confuses and frightens him, especially so since you never voice it. you always tiptoe around your worries, your true feelings exposing themselves through your actions. your flickering eyes and your frequent apologies that mirror choso's own.

but you don't have anything to apologize for. you aren't the half curse stumbling through life, trying to figure out whether he's good enough for your love. what he needs to do to keep you, to tell the world that he's not a bad thing.

no, you're far better. breathtaking and sweet. conscious of all life. unbiased toward any. understanding and soft. you're perfect.

but you have these moments of sadness where you dip, where your cursed energy wavers into something melancholy, and you fight it with weak smiles and tired eyes. and choso only hugs you more, kisses you more, holds your hand tighter to address the physical discomfort you never name in those particular instances.

his gut churns when he recalls those times. he knows something is off, and he should have just stayed with you instead of going to work like you'd insisted. even so, he prays that you're just sleeping. that his nerves are all out of whack for some silly reason, and that you are too busy catching up on rest to notice that he is blowing up your phone every ten to fifteen minutes.

but then he gets the call.

it's an unknown number.

and something tells the brunette to pick up on the first ring when he feels his phone finally buzzing. he doesn't check the caller id. he simply answers, turning away as his coworkers enter the conference room for a meeting.

he stops in his tracks when the gentle voice of an unfamiliar woman speaks rigidly into the speaker. "hello, may i speak to a choso kamo?"

"that's me," he gulps, voice low, grip tight around his phone. "who is this?"

"hi, mr. kamo. i'm calling from the jr tokyo general hospital on behalf of (y/n) (l/n). are you her partner as listed in her emergency contact form?"

"yes."

choso's ears immediately ring, his eyes blown wide, and he stumbles slightly as he turns around, back facing the doorway as yuki stands in it, curious, waiting for him.

"she's supposed to be at home. she's sick. is she there at the hospital? what's wrong with her?"

he hears the woman sigh slowly as he holds his breath, shoulders hunched as he stares harshly at the ground, waiting for an answer. but what comes is nothing at all what he expected.

"sir, ms. (l/n) has been in an accident. we ask that you come to the hospital right away."

he's already marching down the corridor before she can finish her sentence, ignoring the blonde calling after him as he departs hastily. "what kind of accident? what's wrong with her?"

"a car accident," she clarifies sympathetically. "we'll explain more when you arrive."

"what?" he snaps, heart racing. "she was driving?!"

"yes sir."

"why was she driving? she told me she was staying home sick! is she okay? where is she now? is she okay?!"

"she's in... critical condition. our doctors are working to save her now. we are still trying to figure out exactly what happened, but the eye witness who called 911 reports that she was seen speeding off the road into the woods. we believe this was an intentional act."

choso thinks that all the oxygen in the world has been sucked away. he can hardly breathe as his footsteps hault and he stands frozen in shock. his pupils shrink as he stares into nothing, the woman's voice on the other line asking if he is still there.

but all choso can hear is the screech of imaginary tires and the lie you told to keep him away from you today.

he doesn't want to believe it. he doesn't believe it at first, that you would intentionally put yourself in harm's way. that you would drive your car off the road at ninety miles an hour. that you weren't actually sick at all, but suffering a far worse disease that choso should have noticed, should have understood.

critical condition. that means you are hardly hanging onto life. that someone else found you on the brink of death while choso continued to message an abandoned phone. that he was nowhere nearby when you faced such a traumatic, life altering event... and at your own hand?

no. he refuses to believe it until he sees you. until he can speak to you, look you in the eye, greet you face to face, because you will survive. you will beat this. you'll be fine.

for if this is something you have done on your own accord to yourself, then that would have to mean that you were actively seeking out death. such an accident would be nearly impossible to walk away from unscathed, and to the degree that the woman from the hospital is telling him, damn near impossible to survive.

but... why?

choso has always felt death rather intimately throughout his life. he was born of death. when his brothers passed, he felt their loss pang away at his insides. he's seen death all around him. especially so in this line of work that he's been roped into.

but there has never been anything appealing about it. death brings grief and misery and pain. it separates, creates irreparable shifts, toys with the mind and heart until there is nothing left to think and feel.

human beings know this more than anything, for their lives are limited. death awaits at the end of every cycle, and while it is natural, it is still feared. it still brings great sadness. it is still desperately avoided until it can no longer be evaded, but that time only comes with age and experience and fulfillment, and you are only twenty three years old.

there's much more more life for you to live. so many more experiences for you to have, to share with the man you love, with the friends you love.

so why?

what could drive a person, what could have driven you, to jump ahead of the natural life cycle? what could have driven you to do something as drastic as attempting to take your own life? life is precious. you are precious, and to imagine a world without you, a world where you were able to rid yourself from existence, makes choso sick. it makes him want to drop to the floor and wail his heart out.

are you so unhappy? so unfulfilled? has choso failed to give you what you need, to properly see all that you have been suffering through? has he been so selfish?

the brunette feels something thorny and tight wrap around his throat as his eyes well with instantaneous tears. your face appears in his head, graceful and gorgeous, your smile so beautiful that it sends painful pangs to his chest, and he shivers with grief.

this can't be happening. you have to be okay. you have to.

"mr. kamo? are you still there?" he tunes back into the woman's voice on the other line, and he sucks in a shaky breath, angling his brows.

"i'm coming right now," he heaves.

choso remains in a state of shock after he has rushed off to the hospital without any explanation, and as doctors approach him in the waiting room to tell him exactly what happened.

the brunette can do nothing but stare wide eyed with teary eyes and curled brows, a helpless look of oblivious devastation on his face, when he is told that you made it through but you are still not conscious. when you veered off the road, you crashed down a slant and head on into a tree. you truthfully should not have survived, but the air bag employed in time to cushion just enough of your fall, knocking you out as your legs crushed and a branch pierced through the windshield and the side of your abdomen.

they say that you won't be able to walk for the foreseeable future. that you're paralyzed from the waist down. that you will need a wheelchair and severe rehabilitation tests. the life you once lived is over indefinitely.

and the doctors confirm, or at least highly suspect with further exploration, that this was indeed an unsuccessful attempt on your life.

you were looking to die.

everything changed so fast after that.

choso feels cold when he is finally able to enter your room post operation, ignoring the way his phone blows up about inquiries over your health, the hospital likely having found a way to reach out to your disguised place of work to inform them of the accident as well.

but choso doesn't care about any of them. not when they wanted to keep him away from you. when he could have somehow prevented this by staying home, or at least returning to check on your sooner. perhaps he could have discovered your plans prior to you executing them, or caught you just moments before it happened.

the sun has long set. the hospital buzzes with a nauseating anticipation, a thick blanket of sadness that suffocates his lungs. the door to your room clicks gently when he turns the knob, and his eyes immediately fly to your unconscious figured splayed out on that thin bed.

he chokes over a gasp upon seeing you.

your legs are in casts, slung up above you by a sling connected to the ceiling. more gauze is tightly wound around your abdomen, which peaks out from the slit in your baby blue hospital gown. your lashes flutter restlessly, as if you are still fighting something inside of your mind, while a supply of air is pumped through you, a rhythmic, mechanical push and pull of air filling the otherwise empty space.

all of choso's time with you flashes before his eyes as he walks up to the side of your bed. your pretty face is covered with tiny red lines of scratches, and when his eyes trail to your knuckles, he sees how they blemish into a nasty purplish yellow. your skin is paler, and you look more like a ghost balancing between life and death than the girl choso knows and loves.

but it is you. the love of his life lay before him, and all choso can do is stare as his brain struggles to process, as the doctors' words overlap with your gentle voice promising him that you'd be okay when he left you that morning in his head.

the half curse's hands shake at his sides, and his knees give out before he can even think. he drops harshly to the ground, the cool hospital floor digging against his knee caps, and glittering violet hues regard you up close. his hands inch to hover above you, hesitant, horrified to break what has already been broken, before he settles a hand soft over your own.

the cold that greets him is enough to make him break down.

the brunette is nothing but stifled breaths and tears as he observes you, takes in all the signs of pain that you must have endured. seeing you now after having waited so long answers no further questions, for he still doesn't understand what would push you to do such a thing. how could you try to kill yourself when you mean so much to those in your life, to choso, who you know has struggled to heal from the deaths of the brothers he lost?

tears drip onto the sheet you lay on as his chin tucks against the bed. he peers up at you through damp lashes and squinted eyes, a sharp crease between his curved brows as he studies your face, still so beautiful in the flickering flourescents.

choso thinks of the first time he saw you. how instantly he fell in love with you. he always knew you to harbor some intrigue, some mystery, some gloominess that he could never quite decipher, but he didn't think that it was this bad. he didn't think that what he noticed would have ever pushed you to such lengths.

why didn't you tell him? how couldn't you tell him about something like this? he would have helped you. he would have dropped absolutely everything to stick by your side, to hold your hand through the negative thoughts, to be there to ground you so that your thoughts could not push you to harm yourself like this.

choso cries endlessly, for the paralysis you will endure, for the normalcy that you stole from yourself, for the fact that had these doctors not been successful, he would have lost you.

the pale skinned man doesn't think he could take that. he could barely handle the deaths of his brothers, but losing you would certainly have pushed him to the brink of insanity. it would have completely and utterly dismantled him.

so why? his love? his soulmate? why didn't he know? why didn't he see? why didn't you speak?

he holds your hand as tight as he thinks he can without hurting you, his salty tears dropping over the back of his hand. he sniffs thickly, snot and tears dribbling down his chin, and he stares at you, tormented, speechless.

when the doctors return that morning to discuss your history with suicidal attempts, choso finds that all the words have completely fluttered from his brain. he has no more energy, nothing to say as his head rests against your arm, tilted slightly to stare with empty eyes as he pulls up a chair and recites your past.

"ten years ago, her mother admitted her for self harm. in the ward, she attempted to take her life with an open soda can. a few years after that, she attemped again. this time with a razor blade to her wrists. after that, she was re-admitted...."

choso can't stand to hear any of it. he feels like his chest will close in on itself the more he hears.

"i suggest that she should be admitted again, but long term this time. we have a recovery center that will target both physical therapy and mental recovery."

he presents a pamphlet. choso doesn't lift his hand to take it. he doesn't even look at it. he simply stares, dark circles under his red eyes, his cheek smashed against your arm. the doctor clears his throat and sets it on your bedside table.

"i'll leave it here for you to think about."

the doctor moves to leave when choso's hoarse voice croaks out. "why would she try so many times?" he asks weakly, slowly. the doctor turns over his shoulder with a blank face as another tear strays down choso's face.

the doctor exhales, sensing the lingering denial and shock. "depression is a monstrous thing. it poisons the minds of many innocent people."

"...will she ever stop?"

"i can't say, mr. kamo," the doctor says, voice stale. "if she received the proper long term treatment, then it is possible. but from her medical records, she appears to be a very troubled individual."

troubled... never once has choso looked at you and decied that you were troubled. complex, yes. but not troubled. not in that souring way that captures the word when the doctor utters it. you just need a little support, that's all.

"why wouldn't she tell me?" choso whispers unsure of whether the doctor will truly have any answers. but he has nowhere else to go with these questions, with this harsh, cruel uncertainty and confusion.

the doctor is quiet for a moment as he ponders, for emotional responses are always outside of his realm when his job is to do the saving. "don't take it personally. i've seen many patients like your girlfriend. victims with suicidal tendencies are often ashamed, and don't want the people who care to see those negative sides of them. she likely didn't want to scare you or hurt you."

choso's brows knit. "this scares me and hurts me more than anything she could have ever told me."

"...yes, i'm sure. i - i know," the doctor clears his throat again. "if i were you, when she wakes up, i wouldn't ask those questions. as hard as this is for you, it's much harder on the mind of the person who makes the attempt. try to just be there for her. comfort her. she'll be waking to a jarring reality."

choso's eyes drag to your casted legs, and his chin wrinkles. he nods stiffly and falls silent once more, giving the doctor the chance to exit and leave him alone with you again.

he ponders over the doctor's words in the empitness of your unconciousness. the tv above plays some stupid old black and white film that has been playing on repeat for the past eighteen hours.

though choso isn't a fan of the doctor's easiness, he may be right. choso has no idea what its like inside of your brain, what your mind must have looked like for all these years to push you to commit such acts against yourself not once, not twice, but three times. choso isn't familiar with this side of humanity. with depression, and suicide, and an aching desire to leave the planet.

he's not familiar with this side of you. and while he is tormented by the fact that he didn't know how deeply this ran, he should extend you grace and understanding. he should be there for you in your time of need.

he lifts his head from you slowly, hair matted against his skin, to look back at that pamphlet. he looks up at your face, then back down at the paper before reaching for it.

he reads up on depression. the symptoms. how it lingers. how it is a disease. he reads up on possible triggers and causes, and how one with depression may interact with the world. how many hide it away expertly for the sake of those around them.

he reads up on this particular facility that the doctor recommended. the pictures look nice. the place seems cozy. expensive. but promising.

choso frowns. you shouldn't even have to go to a place like this. he wishes you didn't need to. that your mind was kinder, that whatever must have happened to you to make you feel this way never happened in the first place. you don't deserve it. of all people on this planet, you deserve it the least.

choso prepares to flip the next pages numbly when he hears a pitched, drowsy groan.

his head shoots up, hands freezing. your eyes and brows scrunch, your lips curling, and another groan floods from you, longer this time.

the pamphlet instantly drops from choso's hands as he scootches himself closer to you, holding a hand over yours as you writhe and eventually come to.

your eyes take a moment to peel open as though they were stuck together. choso eyes your heart monitor as your heart rate gradually quickens. and with tears in his eyes as he hovers, he watches as you blink past crustiness to adjust your gaze on the ceiling.

you inhale sharply, lifting a hand shakily to paw at your oxygen mask. you groan again, turning your head and prying it off.

"(y/n)? you're awake!" choso announces. his hands move to help you with the mask, guiding you carefully as you tamper with it. "it's okay. be careful. let me help you."

you let your arms fall limp to your sides as choso sets the mask down, and you inhale oddly, squinted eyes looking around. "...where...?"

you are very clearly discombobulated. you struggle to make out your environment, but then your eyes land on your legs. they immediately go wide, and you take in a breath that shoots pain through your abdomen. you wince with a gasp, your fingers reaching only to feel bandages.

you freeze.

you can't feel your legs either.

your heart rate quickens as you adjust, and choso keeps his hands over yours. your eyes dart around frantically, finding choso's face in a haze. a million emotions flicker through your gaze when you realize what has happened, and that your boyfriend is sitting beside you in the aftermath of your attempt.

you realize that you survived. again.

"no, no, it's okay. it's okay," choso starts, bringing your hand to his lips as he kisses your bruised knuckles. your nose flares and your eyes flutter, your brows knitting together. choso aches. "it's okay, love. you're okay, right? you're okay."

he kisses your cold knuckles again, and you whimper. "...choso, where am i? what happened?" your voice is scratchy, and choso feels a lump build in his throat once more upon hearing it again. he was almost afraid that he would never get the chance to. you look back over at your strung, casted legs, and breathe in raggedly. "i can't feel - my legs. i can't feel them."

"don't look," choso releases your hand to cautiously wrap his arms around your shoulders. your breathing quickens in an instant, transitioning into panicked gasps. you may be on the verge of a panic attack as cruel life strikes you again, only this time, with a price.

choso pulls you into his chest as you stumble over breaths and cries, rubbing the side of your head as he presses kisses to the crown of it.

"you're awake. i'm so relieved," he shivers. "i'm with you. don't cry. don't - don't think about it. it'll be okay. you're alright."

"why can't i feel my legs...?" you croak into him, and choso presses his lips together to prevent his building sobs from bursting. "am i dead?"

"no. no you're not dead," he growls, squeezing his eyes shut as he holds you. "don't think about it, (y/n). just breathe. i'm right here, i promise. i'm not going anywhere. it's okay."

you shake your head as best as you can, your neck slightly stiff. "i did this."

"it's okay-" choso whimpers.

"i'm sorry, oh fuck. i'm sorry, choso. i didn't think i'd survive. i didn't want you to see me like this," you whine. "i can't feel my legs. i can't feel them," you repeat through blubbers.

choso doesn't think he's ever experienced a pain quite like this. so raw as it tranfers between the two of you. he weeps into your hair, holding you snug, for how can he respond to you when you say that you didn't expect yourself to live long enough for him to witness the aftermath?

what is he supposed to do?

he tries to think of the doctor's advice, but it's hard. he's suddenly angry, overwhelmed, full of sorrow, and relief that you're at least breathing. that you're living. but are you relieved?

how is he to help you if you're not?

not only did your attempt fail, but you've awakened to a numbness in your lower body, to your life completely changed. what if you try to kill yourself again? what if this stunt births a new kind of depression in you? what if choso can't save you?

you still smell like you. your skin still feels like your own. your voice still the same.

choso's terrified and overjoyed all at once.

so, instead of undertaining your guilt, your panic, choso presses closer. "i didn't know," he whispers into you. "i never know anything. i had no idea. i've been so stupid."

"no, choso," you sniff. "it's not your fault. it's mine. it's all mine. i lied to you. i've been lying to you. i kept this from you."

"it's not your fault," he argues. "i should've seen. i knew something was wrong but i didn't know what. i'm your boyfriend. i love you so much, and i should have paid more attention. you were always right there. i've been blind. i made you think that you were alone. i'm so sorry."

you don't know how to respond to him taking responsibilty for something that you know to be your fault. you feel... naked. like choso has just seen the very worst parts of you and is disgusted. you feel as though he shouldn't love you anymore. you feel as though he never should have. how could you do this to him? someone so sweet, and loving, and understanding? why do you ruin everything you touch?

"don't think about it," he says again, hushed with an urgency as he holds you. as though he can suddenly read your mind. "i'll fix it all. i'll help it all go away. i promise."

"you can't do that, cho," you murmur, eyes blurred. "i've been fucked up all my life. you can't fix me. i'm unfixable."

"you're the love of my life," he corrects. "i'll do anything for you. even if i can't fix it... i-i'll help make it better."

"how?"

"...i don't know," he breathes honestly. "i don't - i don't know much about this stuff, but i'll learn. i'll help you through rehab. i'll love you every second of every day like i already do. i won't leave you again."

the thought of choso sticking beside you in such a way only makes you feel more guilty, and you prepare to tell him that he shouldn't, but he beats you to it.

"i don't know what happened to you before... i don't know how long you've - you've been this way, but i want to learn. i want to help you, if you let me. please, i - i don't want to come this close to losing you ever again."

you suddenly fall silent, your head knocking limp against choso as he holds you. you've been incredibly distant, or at least the real parts of you have. you allowed your negative thoughts to stew again, to push you to the brink, and you prayed that choso wouldn't know, but how could you? choso has proven himself to be incredibly proactive when it comes to you. he always says he's obsessed, after all. you shouldn't do him such a disservice.

but how can you explain all that plagues you to him? would he understand? would he ever look at you the same?

the fears ail you. you're a mess. your legs are numb. you're battered, and you sit stupidly in the aftermath of yet another failed attempt. you feel useless.

but choso holds you and kisses your head as if the opposite is true. as if you did not severely traumatize him.

how could he even think to stay with you?

"i'm not a good person, choso," you murmur as he kisses you again. "i never have been."

"that's not true. i don't know who told you that, but it's not true," he says swiftly. "you're the most incredible person i've ever met."

"you're only saying that because-"

"because you are. because it's the truth. and i won't let you think anything different from this point forward. i'm going to help you. i swear it."

you don't say anything. there's nothing more for you to say. you're devastated. and yet, choso holds you.

you let yourself sink into the comfort that you'd always thought to push away. letting his scent and safety overpower the truth you must face for just a bit.

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taglist:

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

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

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

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

“he seems normal,” he said.

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

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

“a gift?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

inside, the music changed, shifting into something slower.

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

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

“will you dance with me?” he asked.

you looked at him for a long moment.

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

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

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

his hand unfolded, now open toward you.

in return, you enclosed your palms in his.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"you're here now."

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

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

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

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

“about a year ago,” you hummed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

you remembered the scene too vividly.

rain against enormous hotel windows.

“i remember,” he replied.

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

i’m never getting married.

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

by twenty-seven, you realised he meant it.

“you really meant it," you said.

“i did.”

“and now?”

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

if anything had changed. if nothing had.

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

your fingers curled slightly against the back of his neck.

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

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

he hummed in response, expectantly.

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

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

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

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

“with the best gift,” he promised.

the song they danced to if anyone cares!!!

and then you’d laughed and shoved him and said “glad it’s me what?” and he’d grinned and said “glad it’s you i’m eating cake with on a roof, obviously, what else would i mean,” and the moment passed, and you let it pass, because what else were you supposed to do?

however, another the thing about falling in love with satoru gojo was that it was also, inevitably, watching him fall in and out of love with other people.

he bloomed in relationships the way he bloomed in everything— effortlessly, brilliantly, with a kind of careless abundance that made you wonder if he even realized how much light he was giving off.

his first serious girlfriend came at the end of freshman year, a girl from the art department with dark hair and a laugh like wind chimes, and you watched him transform from your chaotic, messy best friend into someone who remembered to do the dishes and set alarms and text back within a reasonable timeframe.

you watched him hold her hand in the quad, watched him buy her coffee and carry her books and look at her like she’d hung the moon, and you told yourself that the ache in your chest was just jealousy of the relationship itself, not of her specifically. you told yourself that anyone would be jealous, watching someone they cared about pour all their attention into someone else. you told yourself it was normal to feel this way.

you believed it, mostly.

the breakup came three months later, sudden and inexplicable, at least from the outside. satoru showed up at your apartment at midnight with red-rimmed eyes and a bottle of something cheap and strong, and you let him in and sat on the bathroom floor with him while he cried and you held his hand and didn’t ask what happened.

“i don’t know why i do it,” he said, eventually, voice hoarse. “i don’t know why i can’t just— stay.”

you didn’t have an answer for him. you weren’t sure he wanted one. so you just sat there, the cold tile seeping through your jeans, and let him lean his weight against your shoulder, and thought about how unfair it was that he could break someone’s heart and still be the one you wanted to hold.

the pattern repeated. sophomore year, there was a boy from the literature department, sharp-witted and sarcastic, who made satoru laugh in a way you’d never heard before. junior year, a girl from the business school, ambitious and polished, who matched him stride for stride. there were others, shorter ones, ones that barely lasted a month before satoru got restless, got distracted, got that faraway look in his eyes that you’d learned to recognize as the beginning of the end.

through all of it, you were there, you were always there. you were the constant, the steady ground beneath the pendulum of his affections, and you’d trained yourself to be grateful for that. you were his best friend. you were the one he came home to, the one he called at 2 a.m., the one who knew about the nightmares and the bad days and the moments when the armor felt too heavy to wear. it was enough. you made it enough.

by the time senior year rolled around, you’d gotten very good at being enough. you’d gotten very good at swallowing down the parts of yourself that wanted more, at folding your feelings into neat, manageable shapes and tucking them away where they couldn’t cause trouble. you’d gotten very good at watching satoru fall into something that looked like love and climb back out of it, dusting himself off, leaving behind a trail of bewildered, heartbroken people who had all made the same mistake: thinking they could be the one who finally made him stay.

you envied them as much as you pitied them. you envied them because they’d had something you couldn’t even let yourself want, something real and tangible and reciprocated, even if only for a little while. you pitied them because you knew what it felt like to love satoru and not be loved back in the way you needed, and you wouldn’t wish that on anyone.

you were twenty-one now, in the last year of university, and you’d been in love with your best friend for three years, two months, and fourteen days. you knew the exact number because you’d stopped counting somewhere around the two-year mark and then, in a moment of weakness, counted backwards from there. you were a little pathetic about it. you’d made peace with that.

so when you walked into your advanced sociology seminar on a gray tuesday afternoon and saw a boy you’d never seen before sitting in the seat you usually took, you didn’t think much of it. you just said “oh, sorry, that’s my usual spot,” and he looked up, and you stopped.

he was pretty. that was your first thought, immediate and involuntary. not pretty in the way satoru was pretty— all sharp angles and blinding light and the kind of beauty that demanded attention. this was a different kind of pretty, more gentle. dark hair pulled back from his face, dark eyes that crinkled at the corners when he smiled, a calm, steady presence that felt, somehow, like being in the shade after a long time in the sun.

“my apologies,” he said. his voice was low and warm. “i didn’t realize the seats were claimed.”

“you’re not in trouble,” you said, because you realized you’d been staring and that was probably weird. “i can sit somewhere else.”

“don’t,” he said, and then he moved, sliding his bag off the chair next to him. “sit here. keep me company. i don’t know anyone in this class.”

you hesitated for half a second— just long enough for the memory of another boy in another hallway to flicker through your mind— and then you sat.

“i’m suguru,” he said, extending a hand. “geto suguru.”

you gave him your name, and his smile widened just slightly, like he was pleased with it. “nice to meet you,” he said. “tell me something interesting about yourself.”

you laughed, because it was almost word-for-word what satoru had said to you four years ago, and because it was such a ridiculous coincidence that it felt like the universe was playing a joke on you.

“what’s funny?” suguru asked, and there was no offense in his voice, just curiosity.

“nothing,” you said. “just— someone else asked me that once. the first time we met.”

“ah,” he said, with something in his expression that you couldn’t quite read. “and what did you tell them?”

“that i wasn’t interesting,” you said, and then, because you’d been doing a lot of work on being less self-deprecating in your final year, you added, “which isn’t true. i just didn’t know it yet.”

suguru looked at you for a moment, those dark eyes steady and thoughtful, and said, “i suspect you’re more interesting than you give yourself credit for.”

you didn’t know what to do with that. it was such a simple thing to say, such a small kindness, but it landed somewhere soft and unprotected in your chest, and you felt something shift.

you weren’t sure what it was, you weren’t sure you wanted to know, so you just smiled, and pulled out your notebook, and tried very hard to ignore the glances he kept throwing you, thinking he was discreet.

that night, you came home to find satoru sprawled across the couch, scrolling through his phone, one foot hanging off the edge. he looked up when you walked in, and his face did that thing it always did when he saw you— brightened, softened.

“you’re late,” he said. “i was getting lonely. i almost had to entertain myself.”

“the horror,” you said, dropping your bag by the door. “how did you survive?”

he grinned that easy grin of his, and sat up to make room for you. “barely. tell me about your day. anything interesting happen?”

you thought about suguru. the warmth of his voice, the way he’d said your name, the small, unexpected sweetness of him telling you that you were interesting. about his gorgeous hair and his gorgeous eyes and his open smile. about whispered answers to his curious questions about the class ans quiet snickers.

“no,” you said, because it was easier than explaining something you didn’t fully understand yourself. “same old.”

satoru hummed, accepting this without question, and you sat down next to him and let him pull you into his side like it was the most natural thing in the world, and you tried to ignore the way your heart was beating against your ribs, the way it always did when he was this close.

you were his best friend. you were the one he came home to.

it was enough. it had to be enough.

but something had shifted today, something small and maybe insignificant, and you couldn’t quite shake the feeling that you were standing at the edge of something. something that might change everything.

you didn’t know it yet, but satoru was about to feel the shift too. he just didn’t know it yet, either.

.

.

.

the thing about advanced sociology was that you’d signed up for it because you needed the credit, not because you had any particular passion for sociological theory. you’d expected to spend your tuesdays and thursdays sitting in the back of the lecture hall, taking notes you’d never look at again, counting down the minutes until you could leave. just like always. that was the plan.

and then suguru sat down next to you, and the plan went quietly out the window.

a murmured observation about the professor’s lecture style, a shared eyeroll when someone in the front row asked a question that had already been answered twice. little things, the kind of things you’d do with any classmate you happened to sit next to. but then he started saving you a seat, and you started arriving a few minutes early so you could talk before the lecture started, and somewhere along the way, without you quite noticing it, advanced sociology became the class you looked forward to all week.

suguru was easy to talk to. that was the first thing you noticed, the thing that kept surprising you every time it happened. conversation with him wasn’t work. you didn’t have to perform, didn’t have to be clever or super interesting or anything other than yourself. he asked questions and actually listened to the answers. he remembered things you’d told him— small things, things you’d even forgotten you’d said— and brought them up later, casually, like it was normal to pay that much attention to another person.

“how did your presentation go?” he asked one thursday, sliding into the seat next to you. “the one you were stressed about.”

you blinked at him. you’d mentioned that presentation exactly once, in passing, a week and a half ago. “it went fine. how did you remember that?”

he shrugged, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “you seemed nervous about it. i was curious.” and that was it, just a quiet, consistent attention that made you feel, for the first time in a long time, like someone was actually seeing you.

you found yourself telling him things; not the things you’d tucked away in the deepest parts of yourself, but the small, everyday things that made up the shape of your life. your favorite coffee order. the way you organized your notes by color. the fact that you’d once cried over a commercial about a dog and hadn’t lived it down since. he listened to all of it with the same patient, attentive expression, like each detail was something precious you’d chosen to share with him.

“you’re very easy to talk to,” you told him one afternoon, the words slipping out before you could stop them. you’d been walking out of class together, the late autumn sunlight slanting through the windows, and something about the way it caught in his hair had made you lose your filter.

he looked at you, and his expression did something soft and complicated. “so are you,” he said. “easier than most people.”

you were not, historically, easy to talk to. you were the person who stood at the edge of parties, who let satoru do all the social heavy lifting, who had spent most of her teenage years convinced that conversation was a skill she’d simply never been taught. but with suguru, it was different. with suguru, the words came easily, naturally, like they’d been there all along, waiting for someone to draw them out.

he was a mystery to you, that was the other thing. for all his openness, for all the way he seemed to lay himself bare in conversation, there was something about suguru that you couldn’t quite pin down. he talked about his childhood in vague terms, his family a blur of affectionate distance. he mentioned friends from high school but never named them. he was present, fully and completely, in every conversation you had, but there was a stillness to him, a sense that there were depths you hadn’t yet touched.

you wanted to touch them. that was the realization that crept up on you slowly, over weeks of shared lectures and coffee afterwards and once, memorably, a two-hour conversation in the library that had started with a question about marxist theory and somehow ended with both of you laughing so hard a librarian had shushed you.

you wanted to know him, all of him. the parts he kept tucked away, the parts he didn’t show to people he’d only known for a few weeks. you wanted to be someone he showed those parts to.

and the way he looked at you— god, the way he looked at you, like you were something fascinating and like he was cataloguing you, memorizing you, storing away every detail for later. it was the kind of attention that should have been overwhelming, that would have been overwhelming from anyone else, but from suguru it just felt… warm and steady, like being wrapped in a blanket on a cold day.

you found yourself preening under it. you couldn’t help it; you’d catch yourself sitting up a little straighter when he walked into the room, speaking a little more carefully, trying to be the version of yourself that seemed to make him smile. and then you’d notice what you were doing and feel a flush of embarrassment, because you were not the kind of person who needed validation, who bloomed under attention, who—

who was currently trying very hard not to admit that she was developing a crush on a boy she’d known for less than a month.

it felt pathetic, honestly. you were twenty-one years old. you’d spent the last three years quietly, steadfastly in love with your best friend, and now here you were, getting butterflies over a guy who’d said you were easy to talk to. it wasn’t even anything big, it was the bare minimum. it was nothing. it was… well.

it wasn’t nothing. you knew it wasn’t nothing. because suguru wasn’t just a guy. he was thoughtful in a way that felt intentional, present in a way that felt rare. he didn’t look at you like you were something to be conquered or figured out or fit neatly into a box. he looked at you like he was genuinely, simply, glad to be in your presence.

so when you caught yourself thinking, on the walk home from class one evening, that you might actually like suguru— like like him, the way you’d liked satoru in the beginning, before it had calcified into something deeper and more painful— you didn’t immediately shut it down. you let it sit there, in the quiet space of your mind, and you examined it.

you liked suguru. you liked the way he laughed, low and warm, like he was letting you in on a secret. you liked the way he tilted his head when he was thinking, the way his hair fell across his face. you liked the way he remembered things you’d told him, the way he asked questions that made you feel like your answers mattered. you liked the way he looked at you, like you were interesting, like you were worth paying attention to.

you liked him. it was a small, tentative thing, still fragile, still new. nothing like the consuming, years-long ache you carried for satoru. but it was there, and it was real, and for the first time in a very long time, you let yourself have it.

you told satoru about him on a friday night, the two of you sprawled across your apartment’s worn couch with takeout containers balanced on your knees. it was your usual routine— friday nights were yours, had been since freshman year, a sacred block of time that neither of you scheduled over with other plans. you watched bad movies and ate food that was bad for you and talked about nothing until the early hours of the morning.

it was the perfect time to mention suguru. casual, offhand, nothing that would make it into a bigger deal than it was.

“there’s this guy in my sociology class,” you said, poking at your noodles with your chopsticks. “geto suguru. he’s… nice.”

satoru’s attention sharpened. you saw it happen in real time— the way his posture shifted, the way his gaze flicked to your face and stayed there.

“nice,” he repeated, like he was testing the word. “what kind of nice?”

“just nice,” you said, shrugging. “he’s easy to talk to. we’ve been sitting together in class.”

“sitting together,” satoru said. he’d put his food down. his phone was face-down on the couch cushion next to him. his entire focus was on you in that particular way he had, the one that made you feel like you were the only person in the room. “like, as friends? or…”

“as friends,” you said, and then, because you weren’t sure if that was entirely true anymore, you added, “i don’t know. i’m not sure yet.”

there was a beat of silence. it was a strange silence, not the comfortable kind you were used to, but something taut and humming underneath.

“huh,” satoru said. his voice was light, but there was something in his expression you couldn’t quite read. “suguru. that’s a weird name.”

“it’s not weird,” you said, a little defensive. “it’s just not common.”

“sure,” he said, and then he grinned, and the strange tension in the room seemed to break. “so you’re telling me you’ve got a secret boyfriend you’ve been hiding from me? i’m wounded. truly. i thought we told each other everything.”

“he’s not my boyfriend,” you said, laughing despite yourself. “i just met him. we’ve only talked in class.”

“uh huh,” satoru said. he leaned forward, elbows on his knees, chin in his hands, like you were about to tell him the most interesting story he’d ever heard. “tell me everything. what does he look like? is he tall? is he funny? is he smarter than me? he’s not smarter than me, right? that’s not allowed.”

you rolled your eyes, but you were smiling. “he’s… tall. about your height, i guess? dark hair, purplish eyes. he’s very— calm.”

“calm,” satoru repeated. “so he’s boring.”

“he’s not boring,” you said. and you must have said it with more force than you intended, because satoru’s eyebrows rose. “he’s just… different.”

“different how?”

“i don’t know,” you said, frustrated now. “he listens. he remembers things. he makes me feel like—” you stopped, because you’d been about to say like i matter, and that felt too honest, too raw, too much to say out loud to the person you’d been quietly in love with for years.

satoru was looking at you. his expression was strange— something flickering behind his eyes that you’d never seen before. if you didn’t know better, you’d almost call it jealousy.

“makes you feel like what?” he asked, his voice quieter, less teasing.

“like i’m interesting,” you finished. it was the truth, just not the whole truth. “like what i say matters.”

satoru was quiet for a long moment. he leaned back against the couch, a movement that seemed deliberate, careful, like he was putting distance between you without actually moving.

“well,” he said, his voice was back to its usual brightness, but there was something forced about it now. “good for you. about time someone else recognized how great you are.”

you laughed. that was what you did when things felt strange— you laughed, you deflected, you let the moment pass. “someone else? you barely recognize how great i am.”

“i recognize it constantly!” he said. he was grinning again, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “i’m your biggest fan. i’ve got the t-shirt and everything.”

“you do not have a t-shirt.”

“i’ll make one,” he said. “‘world’s best best friend’s biggest fan.’ it’ll be a hit.”

you threw a napkin at him and he caught it out of the air with that stupid reflexes he had, and the moment broke. you talked about other things after that— a movie satoru wanted to see, a professor who’d been giving him a hard time, the usual rhythm of your lives— but there was something underneath it all that lingered in the spaces between your words.

you told yourself you were imagining it. you told yourself that satoru was just surprised, that he’d get used to the idea, that it didn’t mean anything. but you couldn’t quite shake the way he’d looked at you. the way his voice had gone quiet. the way, for just a moment, he’d seemed almost… unsettled.

the double date suggestion came a week later, and it caught you so completely off guard that you nearly dropped your coffee.

you’d been telling satoru about your day when he’d interrupted you with the casual air of someone suggesting they order pizza.

“oh, by the way,” he said, scrolling through his phone, “you should bring your sociology guy to that new ramen place with me and yuki this weekend.”

you stared at him. “what?”

“a double date,” he said, like it was obvious. “you and suguru, me and yuki. it’ll be fun.”

yuki. right. you’d almost forgotten about yuki. she was the latest in a line of girls satoru had been seeing— you’d met her briefly, once, at a party. tall, confident, the kind of girl who looked like she’d never been unsure of herself in her entire life. she’d been with satoru for about three weeks now, which meant they were probably in the sweet spot where everything was still easy and fun, before the restlessness started to creep in.

“i don’t—” you started, but you didn’t know what you wanted to say. you didn’t know why satoru was suggesting this, why he was being so cheerful about it, why he’d gone from asking pointed questions about suguru to enthusiastically planning group outings.

“come on,” satoru said, he was grinning now, that big, blinding grin that usually meant he was about to get his way. “you’ve been talking about this guy for weeks. i want to meet him. see if he’s good enough for my best friend.”

“i haven’t been talking about him for weeks,” you said, because you hadn’t. you’d mentioned him exactly once. satoru had been the one to bring him up since then, dropping his name into conversations with a kind of forced casualness that you’d been trying not to analyze.

“details,” satoru said, waving a hand. “so? saturday? i’ll text you the time.”

you opened your mouth to say no. you had a hundred reasons to say no— you weren’t even sure if he was interested in you like that, the whole thing felt like it was moving too fast. but then you thought about suguru’s smile, the way he looked at you and the word that came out of your mouth was not no.

“okay,” you said. “i’ll ask him.”

satoru’s grin didn’t waver, but in his eyes was a flicker of something that made your stomach tighten. and then it was gone, and he was talking about the ramen place, about the best thing on the menu, about how yuki had been wanting to try it for weeks, and you let the conversation wash over you, your mind already turning to how you were going to ask suguru without making it weird.

you sent him a text that night, after you’d spent an embarrassingly long time typing and deleting and retyping the message.

you: hey, this is random, but my friend and his girlfriend are going to this ramen place on saturday and he suggested we make it a double date? no pressure if you’re not interested, just thought i’d ask

his reply came less than a minute later.

i’d love to. what time?

you stared at your phone for a long moment, a smile spreading across your face before you could stop it.

you told yourself it was just a casual outing, two friends bringing their respective people, no different from any other social engagement.

but your heart was beating a little faster, and your hands were a little warmer, and when you texted satoru back to confirm, you couldn’t quite ignore the small, hopeful part of you that wondered what it might feel like to have someone look at you the way satoru looked at the girls he dated.

and if you’d been paying closer attention, you might have noticed that satoru took a little too long to reply. you might have noticed that his “great! see you saturday :)” came after a delay that wasn’t like him, that he usually texted back instantly, that he was almost always on his phone.

but you didn’t notice. you were too busy thinking about suguru, about saturday, about the strange, unfamiliar feeling of being looked at and liking it.

so you missed it. you missed the way satoru sat in the dark of your shared apartment for a long time after you’d gone to bed, phone in his hand, face unreadable.

.

.

.

the days leading up to saturday passed in a strange, suspended kind of anticipation. you found yourself thinking about the double date more than you wanted to admit, turning it over in your mind like a smooth stone, examining it from different angles. and somewhere in the process of that examination, you made a quiet, almost subconscious realization: suguru had become a distraction. a welcome one, a needed one, but a distraction nonetheless.

it wasn’t that you’d stopped loving satoru. you didn’t think that was something you could turn off, not after three years of letting it settle into your bones like marrow. but for the first time in a very long time, you weren’t thinking about him constantly. the ache was still there, a low, familiar thrum beneath your ribs, but it had been joined by something else— something lighter, something that didn’t hurt when you held it.

when you were with suguru, you weren’t waiting. that was the thing. with satoru, you were always waiting— waiting for him to notice, waiting for him to want you the way you wanted him, waiting for the moment when the restlessness that drove him from relationship to relationship would finally land on you and stay. you’d been waiting for three years, and you’d gotten very good at it, but you hadn’t realized how exhausting it was until you stopped.

with suguru, there was no waiting. he was just… there. he was present and attentive and when you talked, he listened. when you laughed, he smiled like he’d been waiting to hear it. there was no performance, no guessing games, no wondering if the thing you felt was being reciprocated or if you were just reading too much into casual kindness.

it was so simple and you hadn’t realized how much you needed simple.

so by the time saturday rolled around, you found yourself almost wishing it was just a date with suguru. just the two of you, no audience, no performance. you wanted to see what that would be like— to sit across from him in a quiet restaurant, to talk without the pressure of other people watching, to let yourself lean into the warmth that bloomed in your chest every time he looked at you.

but then you rounded the corner and saw satoru waiting outside the ramen place, and your thoughts scattered like startled birds.

he looked good. he always looked good, but tonight there was something deliberate about it—the way his hair fell, the cut of his jacket, the casual confidence in the way he leaned against the wall. yuki was tucked under his arm, her hand in his, and they made a striking picture, the two of them. tall and beautiful and effortless, the kind of couple that made strangers glance twice as they walked by.

you felt it before you could stop it— the familiar twist of jealousy, sharp and unwelcome, settling in your stomach. it wasn’t the deep, aching kind you’d gotten used to over the years. it was smaller, meaner, a flash of something that felt almost like resentment. because there he was, with another girl, looking at her like she was something special, and you were standing here with your own maybe-something, trying not to let him see that it still stung.

you hated that it still stung. you hated that you’d spent all week thinking about suguru, that you’d almost convinced yourself you were moving on, and one look at satoru with his hand wrapped around someone else’s was enough to undo it.

and then suguru’s hand was at the small of your back, warm and steady, and the jealousy flickered and died.

“you okay?” he asked quietly, close enough that only you could hear.

you nodded, forcing a smile. “yeah. just a bit nervous.”

his hand lingered for a moment longer than necessary, a quiet reassurance. when he let it drop, the warmth of it stayed.

“hey!” satoru called out, spotting you. his face split into that familiar grin, bright and disarming, and he disentangled himself from yuki to walk toward you. “there you are. we were starting to think you’d stood us up.”

“we’re five minutes early,” you said, grateful that your voice came out steady.

“still,” satoru said, and then his gaze slid to suguru, and something shifted in his expression. it was subtle— a tightening around his eyes, a slight curve to his smile that wasn’t quite as warm as it had been a moment before. “so this is the famous geto suguru.”

“gojo satoru,” suguru said, his voice calm, pleasant, with a slight edge. a note of assessment that just appeared. “i’ve heard a lot about you.”

“all good things, i hope,” satoru said, not hiding the challenge in the way he said it, a testing of waters.

“all interesting things,” suguru replied. his smile didn’t waver.

the air between them crackled. you felt it, a sudden tension that hadn’t been there before, and you realized with a small jolt that you were watching two people size each other up. it was subtle, almost imperceptible if you didn’t know what to look for, but you knew satoru. you knew the way he stood when he was establishing dominance, the way his shoulders squared, the way his gaze went just a fraction sharper. and suguru— suguru was meeting him beat for beat, not backing down, not rising to the bait, just standing there with that quiet, unshakeable calm that made you feel like you were in the presence of something immovable.

yuki cleared her throat. “should we go in? i’m starving.”

the tension broke. satoru laughed, easy and bright, and threw an arm around yuki’s shoulders. “right, right. food first. let’s go.”

he led the way inside, yuki at his side, and you fell into step beside suguru. his hand found your back again, just briefly, a quick touch that said i’m here, and you felt something unclench in your chest.

the ramen place was small and warm, the kind of hole-in-the-wall that served the best food and didn’t care about aesthetics. you were seated at a table by the window, a booth that forced you and suguru to sit on one side and satoru and yuki on the other. the proximity was good, you told yourself. it meant you could focus on suguru, on the menu, on anything other than the way satoru’s knee was pressed against yuki’s under the table.

the first few minutes were easy. everyone ordered, made small talk about the menu, debated the merits of tonkotsu versus shoyu. yuki asked suguru about his major— he was studying literature, which, when you found out, surprised you and also didn’t. he had the vibes of someone who spent a lot of time with books, the kind of person who read slowly and remembered everything.

“literature,” satoru said, and there was something in his voice that made you look up. “so you’re one of those people who thinks they can see into the human condition by reading about it.”

suguru’s eyebrows rose slightly. “i think literature is one way of understanding people, yes. do you disagree?”

“i think understanding people is about being with them,” satoru said. “not reading about them. you can’t learn how to be in a relationship from a book.”

“that’s not really what literature is for,” suguru said, his voice still calm, but you could hear the undercurrent now. “it’s not a manual. it’s a mirror.”

“a mirror,” satoru repeated. he smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “that’s very poetic.”

“is that a bad thing?”

you glanced at yuki. she was watching the exchange with an expression that looked a lot like the one you were trying to hide— a kind of bemused discomfort, the look of someone who’d stumbled into a conversation they hadn’t signed up for.

“so,” you said, too brightly, “yuki, how did you and satoru meet?”

it was a clumsy deflection, but it worked. you actually knew the story yuki launched into— a party, a mutual friend, the usual— but at least the tension at the table eased. satoru played along, adding details, making her laugh, being the charming, easy version of himself that everyone loved. but you caught him glancing at suguru when he thought no one was looking, and you caught suguru doing the same, and the tension was just there, simmering.

the ramen came, and for a while, conversation was suspended in favor of food. yours was good— rich, savory, exactly what you needed— but you found yourself eating without tasting it, too aware of the dynamics at the table. satoru was being more attentive to yuki than you’d ever seen him be with anyone, draping his arm over the back of her seat, leaning in to murmur things in her ear, touching her wrist, her hand, her shoulder. it was performative, you realized. not the affection itself, maybe, but the display of it. like he was putting on a show.

and suguru, for his part, was doing something similar. not as overtly, not with the same flashy charm, but you could feel it in the way he angled his body toward you, the way he made sure your water glass was full, the way he asked you questions and listened to your answers with a focus that felt pointed, like he was demonstrating something, as if he was saying, without words, this is how you treat someone.

you didn’t know how to feel about it. flattered, maybe. or confused. or like you were caught in the middle of something you didn’t fully understand.

“so, suguru,” satoru said, setting down his chopsticks. “what do you do for fun? besides reading, i mean.”

suguru considered the question. “i cook. i hike. i spend time with people i care about.”

“cooking,” satoru said. “impressive. i can barely make toast without setting off the fire alarm.”

“you set off the fire alarm making toast?” yuki asked, chuckling.

“it was a very aggressive toaster,” satoru said, and everyone laughed, including you, because you’d been there for that incident and it was funny. but satoru’s gaze flicked to you when you laughed, his expression turning more pleased. then it moved to suguru, watching to see how he reacted.

suguru was smiling, however it was a little dismissive. “aggressive toasters are the worst,” he said mildly.

the conversation continued like that, a strange dance of words and silences. every time satoru made a joke, suguru responded with quiet, understated humor. every time suguru said something thoughtful or humorous, satoru found a way to make it sound pretentious. they were circling each other, testing weaknesses, looking for openings. and you and yuki were caught in the middle, exchanging glances across the table that said, more clearly than words, what is happening right now?

you almost laughed. you didn’t, because that would have been weird, but you almost did.

by the time the meal was over, you were exhausted. the food had been good, but the undercurrent of competition had drained you in a way you hadn’t expected. you found yourself craving quiet, craving the simple ease of being alone with suguru, without the strange, charged presence of satoru watching every interaction.

outside the restaurant, the evening air was cool and sharp. satoru had his arm around yuki again, pulling her close against the chill. “that was fun,” he said. he sounded like he meant it. “we should do it again.”

“maybe,” you said, noncommittal. you weren’t doing it again.

satoru’s gaze moved between you and suguru, and something flickered in his expression— a quick, unreadable thing that was gone before you could identify it. “you two heading home?”

“we might walk around a bit,” suguru said, and his hand found yours. you felt your face heat up, eyes immediately jumping up to see satoru’s reaction. “it’s a nice night.”

satoru looked at your joined hands just for a second, long enough for you to see something tighten in his jaw before he smiled. “sure. have fun. don’t stay out too late.”

“we won’t,” you said sheepishly. then, because you didn’t know what else to do, you said goodbye to yuki, who gave you a small, knowing smile that made you feel seen in a way you weren’t sure you liked.

soon they were gone, walking down the street together, satoru’s arm still around her, his head bent toward hers like they were sharing secrets. you watched them for a moment. the jealousy was there again, but it was distant now. muted, like hearing music from another room.

suguru’s thumb brushed across your knuckles. “you okay?”

you turned to look at him. in the soft glow of the streetlights, he looked softer somehow, the sharp edges of the dinner conversation smoothed away. he was looking at you with that expression you’d come to recognize— patient, attentive.

“yeah,” you meant it. “let’s walk.”

you found a quiet street a few blocks away, lined with old trees and closed shops, the kind of place that felt removed from the rest of the city. you walked in silence for a while, your hand still in suguru’s, and it was nice. easy. the tension of the evening slowly draining away with each step.

“so,” suguru said eventually. the careful quality to his voice made you tense a little, like he was choosing his words with precision. “satoru.”

you braced yourself. “what about him?”

“he’s…” suguru paused. you could see him searching for the right word. “intense.”

you laughed. that was one way to put it. “yeah. he can be.”

“you’ve been friends for a while?”

“since the entrance exams,” you said. “we’ve lived together for most of it.”

suguru nodded slowly. “he’s very… protective of you.”

you frowned. “what do you mean?”

“the way he looked at me tonight,” suguru said. “like he was evaluating me. deciding if i was good enough.” he glanced at you, a small smile playing at his lips. “it was a little intimidating, honestly.”

“you didn’t seem intimidated.”

“i’m good at hiding it.”

you didn’t believe that for a second, but you appreciated the attempt at humility. “satoru’s just like that. he’s always been protective. it doesn’t mean anything.”

suguru was quiet for a moment, before he nudged you, voicing gently, “doesn’t it?”

you stopped walking. “uh. what’s that supposed to mean?”

he stopped too, turning to face you. in the dim light, his expression was hard to read, but his voice was soft when he spoke. “i’m not trying to pry. i just… i notice things. the way you looked at him tonight. the way he looked at you.”

your heart was beating faster now, a nervous flutter in your chest. “i don’t know what you mean.”

suguru’s gaze was steady, kind, but the perceptiveness of it made you feel like you couldn’t hide.

“you don’t have to tell me anything,” he said. “i just want you to know that i see you. all of you. and i’m not going anywhere.”

you stood there, in the middle of a quiet street, with his hand warm in yours, and you felt something crack open in your chest. something you’d been holding closed for a very long time.

“it’s complicated,” you said finally. your voice came out smaller than you intended.

“it usually is,” suguru said, not pushing. he just waited, patient as always, giving you the space to decide what you wanted to share.

you took a breath. “i’ve known him for four years. he’s my best friend. and for three of those years, i’ve been…” you stopped, the words sticking in your throat. you’d never said it out loud. not to anyone. not even to yourself, really, not in a way that felt real.

suguru’s hand tightened around yours. “you’ve been in love with him.”

“yeah,” you said. “yeah, i have.”

suguru was looking at you with something that might have been understanding, or maybe sadness, or maybe something else entirely.

“and now?” he asked.

you thought about it. about the years of waiting, of watching, of wanting. about the way satoru’s hand had looked wrapped around yuki’s. about the strange, competitive energy that had filled the restaurant tonight. about the way suguru had been there, steady and warm, through all of it.

“i don’t know,” you said honestly. “i’m trying to figure it out.”

suguru nodded slowly. then he lifted your joined hands, pressed a kiss to your knuckles and let them fall back to your side.

“that’s okay,” he said. “take your time. i’m not going anywhere.”

you looked at him, at the quiet sincerity in his face, and you saw a door that had been cracked open, letting in a little light.

“thank you,” you meant it more than you’d meant anything in a long time.

he smiled.

“come on,” he said, tugging you gently back into motion. “let’s finish our walk. there’s a good spot for watching the city lights a few blocks up. i’ll show you.”

you let him pull you forward, your hand in his, the night air cool on your face. briefly, you let yourself imagine a future that didn’t revolve around waiting for satoru gojo to love you back.

.

.

.

the thing about dating suguru was that it was good. it was so, so good, and that was what made it hard.

you kept waiting for the other shoe to drop. for the moment when the easy warmth of his attention would cool, when the quiet steadiness of his presence would reveal itself as something else— boredom, maybe, or impatience, or the same restless hunger for novelty that you’d grown used to from the other people in your life.

but the shoe never dropped. suguru was exactly who he seemed to be: attentive, thoughtful, present. when he said he wanted to spend time with you, he meant it. when he looked at you like you were the only person in the room, he kept looking, even when you weren’t saying anything interesting, even when you were just sitting together in comfortable silence, even when you were so deep in your own head that you’d forgotten he was there.

it was good. it was so, so good. and yet.

the thought lingered in the back of your mind, a low hum you couldn’t quite tune out. suguru knows. suguru knows you’re in love with your best friend. you’d told him that night, standing on a quiet street with his hand wrapped around yours, and he’d taken it with that same unshakeable calm he brought to everything. no judgment, no jealousy— at least, none that he showed. just a quiet understanding that had made you feel seen in a way that was both a relief and a terror.

because if suguru had noticed, if he’d looked at you for a few weeks and seen the shape of the thing you’d been carrying for three years, then who else had noticed? had it been that obvious all along? had you been walking around with your heart written on your sleeve, broadcasting your feelings to anyone who cared to look?

and the worst thought, the one that crept in at night when you were trying to fall asleep, the one that made your stomach clench and your breath catch: does satoru know?

you didn’t think so. you couldn’t think so. because if satoru knew, surely he would have said something. surely he would have looked at you differently, treated you differently, put distance between you or, worse, pulled you closer in that careless, thoughtless way he had, the way that made everything harder. he would have done something. the fact that he hadn’t— that he still threw his arm around your shoulders, still sprawled across the couch with his feet in your lap, still looked at you with that easy, uncomplicated affection that had been the same since you were seventeen— meant he didn’t know. he couldn’t know.

you held onto that. you had to.

however, another thing about dating suguru was that it changed the shape of your life in ways you hadn’t anticipated. the change that happened in the margins, in the spaces between things, so gradual that you almost didn’t notice it happening until one day you looked up and realized the landscape had shifted.

you spent less time at the apartment, that was the biggest thing. not because you were avoiding satoru— you told yourself you weren’t avoiding him, that you were just busy, that it was natural to spend more time with the person you were dating— but the math was simple.

there were only so many hours in a day and more and more of them were filling up with suguru. coffee in the mornings, walks between classes, long evenings that started with dinner and somehow stretched into midnight without either of you noticing.

he’d introduced you to his favorite used bookstore and you’d lost an entire saturday there, sitting on the floor between the stacks, reading passages aloud to each other until your voices went hoarse. you’d cooked together— or rather, he’d cooked and you’d sat on the counter and watched, stealing vegetables from the cutting board while he pretended to be annoyed. you’d hiked the trails behind the university, the ones you’d always meant to explore but never had, and he’d pointed out birds and plants and told you their names like he was introducing you to old friends.

it was good. it was so, so good.

and when you came home, satoru was usually there. on the couch, in the kitchen, sprawled across his bed with his laptop open, always with some excuse for why he hadn’t gone out. nothing good on, he’d say, or yuki was busy, or too tired, or just felt like staying in. and you’d drop your bag by the door and kick off your shoes and fall into the familiar rhythm of your shared space— the easy banter, the way he’d complain about his day and you’d pretend not to listen and he’d know you were really listening so he’d keep talking anyway because that was just what you did.

but the rhythm was different now. the way satoru would glance at the clock when you came in, like he was calculating how long you’d been gone. the way he’d ask about suguru with a smile that was maybe a little too bright, a little too quick. the way the silences between you had shifted, grown heavier, filled with things neither of you was saying.

the movie nights were the first to go. you didn’t plan it that way— it just happened. friday would roll around and suguru would text you about a new place he wanted to try, or a book he’d found that he thought you’d like, or just what are you doing? and you’d say nothing and then you were with him, and the night was over before you remembered that fridays were supposed to be yours.

it happened once, and then twice, and then enough times that you stopped thinking of fridays as sacred. and satoru never said anything. he never called you out, never made you feel guilty, never even mentioned it. when you’d come home on saturday morning, he’d be there, making coffee or scrolling through his phone, and he’d look up and say “hey” like it was any other day and nothing had changed.

but things have changed. you felt it in the way you’d catch yourself checking your phone during class, wondering if satoru had texted. in the way you’d pause outside the apartment door sometimes, taking a breath before going in, trying to remember who you were supposed to be on the other side. in the way you’d lie in bed at night, in the room that was yours alone now because satoru had stopped knocking on your door when the nightmares came, and you didn’t know if that was because the nightmares had stopped or because he’d learned not to bother you.

you missed him. that was the truth of it, the thing you didn’t want to admit to yourself because it felt like a betrayal. you missed suguru when you weren’t with him, too— that was the confusing part, the part that made everything feel tangled and messy. you liked suguru. you liked him so much it scared you sometimes, the way your heart would lift when his name lit up your phone, the way you’d catch yourself smiling for no reason, the way his hand in yours felt like coming home to somewhere you’d never been before.

but you missed satoru. you missed the way he’d sprawl across the couch with his head in your lap, complaining about nothing, while you pretended to watch the movie. you missed the late-night conversations that started about nothing and somehow ended with you both laughing so hard you couldn’t breathe. you missed the way he’d look at you sometimes, like you were the only person in the world who really saw him, and you’d feel, for a moment, like maybe that was true.

you missed what you had and you didn’t know if what you had was gone, or just... smaller. the shape of it had changed, and you couldn’t tell if that was natural— the way friendships shifted when new people came into your life— or if it was something else. something you’d done, some choice you’d made without realizing it, some line you’d crossed that you couldn’t uncross.

because it was only appropriate, wasn’t it? to give more of your time and attention to the person you were dating. to prioritize him, to let him in, to build something new. that was what you were supposed to do. that was how it worked.

you couldn’t keep spending every friday night on the couch with satoru, couldn’t keep treating him like the center of your universe when you were trying to build a life that included someone else. it wasn’t fair to suguru. it wasn’t fair to you, either, not really— not when every moment with satoru was a reminder of what you couldn’t have, a thread pulling you back toward something you were trying to let go of.

this was good. this was what you needed. distance, space, the chance to let the feelings you’d been carrying for three years finally, finally fade.

right?

.

.

.

you were lying in bed one night, staring at the ceiling, when you heard it. satoru’s door opening, soft footsteps in the hallway. the sound of the refrigerator opening, closing. the creak of the couch as he sat down.

you waited for the knock on your door. the familiar pattern— three soft raps, a pause, two more. the sheepish expression when you opened it, the way he’d rub the back of his neck and say something like sorry, couldn’t sleep or bad dream or just can i…? and you’d move over and he’d crawl into your bed and curl up at the end like an overgrown cat, and the weight of him there, the sound of his breathing, would be enough to quiet the world.

but the knock didn’t come.

you lay there, listening to the silence from the living room, and you didn’t know if you were relieved or devastated.

maybe both. maybe that was the problem— that you were always both, always caught between two things, always wanting what you couldn’t have and not knowing what to do with what you did.

you thought about suguru. the way he’d kissed you goodnight earlier, a slow, sweet thing that had left you warm and wanting. the way he’d said text me when you get home because it mattered to him that you were safe. the way he looked at you, always, like you were something precious, something worth protecting.

you liked him. you really, really liked him.

but you also, in the quiet dark of your room, with satoru sitting alone in the living room and not knocking on your door, you let yourself admit that you missed him very much. that you missed the way things were before. that some part of you, some stubborn, stupid part that you couldn’t seem to kill no matter how hard you tried, was still waiting.

you closed your eyes and told yourself it would fade. that eventually, you’ll wake up one morning and not feel the ache of him in your chest like a bruise you kept pressing on.

this was good. this was what you needed.

it was good.

in the living room, satoru sat on the couch in the dark, his phone dark in his hand, your closed door at the end of the hallway. he’d been sitting there for an hour, maybe longer. long enough that the takeout he’d ordered— your usual, the one from the place you both liked, the one he’d bought without thinking— had gone cold on the coffee table.

he’d meant to knock. he’d walked to your door twice, hand raised, ready. but each time, he’d stopped himself. because what was he supposed to say? i miss you? why aren’t you here anymore? who is this guy and why does he get to have you when i—

he didn’t finish the thought. he never finished the thought. it was easier, safer, to let it trail off into nothing, to push it down into the place where all the things he didn’t want to look at lived.

he picked up his phone again. scrolled through his messages. yuki had texted him earlier— something about a party next weekend, something about we should go, it’ll be fun— and he’d read it and put the phone down and not responded. he didn’t know why. yuki was nice. yuki was easy. yuki didn’t make him feel like he was standing on the edge of something he couldn’t name.

he looked at your door again, thought about the way you’d smiled lately, when he’d asked how your day was. the way you’d said good in that voice that meant you were somewhere else, thinking about someone else.

he thought about suguru. the quiet confidence, the steady gaze, the way he’d looked at you like you were the only person in the room. the way you’d looked back.

satoru set his phone down. picked up the cold takeout container. stared at it for a long moment, then put it back down. he sat on the couch, in the dark, and waited for morning.

satoru gojo is not a person who spends a lot of time thinking about his own feelings. this is not an accident. it is a deliberate, carefully cultivated skill, honed over years of practice, and he is very good at it. feelings are messy. feelings are complicated. feelings are the kind of thing that make you do stupid things, like stay up too late and say things you can’t take back and wake up in the middle of the night with your chest caved in and no idea why.

so he doesn’t think about them. he doesn’t think about the way his stomach tightens when you laugh or the way his day feels incomplete if he hasn’t heard your voice or the way he’s been measuring every person he’s ever dated against a standard he didn’t realize he was setting until it was too late to lower it.

he doesn’t think about it. he’s very good at not thinking about it.

but lately, not thinking about it has become harder and he knows exactly when it started, even if he won’t say it out loud. it started with a name. suguru. it started with the way you said it and the way something in his chest went tight and cold at the sound of it. it started with the way you started coming home later, and the way you’d smile at your phone when you thought he wasn’t looking, and the way you’d say suguru and i like it was the most natural thing in the world, like your world had always included someone else’s name next to yours.

he doesn’t think about it. he doesn’t.

he met you at the entrance exams. he remembers it clearly— remembers the way you were standing against the wall, trying to take up as little space as possible, like you were apologizing for existing. he remembers thinking, why is that person trying to disappear? and then, immediately after, i should talk to them. he was seventeen and he was already the kind of person who talked to everyone, who collected friends the way other people collected coins, easily and without much thought.

he just knew that you looked like you needed someone to tell you that you were allowed to take up space, and he was very good at telling people things. so he walked over, and he said something— he doesn’t remember what, something stupid probably, something designed to make you laugh— and you looked at him with those eyes, and he felt something shift in his chest. something he didn’t have a name for.

he still doesn’t have a name for it. he’s been calling it friendship for four years, and that’s worked well enough.

you were his first best friend. that’s something he doesn’t talk about, not to anyone. he’d had friends before— lots of them, always, because he was the kind of person people gravitated toward, the kind of person who made everything brighter just by being there, but he’d never had a best friend. he’d never had someone he wanted to come home to, someone he wanted to tell everything, someone whose presence made the noise in his head quiet down.

you were the first person who made him want to be better. not for any reason or because you asked or expected or even seemed to notice, but because when he was around you, he wanted to be the kind of person who deserved to be around you. he wanted to remember things. he wanted to show up on time. he wanted to be someone you could count on, someone you could trust, someone who wouldn’t leave you standing against a wall trying to disappear.

you raised the standard. that’s a thing he doesn’t let himself think about, not really. you raised the standard so quietly, so gently, that he didn’t even notice it happening until one day he looked at the girl he was dating— some girl, any girl, they all blurred together after a while— and realized she didn’t make him want to be better. she didn’t make him want anything, really. she was just… there and he was just… going through the motions.

he’s been going through the motions for a long time, he knows that. he knows there’s something wrong with him, something that makes him get bored, get restless, get that itch under his skin that tells him to move on, move forward, don’t look back. he’s broken up with more people than he can count, and every time, he tells himself it’s because they weren’t right, because there’s someone out there who will make it stick, who will make him want to stay.

but he knows, somewhere deep down, that he’s been looking for you in every person he’s ever dated. and no one has ever come close.

he doesn’t think about it. he doesn’t.

but then you said suguru, and suddenly he couldn’t stop thinking about it.

he hates suguru. he tells himself it’s not jealousy— he’s not jealous, why would he be jealous, you’re his best friend, he wants you to be happy, of course he wants you to be happy— but he hates suguru with a clarity that scares him. he hates the way suguru looks at you, like he’s reading you, like he’s seeing something that’s supposed to be private. he hates the way suguru is calm, always calm, like nothing can touch him, like he’s above all the messy, complicated feelings that keep satoru up at night.

he hates that suguru is perceptive. he hates that suguru seems to see through him, past the jokes and the grins and the easy charm, to something he’s been hiding for so long he’s almost forgotten it’s there. he hates the way suguru’s hand found yours that night, casual and confident, like he had a right to it. like he’d earned it.

and the worst part is that he can’t even hate suguru for how he treats you, because suguru treats you right. satoru has been watching, has been cataloguing every interaction, every small gesture, every glance, looking for something he can use, something he can point to and say see? he’s not good enough. but there’s nothing.

and that’s the thing that keeps satoru up at night, because suguru treats you right and suguru looks at you the way satoru has been looking at you for four years without letting himself name it and suguru is doing what satoru has been too scared to do, and he’s doing it right.

satoru doesn’t know what to do with that. he doesn’t know what to do with the fact that someone else has figured out what took him years to even admit to himself. he doesn’t know what to do with the fact that you’re happy— you are happy, he can see it, he can see the way you smile now, the way you carry yourself, the way you’ve stopped trying to disappear— and that happiness is coming from someone who isn’t him anymore

he should be happy for you. he is happy for you. he wants you to be happy, he’s always wanted that, and if suguru is the one who can give you that, then…

then what? then he just… steps aside? then he watches you fall in love with someone else, watches someone else get to hold your hand and make you laugh and be the person you come home to, and he just… accepts it?

he thinks about telling you. sometimes, in the dark, when he’s lying in bed and the walls feel too close and the silence is too loud, he thinks about walking to your door and knocking and saying i’ve been in love with you since we were seventeen and letting whatever happens happen. but then he thinks about your face— the way you’d look at him, the confusion, the pity, the careful way you’d let him down because you’re too kind to hurt him even when he’s hurting you— and he can’t. he can’t do it. because if he tells you and you don’t feel the same way, he loses you. and losing you is the only thing he’s ever been truly afraid of.

so he doesn’t tell you. he doesn’t think about it. he buries it down deep, where it’s always been, and he keeps being your best friend. he keeps being the person you come home to, the person who saves you the last piece of whatever he’s eating, the person who makes you laugh when you’re stressed. he keeps being enough.

except now there’s suguru. and suddenly enough doesn’t feel like enough anymore.

yuki is nice. yuki is pretty. yuki is everything he should want— smart, confident, the kind of girl who doesn’t need him to be anything other than what he is. when he’s with her, he doesn’t have to try. he doesn’t have to think. he can just be satoru, the easy one, the charming one, the one who makes everything fun.

but he’s getting bored. he’s always getting bored, that’s the problem, that’s the thing he hates about himself. three weeks in and already the conversations feel rote, the touches feel automatic, the whole thing feels like a script he’s read before. he catches himself thinking about you when he’s with her. your laugh, your voice, the way you’d react to something he said. he catches himself comparing— not out loud, never out loud, but in his head, where he can’t help it. yuki wouldn’t get that joke. yuki wouldn’t have stayed up with me when i couldn’t sleep. yuki doesn’t look at me the way you look at me.

he should break up with her. he knows he should break up with her. it’s not fair to keep her around when he’s already checked out, when his mind is always somewhere else, with someone else. but every time he thinks about ending it, he thinks about suguru. about the double date, about the way suguru’s hand was on your back, about the way you looked at him. and he thinks about what it would mean to show up alone, to be the one without a date, to have to watch you and suguru together while he has nothing.

it’s stupid, it’s so stupid. he’s never had trouble finding someone to date, has never been without options, has never been the kind of person who needs to cling to a relationship that’s already over. but this isn’t about yuki. it never was about yuki.

it’s about proving something, he’s not even sure what. maybe that he can be stable or can be in a relationship or he can be the kind of person who doesn’t get bored and move on. maybe that he doesn’t need you, that he’s fine, that his life is full and happy and doesn’t revolve around waiting for you to see him. maybe that he’s not jealous, that he doesn’t care about suguru, that he can have his own thing and be perfectly content while you build something with someone else.

maybe it’s just that letting go of yuki would mean admitting that none of it matters. that she was never going to make him feel the way you do, no one is, and he’s been chasing something for four years and he’s never going to catch it.

so he stays with yuki. he texts her back, makes plans, shows up. he lets her wrap her arms around him and talk about her day and laugh at his jokes. and he thinks about you the whole time.

why does he even care? the question circles in his head at 3 a.m., when he’s staring at the ceiling and trying to figure out why his chest feels like it’s caving in. why does it matter if you’re dating someone? why does it matter if that someone is perceptive and calm and looks at you like you’re the only person in the world? why does it matter that you’re happy, that you’re smiling more, for other reasons than him?

you deserve everything suguru seems to be giving you, and more.

so why does it feel like he’s losing something? why does it feel like every day you spend with suguru is a day you’re slipping further away from him, and he’s just standing here, watching it happen, too scared to reach out and grab you?

because he’s in love with you. he’s been in love with you since you told him you weren’t interesting and he knew, instantly, that you were the most interesting person he’d ever met. he’s been in love with you through every relationship, every breakup, every late night and early morning and moment in between. he’s been in love with you so long that he doesn’t remember what it felt like before.

and he’s never said a word because saying it would change everything, and he’s not brave enough to find out what that change would look like.

he is a coward.

so he sits on the couch in the dark. he lets the takeout go cold. he doesn’t knock on your door. and he tells himself that this is what it means to love someone— to let them go, to let them be happy, to stand in the background and watch them bloom under someone else’s attention.

he tells himself that and he almost believes it.

when he closes his eyes, he sees your face. he sees the way you looked at him that first day, he sees the way you laugh, the way you say his name, the way you exist in his life like you were always meant to be there. and he thinks about suguru’s hand on you, and he thinks about your smile when you say his name, and he thinks about how he’s never going to be the one to make you look like that.

he’s satoru gojo. he’s the one who has everything. he’s the one people envy, the one who moves through life like it was designed for him, the one who never has to try.

but right now, sitting in the dark, listening to the silence of your apartment, he’s never felt more like he’s lost something he never had the courage to reach for. he doesn’t know what to do with any of it.

so he doesn’t think about it. he doesn’t think about you, or suguru, or the way his chest feels like it’s splitting open. he doesn’t think about the words he’ll never say, the confession he’ll never make, the life he could have had if he’d been just a little bit braver.

he doesn’t think about any of it.

he sits on the couch. he waits for morning. and he tells himself that this is enough.

.

.

.

it started, as most of satoru’s better ideas did, with him staring at his phone in the middle of a lecture he wasn’t listening to.

he’d been doing that a lot lately. staring at his phone. scrolling through your messages— the ones from before, the ones when you still texted him throughout the day, stupid things and funny things and things that didn’t matter except that they were from you. the messages had become less frequent lately. not gone, but different; shorter, more gaps between them. he’d catch himself typing something, then deleting it, because he didn’t want to bother you or interrupt whatever you were doing with suguru, didn’t want to be the needy best friend who couldn’t let go.

but today, sitting in the back of a lecture hall while some professor droned on about something he was supposed to care about, he had a thought, one that felt, suddenly, like the most obvious thing in the world.

you were still his best friend, weren’t you?

that couldn’t change. four years of inside jokes and late-night conversations and knowing each other in ways no one else did— that wasn’t something that disappeared just because someone new had entered the picture. he was allowed to want to spend time with you. he was allowed to miss you. he was allowed to want to do things with you, just the two of you, without it meaning anything more than what it was: two best friends hanging out, the way they always had.

there was nothing weird about that. nothing that anyone could point to and say look, he’s in love with her, look how pathetic he is.

it was just… friendship. the same friendship you’d had since you were seventeen. the same friendship that had been the most important thing in his life for four years.

so why shouldn’t he act on it?

he was out of his seat before he’d fully formed the thought, shoving his laptop into his bag, ignoring the confused look from the person next to him. he slipped out the side door of the lecture hall, his heart beating faster than it had any right to, and pulled out his phone.

his fingers moved before he could talk himself out of it.

hey. cancel your plans for saturday. i’m taking you somewhere.

he stared at the message for a moment, the cursor blinking, and then he added:

don’t argue. just be ready at 12.

he hit send before he could second-guess himself. he stood in the hallway, phone clutched in his hand, waiting.

the reply came a minute later, maybe less, yet it felt like forever.

silly goose🪿: what?? where are we going

he grinned. he couldn’t help it.

it’s a surprise. wear comfortable shoes. and no, i’m not telling you anything else.

he could picture you reading the message, could picture the way you’d tilt your head, the way you’d chew on your bottom lip while you decided whether to push for more information.

silly goose🪿: you’re being very mysterious

that’s the point

silly goose🪿: fine but if it’s one of your surprise where we end up in the police station again and your father has to bail us out i’m not going

he laughed out loud, the sound echoing in the empty hallway.

it’s not that. i promise. just trust me.

silly goose🪿: okay. i trust you.

he stared at those three words for longer than was probably normal.

he pocketed his phone and walked out of the building into the afternoon sun, and for the first time in weeks, he felt like he could breathe.

.

.

.

saturday noon arrived the way satoru had been willing it to arrive— slow enough to build anticipation, fast enough that he didn’t lose his nerve. he’d been up since six, which was ridiculous. he just couldn’t sleep. he kept running through the plan in his head, checking and rechecking details that didn’t need checking, making sure everything was perfect.

it wasn’t a date. he told himself that again, firmly, as he stood in front of his closet for the third time, trying to decide what to wear. it wasn’t a date. it was two friends spending the day together. that was all. so why did it matter what he wore? why did he care if his hair was doing the thing it did sometimes, the thing that made it fall just right? why had he gone to the convenience store yesterday and bought your favorite snacks without even thinking about it, like it was instinct, like his body knew what you wanted before his brain caught up?

it wasn’t a date. it was just… him being your friend, being the person who knew you, who remembered the things you liked, who wanted to make you smile.

that was allowed. that was normal. that was fine.

he settled on something simple— jeans, a soft sweater, his favorite sunglasses— and tried not to look at himself in the mirror too long. when he heard your door open at 11:58, he was already in the living room, pretending to be absorbed in his phone, trying to look like he hadn’t been waiting for this moment all week.

you came out of your room and he looked up and there it was, that thing that happened every time he saw you, the thing he’d never been able to explain or control or make go away. the way his heart did a small, stupid flip in his chest. the way the rest of the world seemed to blur at the edges, like someone had turned down the focus on everything that wasn’t you.

you were wearing something simple— jeans, a top, a jacket— and your hair looked like you hadn’t put too much effort in, and you were the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen. you always were, that’s how he distinguished you in a room full of people.

“okay,” you said, pulling your keys out of your pocket. “i’m ready. are you going to tell me where we’re going yet, or are you committed to the mystery?”

he grinned, pushing off from the couch, sliding his sunglasses into place. “committed to the mystery. get in the car.”

you rolled your eyes, but you were smiling. “if this is another one of your schemes—”

“it’s not a scheme! it’s a surprise. there’s a difference.”

“is there?”

“a huge difference. schemes are nefarious. surprises are delightful. like me.”

the drive took about forty minutes. you spent most of it trying to guess where he was taking you— guessing every amusement park, every tourist attraction, every vaguely interesting thing within a two-hour radius— and he spent most of it deflecting, making up ridiculous answers, watching you laugh out of the corner of his eye. the radio was playing something forgettable, the windows were down just enough to let the autumn air in, and for a while, it was easy. it was the way things used to be, before everything got complicated, before suguru, before he started measuring every moment in terms of what he was losing.

“okay, final guess,” you said, as he turned onto the access road. “if it’s not the boardwalk and it’s not the botanical gardens and it’s not that weird museum with the taxidermy—”

“that was one time.”

“—then it has to be—” you stopped as the entrance came into view, and your mouth dropped open. “wait. is this—”

“the new amusement park,” he said, trying to sound casual, like he hadn’t been waiting for the perfect moment to bring you here. “i heard they opened last month. thought we should check it out.”

you turned to look at him, your face— he wanted to bottle that expression and keep it somewhere safe. the surprise, the delight, the way your eyes went wide and bright. “satoru—”

“you said you wanted to come when it opened. remember? you saw the article about it, back when they first broke ground, and you said—”

“i said we should come when it’s finished,” you finished, your voice turning softer. “you remembered that?”

he shrugged, keeping his eyes on the road, pretending he didn’t notice the way you were looking at him. “i remember things. i’m a good friend.”

you didn’t say anything for a moment. when he glanced over, you were still looking at him with an unreadable expression that made his heart beat a little faster.

“yeah,” you said finally, quietly. “you are.”

he parked the car and you both got out. the sun was warm on his face. you were standing next to him, close enough that his arm brushed yours, and he let himself have this. he let himself pretend that nothing had changed, that you were still his in the way you’d always been his, that the world hadn’t shifted underneath his feet.

the park was crowded, but not unbearably so. everything felt alive without being overwhelming. satoru had done his research, had looked at all the ride maps and food stalls and show times, had planned out a route that would hit everything you might want to see without spending the whole day in lines. he didn’t tell you that, of course. he played it cool, like he was just making it up as he went along and he hadn’t spent hours thinking about this exact day.

“okay,” you said, looking around at the chaos of colors and sounds. “where do we start?”

he considered the options. “food first. i’m starving.”

“already?”

“and? you don’t get hungry at 13?”

“i had breakfast.”

“that was hours ago.”

“it was literally an hour ago.”

“an hour is a long time. metabolically speaking.”

you laughed, and he grabbed your hand before he could think about it— to pull you toward the food stalls, he told himself, because it was crowded and he didn’t want to lose you— and your fingers were warm in his. you didn’t pull away.

the first food stall they hit was one selling taiyaki, the fish-shaped pastries filled with red bean paste, and he bought four without asking if you wanted any, just handed you two and watched you take the first bite.

“good?” he asked, already knowing the answer.

you nodded, mouth full. he felt a ridiculous surge of satisfaction.

from there, it became a kind of mission. the park had all the classic amusement food, but elevated somehow— fancier, more elaborate, the kind of stuff that was made to be photographed and posted.

“okay, try this,” he said, shoving a piece of honeycomb-topped ice cream toward you. “it’s supposed to be their signature thing.”

you leaned in and took a bite. he watched your expression shift from curiosity to surprise to delight. “oh my god. that’s actually incredible.”

“right? i knew you’d like it.”

“how did you know?”

he shrugged, taking a bite himself, the honey sweet and sticky on his tongue. “you like honey. you put it in your tea, even when i tell you it’s too much. and you like cold things, even in winter. remember that time you made me get ice cream with you when it was snowing?”

you stared at him. “that was three years ago.”

“so?”

“so you remember that? what i ordered?”

“mint chocolate chip,” he said, without missing a beat. “you said it was basic but you didn’t care. and then you dropped half of it on the sidewalk and looked so sad i went back and bought you another one.”

you went quiet. he realized, belatedly, that maybe he was saying too much and showing his hand. but then you smiled, small and soft, and said, “you’re ridiculous.”

“i’m dedicated,” he corrected. “you know that”

“do i?”

“a huge difference. dedication is admirable. ridiculousness is—”

“also admirable?”

he laughed. “i was going to say ‘charming,’ but sure. we’ll go with admirable.”

you rolled your eyes, but you were still smiling. when you reached out to steal another piece of his ice cream, he let you.

he took you on rides after that. the park had a good mix— some classic, some new, some that made you scream and some that made you laugh. satoru had always been a fan of the big ones, the ones that went high and fast and made your stomach drop out from under you.

today, he found himself gravitating toward the smaller things. the spinning teacups, where you both got dizzy and stumbled out laughing, holding onto each other to stay upright. the bumper cars, where you spent an embarrassingly long time chasing each other around the rink, both of you laughing so hard you could barely steer. the old-fashioned carousel, where you picked a horse with chipped paint and a golden mane and he stood next to you, one hand on the pole, watching the way the afternoon light caught in your hair.

“you’re not going to ride?” you asked, as the carousel started its slow, stately rotation.

“i’m riding. i’m right here.”

“standing doesn’t count.”

“sure it does. i’m experiencing the carousel. i’m very engaged.”

you gave him a look. “you’re standing next to a stationary horse while i do all the work.”

“it’s a very nice stationary horse.” he nodded assuredly and then squinted at you, “also, what work are you talking about, you are sitting on a horse that moves by itself.”

you laughed, and the sound of it was better than any music, better than any ride, better than anything else in the park. he wanted to bottle it. he wanted to carry it with him everywhere. he wanted to hear it every day for the rest of his life.

“you’re so weird,” you said.

“that’s why we work. you like me.”

“i didn’t say that.”

“you didn’t have to.”

the carousel turned, the world spun slowly around you, and he caught himself thinking, if i could freeze this moment, if i could stay here forever, i would. i would in a heartbeat.

.

.

.

it was always natural for him and you to talk about everything and nothing. that was the thing about the two of you— conversation had always been easy, had always flowed like water, finding its way into every corner and crevice. you talked about classes, about professors who were terrible and professors who were surprisingly good. you talked about movies you’d seen, books you’d read, music you’d been listening to. you talked about the park itself—the way the light hit the rides, the best place to watch the crowd, the ridiculous prices of everything.

“five dollars for a bottle of water,” you said, holding up your latest purchase. “that’s criminal.”

“capitalism,” he said sagely. “the real villain of our time.”

“you say that while wearing designer sunglasses.”

“these are vintage.”

“they’re from last season.”

“vintage is a state of mind.”

you laughed quietly, shoving him in the shoulder. he watched you take a sip of your overpriced water and he thought about how easy this was. why did it feel like an ending?

you talked about memories, too. old ones, the kind that came up when you spent enough time together, the shared history that no one else could touch. the time you’d both gotten locked out of the apartment and had to climb through the window. the time he’d tried to cook dinner and set off the fire alarm and you’d both eaten burnt pasta on the floor of the kitchen, laughing hysterically. the time you’d stayed up all night studying for an exam you both ended up failing because the professor was an asshole, and the way you’d looked at each other the next morning, bleary-eyed and defeated, and somehow started laughing.

“we were such disasters,” you said, leaning against a railing, looking out at the park.

“we are disasters,” he corrected. “we just have better lighting now.”

you smiled. he smiles back.

“do you ever think about that?” you asked, your voice was softer now, more thoughtful. “how we met?”

“all the time,” he said.

you glanced at him, surprised. “really?”

“really.” he leaned against the railing next to you, close enough that your shoulders almost touched. “you were standing against the wall, trying to disappear. and i thought—” he stopped, remembering. “i need to save her from dying of anxiety.”

you were quiet for a moment. “is that why you talked to me?”

“maybe. or maybe i just thought you were interesting.” he bumped your shoulder with his. “still do, by the way. just so you know.”

you looked at him, your eyes full of emotion that made his chest tight. “satoru—”

“don’t get emotional, sweetheart,” he said quickly, because he couldn’t handle whatever was coming next, “i have a reputation to maintain.”

you laughed wetly. the moment passed. he told himself that was for the best.

the afternoon bled into evening, the light shifting from gold to amber to the soft, hazy blue of late afternoon. satoru and you been at the park for hours, had ridden most of the rides, eaten more than was reasonable, accumulated a small collection of prizes from games you’d played— a stuffed bear that was slightly lopsided, a keychain that glowed in the dark, a cheap plastic ring that you’d put on your finger and hadn’t taken off.

satoru had been watching the sky for the last hour, tracking the sun’s descent, waiting for the moment. he’d planned this part carefully, had checked the sunset time, had figured out the best place in the park to watch it. the ferris wheel. it was obvious, maybe, but that was the point. it was the kind of thing that felt like a movie, that would be romantic if it were anyone else, but it had to be just two friends watching the sunset. nothing more than that.

“come on,” he said, tugging on your hand. “one more ride.”

you were looking at the ferris wheel, your expression shifting as you registered what he was suggesting. “the ferris wheel?”

“the ferris wheel.” he was already pulling you toward the line, not giving you time to argue. “it’s the best view in the park. you can see the whole city from the top.”

“it’s going to be a long line—”

“it’s fine. we have time.”

you looked at him exasperatedly, he could see you trying to figure out what he was doing, why he was so insistent, but you didn’t argue. you let him pull you into line, and you stood close together as the queue slowly moved forward, and he tried not to think about the way your arm pressed against his.

the line moved faster than he expected. before he was ready, they were at the front, and the attendant was gesturing them into a car, and he was climbing in after you, the door closing behind them with a soft click.

the car swayed slightly as it began to move, and you let out a small gasp, grabbing onto the rail. he laughed. “scared of heights? you never told me you were scared of heights.”

“i’m not scared,” you said, but your grip on the rail said otherwise. “i just don’t like the swaying.”

“it’s supposed to sway. it’s part of the experience.”

“a terrible part of the experience.”

he grinned, settling back against the seat, watching you. the inside of the cabin was small, it forced closeness. your knees were almost touching. if he reached out, he could touch your face, your hair, your hand. he kept his hands firmly in his lap and he looked out at the park shrinking beneath them. satoru told himself to breathe.

the car rose slowly, steadily, each rotation bringing them higher. the park spread out below them like a map, the lights beginning to flicker on, the crowd reduced to tiny figures moving between the attractions. and beyond the park, the city, sprawling toward the horizon, buildings catching the last of the sun’s light.

“oh,” you said softly, causing him to he look at you. you were watching the view, your face soft, your lips slightly parted. “it’s so pretty.”

he looked out at the sunset. it was, objectively, beautiful. the sky was a gradient of colors— pink and orange and purple, bleeding into each other, the sun a perfect disc of gold balanced on the edge of the world. the sunset that made people stop and stare, the kind that felt like it was put there just for you.

but now he wasn’t looking at the sunset. he was looking at you.

the light caught your face, painted you in gold and rose, turned you into something that made his breath catch. your eyes were bright, reflecting the colors of the sky, and there was a small smile on your lips, and you were so beautiful that it hurt. it physically hurt, a tightness in his chest, a pressure behind his ribs, something that felt like joy and terror and longing all tangled together.

you were the prettiest thing he’d ever seen.

not just now, in this light, on this ferris wheel. always. every day, in every moment, in every version of you that existed.

you were the prettiest thing he’d ever seen and he couldn’t tell you. he couldn’t say it, couldn’t let the words out, couldn’t let you see what was written all over his face. so he didn’t. he sat there, in the swaying car, and he watched the sunset paint you gold, and he held the words in his chest like a secret.

“it’s beautiful,” you said again as you turned to look at him. he was caught, and he knew you could see it, could see everything he’d been trying to hide.

“yeah,” he said. his voice came out rough, scraped raw. “beautiful.”

you were looking at him too. for a moment he let himself believe that the expression on your face was something more than friendship, something more than the easy affection you’d always had.

but then the car reached the top, paused, and started its slow descent, and you looked away, back at the sunset, and the moment was gone.

he let it go again. he had to.

the ride down was quiet. not uncomfortable, but charged, the air between them heavy with something neither of them was saying. he watched you out of the corner of his eye, watched the way you traced patterns on the railing, the way your fingers touched the cheap plastic ring you’d won, the way your breath fogged the glass when you leaned close.

when the car reached the bottom, the attendant opened the door, you climbed out first, and he followed. the spell was broken.

you stood for a moment at the base of the ferris wheel, the lights of the park bright around you, the last traces of sunset fading to deep blue. you were looking up at the wheel, your expression unreadable.

“thank you,” you said, your voice soft. “for today. i… i needed this.”

he wanted to say something. he wanted to say me too. he wanted to say i need you, i’ve always needed you, i don’t know how to be without you. he wanted to say please don’t go back to him, please stay here with me, please see me the way i see you.

but he didn’t. he smiled, which was easier than it should have been, this mask he’d been wearing for years. “anytime. you know that.”

you looked at him for a long moment and then you smiled. it was the same smile you’d always had, that made him feel like maybe, just maybe, everything was going to be okay.

“come on,” he said, bumping your shoulder with his. “let’s get out of here. i’m freezing.”

you laughed, the sound of it wrapping around him, warm and familiar. “you’re always freezing.”

“i run cold. it’s a medical condition.”

“it’s not a medical condition, you just don’t wear enough layers.”

“tomato, tomato.”

you shook your head, but you were still smiling, when he fell into step beside you, you didn’t move away. you walked close enough that your shoulders brushed, close enough that he could feel the warmth of you through his jacket.

he didn’t look back at the ferris wheel. the image was already burned into his memory— you, painted in gold, the sunset behind you, the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen.

he’d carry that with him, he’d carry it for as long as he could, and when the ache in his chest got too heavy, when the weight of everything he couldn’t say pressed down on him, he’d pull it out and look at it and remind himself that for one moment, at the top of a ferris wheel, you were his. even if you didn’t know it. even if you never would.

it was enough. it had to be.

things were, against all odds, going well. that was the thought that kept circling in your head as you walked home from class one afternoon, the autumn air crisp and clean, your scarf wrapped tight around your neck. things were going well. you were spending time with suguru, hopefully building something solid between him and you. and you were spending time with satoru again, too, in a way that felt almost like before, like the strange distance that had crept in between you had been bridged.

you weren’t sure exactly when that had happened. maybe it was the amusement park, the way he’d planned the whole day, the way he’d taken care of you. maybe it was the way he’d started texting you again, the stupid memes and the late-night check-ins and the you up? messages that made you smile even when you were trying to sleep. maybe it was just time, the slow reclamation of something that had always been yours, the way you found yourself gravitating back toward each other like planets in orbit.

whatever it was, it was good. it was so, so good.

there was, however, the matter of yuki.

the breakup had been… abrupt. that was the word you’d settled on, after turning it over in your mind for the better part of a week. abrupt. you’d come home from a study session at the library to find the apartment door slightly ajar, which was unusual because satoru was a little paranoid about locking doors. you’d pushed the door open slowly, already reaching for your phone in case something was wrong, and then you’d heard voices.

satoru’s voice, low and tight; you recognised it as the tone he used when he was trying to keep his temper in check. and yuki’s voice, higher, sharper, the words spilling out too fast to catch at first.

you’d frozen in the doorway, caught between the instinct to leave and the realization that they’d probably already heard you. and then yuki had come storming out of the living room, her face blotched red, her eyes wet, and she’d stopped when she saw you.

for a moment, neither of you said anything. you’d only met her a handful of times— the double date, a party, a brief encounter on campus— and you didn’t know her, not really. but in that moment, looking at her face, you saw something that made your stomach clench. it looked like she’d figured something out that you’d been trying to hide for years.

“you,” she’d said, her voice thick with tears but the hatred underneath it made you take a step back. “you’re the reason.”

you’d opened your mouth to say something—what, you didn’t know, maybe i don’t know what you’re talking about or i’m sorry or what happened?— but she was already moving, pushing past you, gone. the door slammed behind her, and you were left standing in the hallway, your heart beating too fast, your hands cold.

you’d found satoru in the living room, sitting on the couch with his head in his hands. he’d looked up when you walked in, and for a moment, his face was completely open, completely raw, and you’d seen grief, maybe, or exhaustion, or relief there that made your chest ache.

“hey,” he’d said, his voice rough. “you’re home early.”

“are you okay?” you’d asked.

he’d smiled a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “yeah. i’m fine. we just—it wasn’t working. you know how it is.”

you didn’t, actually. you didn’t know how it was to break up with someone because you couldn’t make yourself feel something that wasn’t there. you didn’t know how it was to go through person after person, searching for something you couldn’t name. but you nodded anyway, because that was what he needed.

you sat down next to him on the couch and let him lean his weight against your shoulder, and you didn’t ask any of the questions that were crowding your throat.

you didn’t ask why yuki had looked at you like that. you didn’t ask what she meant by you’re the reason. you didn’t ask if there was something he wasn’t telling you.

you just sat there, in the quiet of your apartment, and let him be.

You grew up in the nicest suburbs of Boston, got whatever it was you wanted, traveled on first-class flights before you were old enough to spell, had a father who treated you like gold in human form.

But, that last one? Yeah, that was the problem.

Being adored feels a lot like being controlled when you’re the only daughter of a man the entire country worships. Because in hindsight, you were. Not purposely, of course. You were daddy’s little princess from day one, which meant he needed to protect you at all costs.

From the moment you entered your elite preppy high school at age fourteen, that was when his watchful eye sharpened into one that never stopped watching. As a hall of fame athlete, a New England Patriots legend, he’s seen too much of this world to know that he needs to keep his precious girl safe from it all.

And when he retired? It got so much worse. He was always there. Which basically meant you couldn’t do anything without him knowing or without his permission.

Your best friend, Blair, who lived two houses down, lived the life you wished you could. Another rich, preppy privileged girl, yes, but one with parents who didn’t give a single fuck what she did. And she’s been partying since, well…forever.

She lost her virginity in the bathroom of a Red Sox game, threw a rager so big when her parents left for Saint Barts she got suspended for two weeks, snuck out of the house so often she practically wore a path through your backyard.

She begged you to join her. To come out and have fun, be a normal teenager, but you never could. Sometimes you wondered if your father even realized he’d built a cage around you—a gilded, loving, suffocating one. And you were tired of not being able to live life to the fullest.

Which is why when the time finally came to decide on college, you knew you had to choose the furthest plausible option. You also knew that wherever you went, would have to be with Blair.

So the two of you sat down and planned it. She listed all sorts of schools, Miami, Alabama, Ohio State, Wisconsin, all known for their party scene, but they weren’t far enough in your eyes.

Then, the idea hit you. California. All the way across the country, nice ass weather with no brutal winters, huge nightlife. It ticks every single box.

“How about USC?” You suggested.

Blair’s eyes widened like she’d won the lottery, “That’s it! That’s the fucking school. We’re applying—today.”

You indeed did apply that same day, keeping all of it, every whispered dream of palm trees and frat parties, a secret from your father. He didn’t need to find out that you were plotting your escape. Only if you got accepted, would you tell him.

After applying, came the long, excruciating wait. Every notification made your heart jump, every morning felt loaded with possibility and impending doom, but then on a random Tuesday afternoon after school, Blair got an email. You were sprawled across her bed when her phone dinged and when she checked it she froze, slowly looking at you, “No fucking way.”

Your heart stopped, “What?”

She glanced back at her screen as if it might disappear, “Bitch…I got in!”

You barely had time to process it before she launched herself at you, both of you collapsing onto the bed in a fit of hysterical laughter, “Check yours,” She demanded, already grabbing your laptop.

Your hands shook as you logged into the portal and when the screen flashed in red and gold, Congratulations! We are pleased to offer you admission to the University of Southern California…

Your vision blurred, you were going to finally leave Boston and remove the shackles. Blair grabbed your shoulder, “You’re free, babe.”

The word hit differently—free. But not yet, because you still had to tell him.

You waited until dinner, when the house was calm and your father set down his fork and asked warmly, “How was your day, princess?”

You pushed the printed copy of your acceptance letter across the table, watching as he unfolded it slowly. His sharp eyes scanned the words once, twice, then a third time, as if they might rearrange themselves into something less horrifying.

“…Southern California?” He said at last, voice tight, “That’s three thousand miles away.”

“I know.”

“And…you want to go there?”

“I do. Really bad.”

There was a heartbeat, a breath, a visible internal meltdown occurring within him, until he asked, “Is Blair going?”

“Yes. She got in too.”

He exhaled through his nose like that single fact alone saved his life, though it probably shouldn’t have. She’s the last person on Earth he should want going with you, but thankfully, he’s blissfully unaware of who she really is, “Well. I guess that’s different.”

Your mother kicked him under the table, “Just say you’re proud of her, honey.”

He looked at you again, long, conflicted, and terrified, yet still soft, “I am proud of you,” He murmured, “You know that. I just…you’re my little girl. And California is far.”

“I’ll be okay.”

He didn’t believe that, not at all, but he nodded anyway, “Then I guess…USC it is.”

Just like that, you were free. You could almost taste it. And now, months later, you’re here—Move-in day.

The California sun hits hotter and brighter, like even the light feels less restrained than anything you ever knew in Boston. Your father sits restlessly in the rented SUV that’s packed full with your belongings, your mother is in the passenger seat, Blair is following behind with her mom.

It should’ve been a sweet, sentimental moment. College send-offs usually are, but this one wasn’t. Because in order to get to your dorms, you had to pass Greek Row, and your father sees everything he fears most.

A group of shirtless guys on a lawn, covered in sweat playing die on an old, warped table. Two frat brothers throwing a football back and forth across the street like they own it, a cluster of girls in micro shorts walking toward one of the houses, someone’s shotgunning a beer while blasting John Summit so loud it shakes the sidewalk. Your father’s hands tighten on the steering wheel so hard the leather creaks.

“Oh,” Your mother murmurs gently, “Look at that…school spirit.”

He does not share the same sentiment. He stares, shell-shocked, shoulders squared like he’s preparing for war. One of the frat boys looks straight at the car, lifts his chin at you through the window, and smirks. Your dad nearly swerves into the closest telephone pole, “Oh hell no,” He curses under his breath, “Absolutely not. Over my dead body—”

“Dad,” You warn softly, cheeks burning.

He tears his eyes away from the horror, but keeps muttering, “This is a bad idea. This is a terrible idea. They let freshmen live near this? They let you live near this? Those boys are—They’re—”

“College students?” Your mom offers.

“Degenerates.”

You hide your smile behind your hand. Because the truth is, everything he saw that scared him? Is everything you wanted.

The noise, the craziness, the alcohol, the energy, the…boys. A world you were never allowed to touch is now directly outside your window.

Your father grips the wheel harder like he’s debating whether or not to spin the car around and drive your happy ass back to Boston himself, but he doesn’t. He continues onward; straight to the dorms, your new life, and the one thing he could never fully control—your freedom.

But freedom, apparently, also comes with an audience. The moment your father pulls into the freshmen unloading zone, heads turn. A few students stop mid-conversation, some whisper, some don’t even bother whispering. Phones lift in that sneaky, sideways way people use when they swear you won’t notice.

“Is that—?”

“That’s him, right? That’s him?”

“Dude, her dad is literally the goat.”

“Wait, does that mean she’s—?”

You feel the heat crawl up your neck, but your father doesn’t react. He’s practiced at this, years of fan interactions, interviews, cameras shoved in his face at even the most inconvenient moments. Nothing really shakes him—well, except the frat boys. Those do.

He steps out of the car and grabs your suitcase with one hand, posture straightening like he’s going on National TV. A couple of guys across the quad nudge each other when they recognize him, jaws dropping as if a God descended onto USC’s campus.

“Sir!” One of them calls out, already pulling out his phone, “Big fan! Like…huge fan!”

“Thank you,” Your father says with a polite nod, slipping seamlessly into his media smile and then, because the universe enjoys humor at your expense, another voice bursts from a group near the dorm steps.

“Holy shit, that’s his daughter?”

You want to sink into the pavement, but your mom slips her arm through yours, “Don’t mind them, sweetheart. They’re just excited.”

Blair, climbing out of her mom’s BMW behind you, practically cackles, “Oh my God,” She whispers gleefully, “You’re famous already. Do you understand the power you’re about to wield?”

You glare at her, but she’s too busy vibrating with excitement. Meanwhile, your father spots the second wave of frat brothers who’ve stopped tossing a football to stare openly at the scene unfolding, and stiffens.

His tone drops into one that is low and protective, “Stay away from boys who look like that.”

“I will,” Oh, you most certainly won’t.

Once you’re all inside the dorm lobby, even more chaos ensues.

Athletes, business majors, engineering kids with lanyards all mingling, moving, dragging various pieces of furniture; and then there’s the group of girls next to the elevators, eyes flicking between you and your father with thinly-veiled recognition.

One whispers, not nearly quiet enough, “You think Gojo’s seen her yet?”

The other girl beside her giggles, “Please. Someone’s probably already told him.”

You freeze, Blair’s head snaps toward you like a bloodhound catching a scent, “No way! You’re being talked about by him?”

“Who is him?”

Blair lowers her voice, “Okay, so—remember how I stalked USC on TikTok for, like, two months straight?”

“…Yeah?”

“Well,” She says, pushing her Prada sunglasses up her nose, “There’s this international student from Japan, Satoru Gojo. Apparently the frat guy on campus. Junior, filthy rich, shameless, hot as fuck, total slut, owns a white Porsche, finance bro who probably fails all his classses, and ends up on every ‘hottest men at USC’ list.”

You stare at her, “And you know all of that from TikTok?”

“Yep,” She says proudly, “I do my research.”

You open your mouth, then close it, “Okay, but what does any of that have to do with—”

Blair gestures vaguely at your face, “Sexy freshman girl with famous NFL seven time Super Bowl Champion quarterback dad? You’re deadass his exact type of…project.”

You almost choke, “Project?”

She nods sympathetically, “Project as in…he’d want to be the guy to ruin you for every other man on campus.”

Your father hears the word ruin and nearly breaks his own neck whipping around. Blair immediately straightens, innocent smile plastered onto her face.

“Don’t worry,” She says softly out of the corner of her mouth, “You probably won’t even meet him,” Then quieter, when she knows your father isn’t eavesdropping, adds, “You’re totally going to meet him.”

Your dorm room on the fourth floor is already propped open when you reach it. Small, bright with two twin beds and bare walls. It’s nothing like the Boston mansion you grew up in, yet somehow it’s more exciting than any bedroom you’ve ever had.

Blair lets out a delighted gasp, “We live here? Oh my God, we actually live here!”

She races inside to claim her side of the room, throwing herself onto the bed next to the window. Your father stands in the doorway, scanning like he’s doing a threat assessment, “It’s…smaller than I expected.”

“It’s a dorm, honey. Not the Ritz,” Your mother reminds him.

He hums, but does not relax in the slightest. And just like that, the four of you are unpacking boxes, hanging clothes, folding towels, arranging the mini-fridge that your father inspects with the seriousness of a homicide detective. He tests the door three times, plugs it into a power strip, unplugs it, inspects the outlet, then plugs it back in.

“Dad,” You sigh, “It’s a fridge, not a life-support machine.”

“You say that now,” He warns and you just chuckle.

It’s chaos, but the warm kind. The kind you’ll remember and cherish forever, yet also feels like the end of something and the beginning of quite literally everything else. At one point, Blair steps behind you to hang a string of fairy lights and whispers, “Okay, but seriously—imagine Gojo in this room.”

You elbow her so hard she drops a clip, your father spins around, “What was that?”

“Nothing!” You and Blair answer in unison.

Your mother laughs softly. Your father absolutely does not.

Eventually, after your bedding is on, your father stands there at the foot of your bed with his hands on his hips. A silence settles, one that says that this is real, this is happening, and this is goodbye. For now.

He checks his watch, again. He’s been doing it all morning. He has a flight to Oregon to catch—the new job he picked up right after you announced you were moving across the country. He needed the distraction, otherwise he’d be stuck in Boston all day, thinking about what you’re doing out here…and what you probably shouldn’t be doing.

He’s a commentator for College GameDay. Covering the biggest football games of the year, traveling to each host school every week, however, he should’ve left ten minutes ago. But he just can’t.

“Princess,” He says quietly, “You sure you want this?”

You nod, heart pounding with the thrill of independence, but your face softens into the kind of innocent expression that always makes him melt, and you’ve absolutely learned how to weaponize it.

“I do,” You say softly, then perfectly timed and aimed, you hit him with the, “But…do you really have to leave so soon?”

His entire chest caves in, “Oh, sweeheart…” His voice thickens immediately, “I don’t want to. I wish I could stay with you the whole day.”

Inside, you’re buzzing, thinking, please leave already. Oh my God, leave and let me live.

But outside? You look up at him with big, sad, puppy dog eyes, “I’ll miss you.”

He pulls you into a crushing hug, “I’ll miss you more,” He murmurs, “So much more. I hate the timing of this stupid College GameDay thing—I should be here helping you settle in, not rushing to the airport.”

You cling just enough to sell it, but not make him change his mind and stay, “It’s okay, daddy,” You say, ultra sweet, “You have to work.”

He sniffles, “I’ll FaceTime you from Oregon,” He promises, “Every night.”

You nod against his chest, all gentle affection while your internal monologue screams, yes, yes, yes. Commentate on football and go.

Your mom steps in next, hugging you warmly, “Call whenever you need anything. And maybe…don’t tell your father everything you’re doing.”

Your father shoots her a look of the utmost betrayal, she ignores it. Blair hugs them both dramatically, “You guys are like my second parents. I’ll miss you too.”

Then he steps away, still unwilling, still staring at you like you’re five years old heading into kindergarten instead of nearly nineteen. He wipes his palms on his jeans and breathes out shakily, “Okay. Okay, I can do this. You’ll be fine. You’ll be safe. Blair, keep her away from—”

“Boys?” She fills in the blank.

“Exactly.”

You almost laugh as he heads for the door, pauses, and looks back one last time, “You sure you’ll be okay without me?”

You nod sweetly, oh so, so sweetly, “I’ll manage.”

Resigned, he gives you one last look and disappears down the hallway with your mother. The moment they’re gone, Blair turns to you, deadpan, “Oh, you are one evil bitch.”

But you’re not pretending anymore. A slow, wicked grin spreads across your face, one you’ve been holding back for years, “Blair,” You breathe, “I am finally free.”

And somewhere down Greek Row, in a house with bass shaking the floorboards, a brother with white hair and blazing blue eyes checks his phone, seeing the group chat’s new messages.

sig chi or die

ryan: yo gojo you see the qb’s daughter?

ryan: she just moved in and she’s BADDDD

And he smiles, one full malicious intent. He hasn’t seen you yet, but he already plans to.

Blair gives you exactly ten seconds of peace after your parents leave before she turns to you, eyes manic with purpose, “Alright. Put on something slutty. We’re celebrating.”

“We literally just unpacked.”

“Exactly!” She says, already digging through her suitcase, “Sigma Chi is open for business and so are we.”

You laugh, half nerves, half adrenaline as she tosses the tiniest black skirt you’ve ever seen your way and a cropped baby tee. You catch it, then go still, because across the chest in red rhinestones it says, Let Them Eat Cunt.

“Blair.”

She beams like it’s the funniest joke on Earth, “I got it custom-made. For today. For your whore arc!”

“My dad would literally die if he saw this.”

“I know,” She says proudly, “Now put it on.”

You hesitate for only one second, then slide both the shirt and skirt on. The moment you do, Blair makes a strangled noise, “Oh my God, bitch. The guys are going to lose their fucking minds.”

You look at yourself in the mirror; skirt so short it could be considered a napkin, rhinestoned filth across your boobs, lips perfectly glossed and instead of nerves, a spark catches in your bloodstream. This is what you’ve been waiting for.

“Yes,” You murmur, adjusting the hem, “They will.”

Blair freezes, “Oh? Oh?”

“Blair,” You say, meeting her eyes in the mirror, “I didn’t move across the country to behave.”

She shrieks into her palms, “You are out for blood tonight.”

“Dick, actually,” You correct calmly, “I’m out for dick.”

Her soul leaves her body, “Oh my God—yes! Say it again!”

“I want to get drunk,” You explain, “I want a hot guy. And I want to erase the last eighteen years of being babysat.”

Blair is feigning tears, “This is everything I’ve ever prayed for. I feel like a mother watching her child blossom into a slutty flower.”

“Let’s bloom, then,” You grab your phone, keys, and head for the door without a semblance of doubt.

Blair scrambles after you, “Wait, slow down—!”

“I have places to be,” You coo, already striding down the hallway.

“We haven’t even pregamed!”

“Sig Chi has alcohol,” She laughs manically at that and follows you outside into the California heat.

The walk over is brutally short, every step feels like peeling off another layer of innocence, the music from Greek Row growing louder, deeper, and dirtier. Blair bumps your shoulder, grinning slyly, “You know…he’s probably there. This is his frat.”

You already know who she’s referring to…Gojo. Again with this guy?

You roll your eyes fondly, “Blair, you haven’t even seen him.”

“Oh, but on TikTok I have,” She says, “And trust me—foreign rich boys? They’re always the ones who fuck like they’ve got something to prove.”

That piques your interest. Maybe, just maybe you’d have to find that one out for yourself.

You round the corner and Sig Chi rises ahead of you. Three stories in all its glory, music blaring, people spilling across the lawn, lights pulsing behind the windows.

Blair squeezes your hand, wicked grin glued to her face, “Okay. Deep breath, babe. Act natural.”

“I am natural.”

“Not with you wearing that shirt.”

You scoff as you step inside and the frat swallows you whole. It’s loud and cramped, bodies swaying under LED lights, the smell of beer and flavored vape clouds hanging in the air. A table of jungle juice sits in the corner, multiple couples are making out aggressively against walls, and then, you see him.

You don’t even realize it’s him at first, you just register—absurdly tall, insanely built, ocean eyes, broad shoulders, cut-off muscle tee showing biceps carved by God himself, LA Dodgers snapback backwards on his white hair, laughing lazily with two girls hanging off him like decorations.

So, this is the infamous Satoru Gojo. No wonder why he runs USC. He’s hot as fuck and knows it. He’s leaning against the kitchen island like it’s his throne, until one of the brothers near him nudges his shoulder, “Yo, QB’s daughter just walked in.”

Gojo doesn’t react immediately, he never does. Instead, he finishes whatever joke he was saying, grinning, dimples deep, girls giggling into his ribs.

Then, slowly, he looks up. The moment his eyes find you? Everything stops. The flirting, the talking, the lazy smile—gone.

His mouth parts just a little, eyes raking down your body, the skirt, your legs, and then eventually stopping right on your shirt. For a split second, he genuinely looks stunned, but then?

Oh, he smirks. A slow, sinful curl of his lips like all of his dreams have finally come true.

Blair whispers behind you, “Holy shit, Gojo’s staring.”

You don’t answer, because he isn’t just staring. He’s studying, recognizing, and realizing. He knows who you are, everyone does. You’re the football dynasty princess, Boston royalty, a girl whose father could call the dean of USC directly and have a frat shut down in ten minutes flat.

And yet, here you are. In that shirt, in his house, looking like trouble he suddenly, desperately wants.

A girl he wants to ruin before anyone else has the chance to.

He straightens up from the counter and sheds the girls clinging to him without a second glance. They look confused and annoyed, but he doesn’t give a shit. He was never one to care about girls’ feelings anyway.

His eyes stay locked on you. Blair inhales sharply, “Oh my God—he clocked you. He fully clocked you, bitch.”

You swallow as he continues to stare, smirk, and look at your shirt like he wants to frame it above his bed. Then, he murmurs something to the guys beside him, still not breaking eye contact, and you feel it—the shift, the moment the king of Sig Chi decides he’s going to make you his next conquest.

Blair elbows you, “I swear to God if you don’t at least talk to him—”

“Blair—”

“No, shut the fuck up. I’m your wingwoman. I’m morally obligated to get you laid.”

You exhale, pulse electric, heat flickering under your skin as Gojo starts to move. Not toward you yet, but closer. Circling, watching, like a wolf that noticed the rabbit wasn’t scared of him.

You catch his eyes again, sharp blue under the brim of his backwards hat, and this time, he tilts his head. Acknowledgment, interest, amusement, and mouths something. Blair grips your arm, “What did he say?”

You gulp because you know exactly what he said. Two simple words, as clear as day, “Nice shirt.”

Her grip on your arm grows so taut your circulation stops, “Okay, holy shit. We need to get drinks right now or I’m going to pass out.”

You let her drag you toward the jungle juice table, but you feel his eyes following you. Every step you take, every sway of your skirt, his gaze is glued to it like he’s trying to memorize your movements.

Blair shoves a cup into your hand and whispers, “He’s coming over. I repeat, he is coming over!”

“Don’t look,” You whisper back.

“I’m not,” She lies, staring directly at him.

You take a sip of the juice; sweet, disgusting, perfect, and then, Gojo appears. He leans one shoulder against the wall beside the drinks table, arms crossing slowly, biceps flexing under his cut-off tee, snapback still backwards, silver-white hair falling into his eyes. He’s taller up close, annoyingly so, towering even with the casual slouch.

He looks at your face first, then your shirt again, and smirks, “Bold choice,” He drawls, voice low and painfully self-assured, “You always introduce yourself with your chest, or is tonight special?”

Blair chokes on her drink, you swallow, “It’s a shirt, not a dissertation.”

He grins, cocky and fucking lethal, “Could’ve fooled me,” He murmurs, eyes dipping to your bare stomach, your hips, your legs, “That thing’s doing a lot of talking.”

Your heart flips, but you refuse to fold so soon, “Then stop staring at it.”

He laughs, quiet, dangerously pleased, and drags his eyes upward until they lock directly with yours, “Oh, princess,” He says softly, like he already knows the nickname from his mouth will ruin you, “I’m not staring at the shirt.”

Your breath hitches as Gojo’s tongue slides across the inside of his cheek before he tilts his head, diverting conversation, “You’re new.”

“Freshman.”

“No shit,” His smile widens, “I meant new as in…no one here’s touched you yet.”

Blair coughs so violently she has to turn away, your cheeks heat, “Why would you assume that?”

He shrugs, bending slightly to dip his cup in the jungle juice bowl, filling it lazily, eyes never leaving you, “Because I’ve never seen guys on my lawn look so fucking scared.”

“Scared?”

His smirk grows, possessive and knowing, “They were staring at you like you’re a grenade with the pin half-pulled. Pretty skirt, filthy shirt, famous daddy?” He takes a slow sip of his drink, “Yeah. They’re terrified.”

You open your mouth, but he steps closer, close enough that you can smell his cologne—clean, expensive, a bit woodsy. His voice drops to something only you can hear, “But I’m not.”

Your pulse stutters and he notices, of course he does. He’s got girls’ body language down to a fucking tee. He leans in, lips grazing the shell of your ear, “You walk into my house wearing that,” He whispers, “And you really think I’m letting anyone else talk to you first?”

Your soul leaves your body. He pulls back just a bit, eyes locking onto yours again, darkened now and unblinking; his smirk softens as he nods to the crowd, “Guys are already looking,” He says, almost dismissive, “Thinking about walking over.”

He lifts your chin with one knuckle, light as a tease, heavy as a claim, “But they’re not going to.”

Your lips part, “Why not?”

Gojo smiles, wicked, "Because you’re talking to me.”

Something hot shivers down your spine. Blair, silently screams in triumph. Gojo watches your reaction like he wants to eat it almost as much as he wants to eat you.

Then he lowers his voice even further, “And if any other guy touches you tonight?” He taps the rim of his cup against your, a subtle clink, “They’re dead.”

Your heart slams against your ribs, he smirks again, “You don’t even get what that shirt’s doing to people,” He says, leaning back just slightly to give you a moment to breathe, but not space to escape, “But it’s okay. I’ll show you.”

Your mouth goes dry. He straightens up, flicks his eyes over your legs one more time, and adds softly, “Stay where I can see you.”

Then he walks off, not far, but far enough to make you watch and to tell every brother and guy in the house that you’re his.

Not yet. Not fully. But don’t even fucking try.

Blair is still gripping your arm like a talon when Gojo strolls off, leaving you breathless, dazed, and partially frenzied.

“Holy shit,” Blair hisses, “Okay. Okay. We need more alc immediately. You need to ride the confidence wave.”

“I’m…pretty sure confidence isn’t my problem right now.”

“No,” She agrees, dragging you toward the bar counter, “Your problem is wanting to climb that man like a tree, but that’s what vodka is for. Loosen up, be the slut you were born to be.”

You snort so hard you almost trip. The kitchen island is cluttered with liquor bottles, chasers, cups, and three guys already pouring shots.

Blair slaps her palms on the counter, announcing way too proudly, “This is my best friend! She is having her slut awakening tonight, if you care!”

“Blair—!”

They shout like they’ve just been told USC won the national championship. One of them, a blond with aviators on indoors, grins at you, “You taking shots or you just gonna stand there and look hot?”

Blair gasps, offended on your behalf. You roll your eyes and reach for the Tito’s bottle. Blond aviators whistles, “Oh, she’s going straight for the hard stuff.”

Blair squeals, “Oh, sweetheart, you have no idea.”

You raise the bottle, “Wait—” Blair warns.

Too late, you’re already taking a deep, burning, reckless swig. The kitchen collectively screams and you cough once, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand, “Fuck.”

Blair smacks the counter, beaming, “Yes! That’s my best friend!”

Someone shoves a red cup into your hand, another chanting, “Chug! Chug! Chug!”

So you do, because why the hell not? This moment has been eighteen years in the making and the drink is warm, disgusting, and makes your head pleasantly light.

Blair hops onto the counter, already dancing, “I am so proud of you!”

Guys around you start cheering harder, forming a half-circle as if you’re performing, and you laugh—dizzy and loud.

For the first time in your life, you’re not a quarterback’s daughter with curfews and rules and expectations. You’re just a girl in a filthy shirt getting worshipped by a kitchen full of frat brothers.

One leans in, too close, grinning, “So, uh—you rushing? Because we were thinking—”

Another cuts him off, slinging an arm around his shoulders, “—thinking we should make you Sig Chi’s sweetheart.”

Blair snaps her gaze to you, giggles erupting, “Oh my God, (Y/N), they’re already trying to crown you.”

The first guy leans closer, bold with liquid courage, “You’d run this place.”

“Yeah?” You tease, voice looser than normal, “What would I get out of it?”

He smirks, “Priority at every party. Your own room. Free booze. And—”

Before you can even smile, a low voice cuts through the kitchen like a knife, “Who the fuck told you idiots you could talk to her?”

Gojo stands in the doorway, cup in hand, expression blank and walks in with the crowd parting for him like the Red Sea, “You boys drunk or just dumb as fuck?”

“Gojo, we were—”

“Don’t speak,” He snaps, stepping closer, “You think you can ‘crown’ girls now? Offer them rooms? Priority access?" He laughs once, “You can’t even organize a mixer without me holding your hands.”

One brother stiffens, “Gojo, come on—”

Gojo turns his head slowly, “You interrupting me?” The guy goes pale, Gojo’s voice drops, “As active brothers you’re supposed to know the rules,” He nods over toward you, “And rule number one—you don’t approach girls I’m watching.”

A ripple flows through the kitchen, “G-Gojo—”

“Probation,” He replies simply, “All three of you,” Their faces drop, “No parties. No tailgates. No socials. You’re on cleanup duty for two weeks with the Pledges.”

The room detonates with whispers, “And if you ever look at her again? I’ll pull your letters myself,” They stare at him horrified, “Now, get the fuck out of my kitchen.”

The brothers scatter like roaches and Gojo turns to you, “Having fun?” He asks, voice warm again, teasing the way only danger could.

“M-Maybe.”

He steps closer; his knee brushes your thigh, the scent of his cologne wraps around your spine, and the buzz of the vodka evaporates from how stupid hot this is, “I thought I told you to stay where I could see you.”

Your heart jumps, heat rushing straight into your stomach, “I didn’t go anywhere.”

His eyes flick down your body, slow and deliberate, “Oh, you went everywhere,” He says, “Guys over here. Guys over there. Taking shots on my counter like you’re trying to get a reaction.”

Blair is wheezing into her cup somewhere behind you. You lift your chin, “What—did it bother you?”

His jaw ticks, just once, but you feel it like a pulse under your skin. He steps closer, body angling into yours, hand coming down beside your hip on the counter. He’s caging you in without even touching.

“It bothered me,” He says quietly, “How much fun you were having without me,” Your stomach churns, his voice drops further, “Didn’t like seeing other guys look at you like that.”

“You told them off,” You remind him.

“I shouldn’t have had to.”

Your mouth opens, he watches you react—your pulse, your breathing, and soaks it up like it feeds him, “You’re drunk,” He says, eyes glinting, “But you’re not stupid.”

“Meaning…?”

He leans in, lips brushing your jaw, “Meaning you know exactly what you’re doing.”

Your thighs press together on instinct and he catches it, something daring flickers across his expression; hunger, annoyance, restraint, then he nods toward the staircase, “Come with me.”

“Where?”

He smirks in the way he always does before hooking up with girls, “Upstairs.”

Your breath falters, “Why?”

He takes your wrist gently, shockingly gentle for someone with such big hands, and pulls you away from the counter. His thumb slides across your pulse point, “You want me to say it?”

You shouldn’t. You really, really shouldn’t. But you nod.

His eyes drag down to your shirt again, bold letters across your chest, daring the world. He lifts his gaze back to yours, “Because, princess…” He murmurs, voice an unholy whisper, “…I wanna do what your shirt says.”

Your knees nearly give and Gojo’s hand tightens on your wrist, “Come upstairs,” He says again, firmer this time, “Before I do something stupid right here.”

You don’t think or even breathe, you just let him lead you through the kitchen, past the music, up the stairs; his hand warm and unyielding around yours, every step feeling like the point of no return, and everyone watches.

Because the king of Sig Chi just bagged the coveted QB’s daughter.

Gojo hears all their whispered words, but they don’t affect him. He just smirks over his shoulder, hand still wrapped around your wrist, doing what he’s done almost a hundred times before, and keeps walking.

Up the stairs, down the hall, past guys who stop talking just to watch you go. You can feel the attention, the shock, the rumors already spreading like wildfire and the second the door to his room shuts, he’s on you.

His mouth crashes onto yours before your back even hits the door, one hand sliding into your hair, the other gripping your waist and dragging you closer until there’s no space between you. Your hands fist in the hem of his shirt; he groans into your mouth, the sound dark, low, sinful.

And then Gojo doesn’t walk you to the bed, no. He throws you onto it. One push to your hips and you fall back onto his mattress, bouncing once; he stands at the edge for a second, just looking at you, chest rising, jaw tight, like he’s trying not to pounce too fast.

Then he laughs under his breath. A quiet, disbelieving sound. He’s had all types of girls on this bed—sorority girls, party girls, girls who begged for his attention, but none of them ever looked like this.

His shirt rides up as he pulls his hat off to run a hand through his hair, eyes raking over every inch of you. The skirt pushed high, the lewd baby tee, your glossy lips parted from panting.

You’re not like the others…you’re worse. You’re a good girl, not his usual type, not ran through; temptation he was never supposed to touch, the quarterback’s daughter with the perfect reputation, and the perfect face, and the perfect body he’s dying to destroy.

His laughter fades, replaced by something darker and hungrier as he steps closer, eyes dragging over you like he’s choosing which part of you to ruin first.

“Yeah,” He murmurs, tone dropping, “I knew you’d look good on my bed.”

Then his hands, big and unforgiving, close around your thighs. He drags you down the mattress in one smooth, brutal pull, your skirt sliding up high on your hips, your breath punching out of your lungs.

Your ass hits the edge of the bed, legs falling open for him on instinct. Gojo inhales sharply like the sight of you hurts him, “Fuck,” He breathes, half a laugh, half a groan, “You’re gonna kill me.”

He doesn’t climb onto the bed, doesn’t join you, he just stands there, looming, tall and broad, with his thumbs pressed into the soft inner curve of your thighs; pushing them wider until the stretch borders on obscene.

You can feel your pulse now, between your legs, desperate and unable to ignore. He looks down at you like he’s about to pray to whatever god put you in front of him or ruin you for sport. You can’t distinguish the two.

His fingers hook into the sides of your panties, “Lift.”

You obey in an instant; he slides them down your legs slowly, savoring the reveal, until they hit the floor with a soft thud.

The second he sees you, bare and already wet for him, his jaw flexes, “Jesus Christ,” He mutters, running a hand through white strands to control himself, “You’re soaked.”

Heat floods your face at the sight, at the words, and he smirks because he can tell, “Shy now?” He teases, “You wore that shirt and came to my frat but this—” His thumb barely grazes the inside of your thigh, nearly touching where you want him, “—this is what makes you flush?”

You try to speak, but he doesn’t let you. Instead, he bends deliberately slow, bringing his mouth closer until his breath hits your skin. Your thighs tense, it only makes him grip them harder, “Relax,” He coos, eyes lifting to yours from between your legs, “I’m gonna take care of you.”

You don’t get a chance to register anything, he leans in and licks one long, slow stripe up your pussy—so slow you swear he’s doing it just to see how flustered you’ll get from the first touch alone.

Your head falls back against the sheets and he laughs, a soft, smug sound that vibrates right into your core, “Taste so good,” He mutters, already going back in for more, “Knew you would.”

And then he loses himself. His hands slide under your thighs, lifting your hips off the edge of the bed, dragging you closer until your knees are hooked over his shoulders and his mouth is pressed fully against your sopping cunt.

He eats you like a man starved, deprived, one that’s been waiting for this ever so patiently, and one whose life mission is to ruin you for every man who could ever come after him. His tongue flicks and circles and presses, “Satoru—”

He groans, the sound reverberating so deep your body shudders, “Say it again,” He says between licks, “Fuck, say my name again.”

You do, over and over, because you simply can’t not.

He tightens his grip on you, holding you still as he sucks your clit with a filthy reverence, and your back arches so hard your vision spots. Your legs try to close on instinct, but he doesn’t allow it. Gojo pushes your thighs wider with his shoulders, pinning you open without even trying.

“Yeah…” He murmurs into your skin, breath so hot it makes you twitch, “Keep ‘em open for me.”

He dips his head again, sucking your clit into his mouth with a force that knocks a cry out of you and you try to wiggle away from the intensity, but he stops you.

He growls, a low warning, fingertips digging into your thighs, “Oh no, you’re not running from this,” His voice drops, rough, entertained, and mean, “Daddy’s princess doesn’t get to run.”

Your body jolts like he slapped you and he feels it; pausing for a second, his lips still brush your folds as he lifts those piercing blues to watch your reaction. A smirk cuts across his face.

“Oh my fucking God,” He breathes, “You liked that shit.”

You try to lie, “I—no.”

But you did like it. Some depraved, twisted part of you liked it.

He laughs, delighted, “Yeah? You denying it?” He gives your cunt another slow lick, “Cause your pretty pussy’s kinda telling me everything I need to know.”

Your face burns with shame, unable to stop the shrill sound that falls out of you. He groans, guttural and hungry, “Holy shit—daddy’s good little girl getting off on being talked to like a slut?”

He moves closer to whisper directly on your skin, your lashes flutter from the warmth, “Guess daddy’s girl isn’t so good anymore.”

You can’t stop yourself from reacting to that, your hands yank his hair hard and he moans straight into your cunt at the pull, “Ohh fuck yeah,” He hisses, “Give me that again, princess.”

You tug him once more, pushing him deeper into your core; your voice comes out small and shaky, “Don’t…wanna be good…” Gojo tenses, your next words fracture on a whisper that will haunt him forever, “…just wanna be good for you.”

That line sends him into a frenzy, his mouth crashes back onto you sloppily—tongue working like he wants to drag that confession out of you again, sucking your clit with a messy, perfect pressure that shatters your thoughts.

He holds you open as he devours you; there’s no rhythm to it at all, just a man fully out of his fucking mind.

“Satoru—Toru—” Your voice cracks as your orgasm slams through you with a force you didn’t think possible.

And he groans like your pleasure pleases him, licking you through the entire climax, refusing to let go of you until you collapse onto the mattress, trembling.

When you do, he pulls back slowly; face glazed, breathing erratic, eyes wild, “Fuck,” He whispers, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, “Need to be inside you.”

He doesn’t waste a minute, lifting you by the hips again both effortlessly and possessively, he drags you up the bed until your head hits his pillows.

“Goddamn, look at you,” He sneers, hovering, “Already fucked dumb and I haven’t even put my cock in you yet.”

You whimper helplessly as he’s already lining himself up; thick, flushed, heavy in his fist, and pushes in, sinking inch by inch into a pussy so tight his eyes flutter shut.

“Ahh—fuck, princess,” His voice wavers, “You’re gripping me—fucking gripping my shit already—”

He tries to breathe properly, but fails miserably, “God, you’re so fuckin’ tight. Feels insane.”

He pulls out, pushes back in deeper this time, and your cry is instant. It’s music to his ears, “Yeah…that’s it. Take it. All of it.”

His pace builds, slow at first, then faster, angling to hit the spot that makes your nails drag down his back. When you clamp around him, his breath stutters, “Oh my God—don’t do that shit,” His hips jerk without his permission, “Fuck, I’m trying to pull out—I’m trying.”

But he’s not. He’s lying.

You feel it in the way he grips your thighs harder, his hips snapping deeper, the shudder that runs down his spine like he’s fighting himself.

“Toru—”

He cuts you off with a broken groan, “I’m trying to pull out, I swear. But your pussy—shit, won’t let me.”

Your walls clench around him again and he grunts, forehead pressing to your cheek, “Princess—stop squeezing, fuck.”

He tries to pull back this time. He really does, but he can’t. You’re too warm, too tight, and way too fucking wet from how good he ate you out.

“Oh—no, no, no,” He chokes out, “Fuck—I can’t, I can’t.”

His thrusts turn frantic and the filth spills right out of him, “Shit, I-I’m gonna cum—inside,” His hips slam into yours, desperate, “Can’t pull out. Fuck, I can’t—pussy won’t let me.”

Your nails claw into him now, so hard it’s certain to leave marks, and that’s what ends him, “Fuck,” He drags the word out, burying himself all the way to the hilt, and cums right inside you.

Spilling into you in long, uncontrollable pulses, hot and thick. He groans into your neck, “God—fuck, fuck, princess—cummin’ in you—so deep, shit.”

Each spurt drags another sound out of him, almost pained with a hint of reverence; his hips keep spasming and he stuffs himself deeper, like he can’t help it.

When you finally finish milking him dry, he lifts his head, looks down between your bodies, and sees it.

Where he’s still inside you, how full you are, a ring of white already gathering around the base of his cock and something shifts in him, “…Holy fuck.”

You blink, dazed, “What?”

He doesn’t hear you at all, eyes glued to the sight of you stretched around him, dick nestled in you like it belongs there. His tone drops into something low and stunned, “I—I really came in you.”

You nod weakly, out of breath, “Mhm.”

He swallows hard, but doesn’t pull out. Instead, he presses in even deeper, like he needs to feel it one more time. You gasp and he throws his head back, “Oh my God…” He mutters, almost to himself, “…it’s so warm.”

He runs his hand down your stomach, stopping right above where he’s still buried. Then he pushes gently, just enough to feel his load shift deeper, and you whimper.

“Shit…” His voice is nothing but pure, filthy awe, “I’ve never…fuck, I’ve never done that before. I don’t even fuck raw.”

You expect panic, but what hits him is the opposite. A wave of feral, possessive pleasure that lights up every neuron in his brain. He exhales shakily, eyes flicking up to yours with an emotion that looks close to worship.

“Princess…” He’s smiling, a crooked one, “That felt fucking incredible.”

Your stomach flips, because he’s right. It really fucking did.

He lifts your thigh higher on his hip like he wants to see everything and have this visual burned into his mind forever, “Fuck…” He whispers, chest rising faster, “You took all of it.”

His fingers gently spread you open around him, his cum spills out just a little, and he moans, “Ohh, fuck—look at that…” A soft laugh falls from his lips. You’ve never seen a man look so corrupted by his own desire.

But then, reality slaps him across the face, “Oh shit. Shit, shit, wait—no, no, no—” He drags a trembling hand through his mussed hair, expression fracturing between pleasure and dread, “—I cannot believe I just fucking did that.”

“Satoru—”

He cuts you off, still staring at the wetness leaking around him, “I mean…That was fuckin’ crazy—like way too good. Scary good. I get it now.”

Your pulse trips, “But also—” He finally pulls out and when more of his cum spills onto the sheets he moans again, “Fuck, okay—we need to go. Now. Like now-now.”

You raise a brow, “You’re freaking out?”

His eyes snap up to you, “Do I look like I’m freaking out?” He gestures at your pussy, “I just creampied the girl whose dad could literally shut down our chapter. Of fucking course I’m freaking out.”

But then he pauses, glancing down at you, your thighs, the mess between them, and something hot flickers back onto his face, “Not gonna lie though…it looked really fucking good.”

Heat floods your cheeks and he smirks, clapping his hands once decisively, “Okay. Get up. We need a Plan B before I start thinking with my dick again.”

You’re still trembling, the last of his load spilling out onto the sheets, and he stares at it—at you, for a second too long, chest rising like he’s physically restraining himself from going back inside.

But then he steps away, fast, a black hoodie already in his grip when he barks out, “Up. Now.”

You’re in a haze, legs barely working, but his urgency snaps you out of it. You sit up, shaking, pulling your skirt and panties back into place.

Gojo’s already dressed, hoodie thrown over his head, white tendrils sticking out, jaw clenched so hard you can see the muscle twitch, “Satoru…”

His sharp eyes cut to you, wide from leftover adrenaline, “Not now,” He says quietly, “We can’t talk right now.”

Because he’ll lose it and he’s hardening again, even with his cum leaking out of you, “Let’s go.”

You barely get your shoes on before he’s grabbing your hand and leading you out the room, down the stairs, and through the pulsing music, ignoring every brother who tries to high-five him and every girl who wants to touch him.

He’s too wound up and aware of the possibility sitting warm between your legs.

Outside, the cool west coast air hits, but it does nothing to help him. His grip stays taut on your hand, guiding you quickly down the sidewalk, away from Sig Chi and anyone who might see him like this.

He doesn’t speak to you, not once, but you can hear his uneven breathing and every few steps he mumbles something nearly inaudible.

“Fucking dumbass…”

“Should’ve pulled…”

“Evil ass pussy…”

However, thank God for college towns and their love for twenty-four hour pharmacies; a CVS sign glows bright up ahead and Gojo moves quicker, beelining it with you in tow.

Once inside, he pauses at the automatic doors, lifting his hood higher to shield his face, then walks straight to the family planning aisle. He doesn’t hesitate, there’s no need to browse or think, he just grabs the Plan B box so fast the air moves with it and heads for self-checkout.

No cashiers, no chance for eye contact, no witnesses. He’d rather be shot dead than caught lacking like this. If anyone found out that Satoru Gojo had a weak ass pull-out game, he’d lose all sense of power on campus.

He scans the box with tottering hands, grabs a bottle of water from the mini cooler next to the register, pays in cash, and throws the receipt away as soon as it prints. Only then, does he finally look at you, “Come on.”

The two of you make it maybe ten steps outside before he’s gnawing the Plan B box open with his teeth. He places the tiny pill in your hand and shoves the water at you, “Take it.”

He watches every centimeter of movement; the pill hitting your tongue, the rim of the bottle on your lips, and the bob of your throat when it’s all swallowed.

When it’s done, his shoulders fall, showing you how fucking scared he actually was, “Okay…” He murmurs, nodding, “Okay. Crisis averted.”

But then you shift your weight and his gaze drops to your legs, the memory of how you squeezed around him hits, “…Fuck.”

“What?”

His voice is quieter now, “You look way too good right now for someone I almost got pregnant.”

You laugh softly, but he doesn’t. There’s not even a flicker of amusement behind those bright eyes. He steps closer though, hand lifting to your face, thumb brushing the corner of your mouth, “Come here.”

Gojo tilts your chin up, scanning all of your features with that same predatory focus he had right before he got on his knees for you. Then, he speaks like he’s laying down scripture. A speech he’s given to hundreds of girls before, you’re sure.

“Alright, princess. We need to set some ground rules.”

“Rules?”

His thumb grazes your lip, “Number one,” He says, tone steady, “This is just sex. Nothing more.”

You gulp as he continues, “Number two. I will never be your boyfriend.”

That one stings for reasons unknown. You nod anyway, “Number three. You don’t ask who I’m seeing.”

So he still plans on seeing other girls. Okay.

“Number four…” He steps closer, so close you think he might kiss you, “…when I want you, I get you.”

The way he says it makes your stomach flip violently, “And number five,” He adds, “You don’t let any other guy touch you like I did tonight.”

He can fuck other girls, but you can’t fuck other guys? The fuck?

“Why not?”

His eyes burn into yours, “Because you told me you wanted to be good for me…and I’m holding you to it.”

Then just like that, he steps back, shoving his hands into his pockets, hood still up, fully composed frat boy again, “Got it? Okay, cool,” He rushes, “I’ll text you.”

“That’s it?”

“Yup,” He pops the p, starts walking backward, eyes dragging over your entire body one last time, “Night, princess.”

And turns away, leaving you standing under the glow of the CVS sign like some whore he used, legs shaking, heart pounding, and the worst part about it all? You still want him and still want more.

Freedom like this is too much fun.

But you tell yourself you won’t text him back. This was a one-time thing, you needed to get it out of your system as a repressed daddy’s girl. That you’re not the type who gets addicted to a frat boy she met at a party, no matter how hot he looks or how good he fucks.

Yeah…that lie lasts about less than twenty-four hours. Because the next night, at 12:47 A.M., your phone buzzes.

satoru: open your dorm window

You blink at the message, confused, until headlights sweep across the courtyard, bright, white-blue, and unmistakable—his Porsche.

Blair is already asleep beside you, your heart’s sprinting. You slide the window open to peek out and there he is, leaned against the hood, hoodie up, hands in his pockets, looking at your window like he knew you’d listen.

He lifts his chin, “Come down.”

He doesn’t say please or explain further and you go, of course you go.

The next time you see him, it’s in your dorm room. And it starts with kissing—always kissing.

He’s got you pinned against the inside of your locked door, hands under your ass, lifting you like you weigh nothing, grinding you against the thick outline in his sweats with a low, starved sound in his throat.

“Missed this,” He mutters, lips on your neck, “Missed you.”

You don’t have time to decipher the meaning before your phone rings. Your dad’s contact photo lights up the screen.

You freeze, but Gojo doesn’t. He looks at it, then at you, and smirks evilly, “Answer it.”

“Toru—” But he’s already dropping to his knees.

Your phone quivers in your hand as you swipe to accept the call, “Hi, princess,” Your dad’s voice comes through, “How was your first few nights in the dorms?”

Gojo pushes your skirt up, your pulse skyrockets as you force a steady tone, “G-Good. Umm. Really good.”

He drags your panties down with agonizing slowness, eyes locked onto yours the entire time, enjoying every ounce of panic flickering across your sweet face.

“That’s good to hear,” Your father continues, “You settling in okay? Eating enough? Staying safe?”

Gojo’s mouth touches you and you nearly drop the phone. His tongue slides through your folds, deliberate and slow, savoring you like he’s got all the time in the world.

You bite your lip so hard you taste blood, “Mhm,” You manage, “I’m—Dad, I’m—I’m very safe.”

Gojo laughs softly against your pussy, “Good girl,” he murmurs, too quietly for anyone but you to hear and sucks your clit into your mouth.

Your voice breaks into the speaker, “What was that?” Your dad asks suddenly.

“N-Nothing!” You choke out, breathless, “Just—Just moving…something.”

Gojo looks up at you, eyes blazing, pupils dilated, and pride dripping from his smirk as he ruins your composure with the lightest touch of his tongue. You end up cumming so hard you have to mute yourself.

When you hang up, Gojo wipes his mouth with his thumb and stands, kissing you deeply, giving you a taste. Then he whispers on your lips, “Next time you say you’re safe…you’re gonna tell him that I’m the one keeping you that way.”

You don’t know whether that’s true or the biggest lie you’ve ever heard.

And the next time after that happens three nights later. You’re wearing tiny shorts and a tank top when he texts.

satoru: out front

satoru: now

You slide into the passenger seat of his 911 and the smell of him, clean and sharp, wraps around you immediately.

He doesn’t even say hi. His hand is in your hair before you finish closing the door; he’s pulling you over the console, kissing you with the same urgency as the first night.

Then he leans back in his driver’s seat, spreads his legs, and nods down at his lap, “Need your mouth,” He breathes, strained like he hasn’t gotten off in months instead of last night with some other girl, “Now, princess.”

And you give him it, because you’re somehow already gone for him and want to see what you can do. He grips your hair while you throat him deeper and deeper, until he’s cursing under his breath in Japanese and dragging a shaky hand over his mouth.

God, you fucking love it when he does that.

“Fuck—baby, baby, wait—” He pulls you off his throbbing cock, kisses you hard, and pushes your panties to the side, “Get on top.”

You straddle him and he drags you onto his dick in one long, devastating push. The car rocks as his hands grab everywhere—your hips, ass, waist, guiding you, using you, groaning into your neck.

“Mmm, that’s it—ride me,” He whispers, “Show me how bad you want it.”

You ride him until the windows fog and the V6 engine ticks with residual heat. He cums on your stomach with his face buried into your chest; a low, wrecked moan muffled against your skin.

That same weekend, there’s a night where he pulls you into a dark hallway at Sig Chi during a party. He pushes you against the wall without warning and slides into you from behind, hand clamped over your mouth.

The bass of house music is pounding, the hallway is thankfully empty, your skirt is bunched around your waist, and he fucks you slow and deep—like he’s trying to memorize the exact way your cunt clenches around him.

“You’re so fuckin’ addictive,” He breathes into your ear, “Gonna end up wearing you out every night.”

You don’t doubt it.

A week later, you’re in your communal dorm bathroom when you see it—blood. Thank the fucking Lord. The Plan B had worked.

You text him two words.

period came

Four minutes later he responds.

satoru: i’m here

You barely have time to lie down before he’s on top of you, mouth everywhere, voice rough with relief, “Good girl…” He murmurs against your stomach, “Fucking good girl.”

Then he pushes two fingers into you and you arch your back, whining. He smiles into your neck like it’s the best thing he’s heard, “Celebration sex,” He decides, “C’mere.”

Period? He does not care whatsoever. He fucks you like you’re his reward, and you let him.

But one morning, you catch him staring. Not at your tits or ass or mouth—at you and your face, something beneath your skin he’s trying and failing to deny.

He looks away fast, jaw tight, hoodie pulled up like he’s hiding from a fact inside himself and you pretend not to see it.

Because you know if you acknowledge it and name the thing growing between you, what you and him have will stop being fun and become dangerous.

Though the truth lingers in the air the next time he texts you at 1:03 A.M.

satoru: want you

And your fingers answer before your brain does.

come get me

He comes quickly.

Ten minutes after your text, his Porsche glides to a stop outside your dorm like it was summoned, and sends a text.

satoru: here

You’re already moving. As soon as you open the door, he grabs your jaw and kisses you before you can even sit down, pulling you into his lap like he’s starved. It’s harsher tonight.

“Always taste so fuckin’ good,” He mutters against your mouth, “Just for me, right?”

You don’t answer because you know he doesn’t need you to, it’s obvious. However, the next time he’s throwing you onto his bed, when you land on the sheets—something shifts.

There’s a scent in the air. Faint and sweet, a floral perfume you don’t wear. You don’t do floral, only gourmand fragrances. It hits you before you even spot the evidence.

There’s a hair tie on the nightstand that’s not yours, tube of lip gloss half-tucked under his pillow like it was hidden there in a hurry, a sweatshirt on the floor that definitely isn’t his.

And the worst part? He doesn’t even notice you noticing, because he’s too busy touching you.

His hands are already on your thighs, spreading them, his mouth dragging down your neck, voice thick with desire that doesn’t sound recycled or casual, “You been thinking about me all day?” He murmurs, “Thinking about how good I fuck you?”

You force yourself to swallow it down. The perfume, the hair tie, the gloss, the clothing, the ache blooming beneath your ribs.

But because you don’t answer, he grabs your jaw gently, making your eyes look into his, “Don’t get quiet on me now,” He smirks, “You’re not allowed.”

He kisses you again, filthily, and the sadness knots inside you in a way you refuse to acknowledge. Not now, not when he’s touching you and you want him this badly.

So you pretend.

You let him wreck you again, let him fuck you into the mattress with the haste of a man who can’t get enough. Although something tiny fractures within you when he flips you onto your stomach and you see the lip gloss again.

You shut your eyes, a yelp breaking from you as you try to imagine that it was never there.

Then four days later, you’re the one who texts first. You hate yourself for it, but you can’t help it.

you busy?

Delivered with no response.

Ten minutes pass, then twenty, then an hour.

You throw your phone aside, furious for caring in the first place. You knew what you were getting into from the moment you let a guy like Satoru Gojo fuck you.

Blair, who’s sitting in her bed beside you, glances at your expression and raises a brow, “Him again?”

You lie, “No.”

Two more hours pass and nothing. Your stomach twists with something awful and sharp because you know exactly what he’s doing. More so, who, he’s doing.

At 1:36 A.M., your phone lights up.

satoru: nah

satoru: come thru

You look at the texts, pissed off by his lack of consideration, but even more pissed by your lack of control. Because you go to him like he says.

You hear the music from the street when you arrive at Sig Chi. The house is loud and buzzing, full of energy he clearly enjoyed without you present.

He meets you at his bedroom door and the second you see him, all the oxygen leaves your lungs.

His hair is tousled under his blue snapback; his shirt is twisted, collar stretched like it was yanked. There’s a pink flush across his face, his lips look too red, like he’s been kissing for hours.

His breathing is slightly off as if his heart rate still hasn’t calmed down yet, but the room? Oh that’s the killer blow.

The sheets are tangled and half on the floor, there’s mascara smudged on his pillows, and God the trashcan ruins you. You can see multiple golden foils from where you are—condom wrappers.

And Gojo just stands there, letting you take it all in like he doesn’t even care. He watches you, blue eyes cool, leaning against the doorframe like you’re the one who kept him waiting, “You coming in?”

Your throat burns. Say no. Say no. Say fucking no.

But you step inside and the door clicks shut behind you, sealing you with the smell of a perfume that isn’t yours.

“Come here,” Gojo says.

And because you’re weak and something about him has rewired your brain, you walk closer instead of slapping him.

He hooks a finger under your chin, tilts your face up, and kisses you like he wasn’t just inside another girl before this. It’s greedy and possessive in a way he has no right to be; you let him take and take, until something within you snaps.

You push him back a step, breathing labored, “Satoru.”

He lifts a brow, already annoyed at being interrupted, “What?”

“I want…” Fuck, you hate yourself for how small it sounds, “…I want to be the only one.”

There’s dead silence in the room, but then—then he has the fucking audacity to laugh, “Oh, princess,” He coos, amusement curving his mouth as he pulls your waist against his, “That’s not how this works.”

Your stomach is in knots, the smirk is still there, “You can’t be the only one,” He says unapologetically, “But—”

His hand slides down your ass, gripping hard enough to make you gasp, “You can be my number one.”

Number one. Like you’re just barely good enough to earn the top spot on a team’s roster.

“…Your number one,” You echo.

“Yeah,” His lips brush your throat, “The one I fuck the most. The one I come back to. The one I call when I actually want it.”

You feel sick, “And what about me? Do I get anyone?”

He pulls back to look at you with eyes as sharp as knives, “No.”

The word lands like a slap, “No?”

“No,” He confirms, “You don’t let any other guy touch you. That was the deal.”

“That wasn’t a deal,” You seethe, “That was something you said after you—after you almost got me pregnant.”

He shrugs, “So? Still stands.”

Heat floods your entire face—anger, humiliation, desire, all tangled, “You’re allowed to fuck other girls,” You vocalize, “But I’m not allowed to—”

He cuts you off with a kiss so deep you forget how to breathe and when he breaks it, his voice is dangerously soft, “I don’t share.”

You swallow, pissed at yourself for the way your body always reacts to him, “And what if I don’t want to be your number one?”

Gojo smiles, “Then you wouldn’t be in my room right now.”

Your pulse trips because he’s right and you hate it. You shove him weakly, but he catches your wrists, pinning them above your head as he walks you backward toward the bed, “Don’t start pretending you don’t want this. Not after the way you moan for me.”

“Satoru—”

“You asked for the only one treatment?” He asks against your mouth, “Fine. I’ll fuck you like you’re the only girl in the world.”

He pushes you onto the mattress, “And then…I’ll remind you that you’re not.”

His tone is cruel, you’ve never heard him sound like this, and despite that fact, your body still betrays you. He drags your shorts down, mouth already on your inner thigh, kissing higher and higher, biting hard enough to leave a mark.

“Satoru—stop,” You whisper, but you don’t mean it and he knows you don’t.

His tongue licks up your folds and your back arches like you’ve been shocked. The reaction makes him laugh, “See? This pussy knows who it belongs to.”

You want to hit him, kiss him, run, and stay all at once. Your voice is barely a sound when you say, “I hate you.”

The words make him grin, “No, you don’t.”

He flips you onto your stomach before you can respond, pulling your hips up, positioning himself behind you—no condom, like always, “I’m your number one, too,” He murmurs, tip prodding your entrance, “You just don’t want to admit it.”

“Satoru—” He pushes into you in one long, ruthless stroke.

Your gasp shatters in the quiet room, “Fuck,” He groans, hands gripping your hips so tight you think they’ll bruise, “Every time—every time, you’re tighter.”

Then he fucks you like he’s proving a point, “Say it again,” He growls, “Say you want to be the only one.”

“I—I want—” You choke out, tears blurring your vision, “I want to be the only one—please—”

He moans, he actually fucking moans at that, as if your pain gives him pleasure, like he’s some sick sadist.

“Oh, princess,” He says, kissing your shoulder, “You break so pretty.”

And then he leans down just enough to whisper the nail in your coffin, “But you never will be.”

You cum around him anyway. Because you foolishly still want him, and maybe you’re some sick masochist too.

And when he finishes, pulling out of you with a quiet hiss, you think maybe he’ll soften—maybe he’ll say something real. But all he does is toss you a towel to clean yourself and grab his hat to shove it back on his head, muttering, “Close the door behind you.”

And like the dumbest bitch alive, you do.

You walk home at 3:12 A.M. with aching thighs and your heart bloodied. When you slip into your dorm, Blair is still awake with her laptop open. She looks up once, clocking everything in a single glance, “You good?”

“I’m fine,” You lie, kicking your shoes off.

She just stares and you stare back, knowing that she doesn’t believe you in the slightest, but doesn’t press.

You shower and scrub your body as if it can erase Gojo from your skin but you still feel him everywhere. Then you crawl into bed, praying you wake up a new person, but of course. You don’t.

The next morning, right as you wake, you open Instagram on autopilot, and Blair, sitting cross-legged in her bed eating dry cereal from the box looks over at you as your face goes blank.

Because on your feed is his story.

@.gojosatoru

Posted 32 minutes ago.

He’s at In-N-Out, with a blonde girl in his passenger seat, and her hand on his thigh. No caption.

Blair freezes mid-chew, “…Is that—?”

“Uh-huh.”

She leans closer, “Oh, fuck no.”

Your fingers go numb as you remember last night. He told you you were his number one, held you down, and fucked you like you belonged to him.

Now he’s posting publicly with other bitches? So as number one you can get the sex but you’re not worthy of anything else? Sure.

Blair sets her cereal aside, “Babe…are you okay?”

You fucking hate that she has to ask that. You swallow hard, “Yeah. Totally.”

She scoots closer, voice lower, “(Y/N)…he’s an asshole.”

You know, you’ve always known. But last night, in his bed, with his hands on you and his cock so deep—you forgot.

Blair studies you, then says gently, “You’re not this girl.”

Something inside you snaps back into place.

She’s right. You’re not. You’re not the girl who gets hidden, you’re not the girl he gets to fuck at 2 A.M. and replace by breakfast, and you sure as hell are not someone’s afterthought.

You inhale slowly, exhale sharply, and stand. Blair blinks, “What are you doing?”

You look her dead in the eye, “Remembering who the fuck I am.”

“And who is that?”

You don’t answer her with words. Instead, you walk over to your dresser and pull out the skimpiest bikini you own. Blair lets out a low whistle, “Damn. You’re gonna make someone crash their car.”

Putting it on, tightening the strings so it sits just right, you look at your reflection in the mirror.

The girl staring back at you isn’t the one crying over a frat boy. She’s someone else entirely; someone Satoru Gojo should have never underestimated.

You grab your phone, open your camera, and take the mirror selfie. Blair leans over your shoulder, “Caption?”

“Don’t need one,” You say with a smile, all you do is post the location of where you’ll be—Santa Monica Beach.

Oh, but you do decide to throw in a blue heart emoji, just to twist the knife. Then you hit post.

The likes come in immediately and your DMs explode. Blair’s jaw literally drops, “Oh my God, babe—TKE is already swiping up. Like, three different guys, holy shit.”

Yeah, that’s right. This is who you are.

Blair laughs with pure joy, “And guess who else viewed it?”

You don’t even ask, already knowing. Because a second later, your phone buzzes excessively.

@.gojosatoru: wtf is this pic

@.gojosatoru: delete ts

@.gojosatoru: answer your fucking phone

@.gojosatoru: (y/n)

Blair snorts, “Oh, he is so pressed.”

You slide your phone into your tote bag choosing to ignore it. He can scream into the void for all you care.

“Coming?” You ask Blair casually.

She grins, grabbing her sunglasses and keys, “Fuck, yeah I am. I ain’t missing this shit.”

You sling your towel over your shoulder and for the first time since you came to USC, you feel like yourself again, “Let’s go.”

“Where?”

You smile, “To remind him why he should’ve never posted that blonde bitch in the first place.”

You and Blair barely make it into the hallway before your phone vibrates again, but it’s not Gojo this time. It’s the TKE boys again.

tyler: u heading to santa monica?

zach: come slide we’re pregaming in the lot

kyle: we got room in the jeep if you need a ride

Blair leans over your shoulder, “Oh, we’re definitely taking the ride.”

You shouldn’t, but then you think of Gojo and how you’re done letting him dictate your life as if he’s the only one with power.

So you type back.

still at the lot?

The response is instant.

zach: still here. u look insane btw

kyle: pls come im begging

Blair cackles, “They’re literally foaming at the mouth, Jesus.”

You head downstairs and step outside into the morning California sun, the second the TKE boys see you, the whole group goes silent.

“Damn,” Tyler says, walking forward with a grin way too confident for someone who failed Econ twice, “You look…wow.”

You lift your sunglasses with one finger, giving him a lazy once-over, “Thanks. You driving?”

“Yeah,” Zach blurts before Tyler can speak, “You two riding over with us?”

You exchange a glance with Blair, “Sure.”

The boys practically beam; Tyler opens the passenger door for you and Blair slides into the middle seat, Zach sits beside her trying to play it cool.

The TKE boys are laughing, hyping each other up as music blasts through the speakers, and they glance at you like they can’t believe you’re actually coming with them.

You feel Blair tap your shoulder from behind, “You good?”

“Never better.”

But your phone keeps vibrating in your bag and you know exactly who it is.

satoru (16 missed calls)

satoru (24 messages)

You peep the last three.

satoru: where tf are u

satoru: stop ignoring me omg

satoru: seriously pick up

Blair sees the name and giggles, “He’s unraveling.”

Tyler leans over the center console, spotting the contact too, “Oh shit—Gojo’s blowing you up?”

“Yeah. Doesn’t matter.”

Zach scoffs, “Isn’t he like…obsessed with you?”

You smile sweetly, “Nah. He’s not.”

They seemed pleased with that answer and in less than twenty minutes, the Jeep rolls into the Santa Monica lot. Warm wind tangles through your hair as the ocean comes into view.

Everyone hops out quick, grabbing something to bring, but you? You step out slowly, letting the sun hit your bare shoulders and letting the boys stare unabashedly because they can’t help themselves. And God, does it feel good.

You eventually spread your towel on the sand, lay back, and get right to tanning. Everything is warm and golden, the boys crack open beers, Blair sets up the speaker playing Bad Bunny on full volume.

Tyler hands you a High Noon and you take a sip, laughing at something stupid Kyle says. And for one moment, you feel free again. But your goddamn phone won’t stop buzzing in your bag.

Blair nudges you, “You gonna check that?”

“Nope.”

She grins, “Good.”

“(Y/N)!” Tyler calls, tossing a football, “You play?”

You catch it one-handed despite being off guard, “Do you forget who my dad is?”

They laugh and so do you, but your phone still keeps popping off like a warning for what’s about to come next. Because not even ten minutes later, you hear it.

That sound, the unmistakable growl of a high-performance engine being pushed too hard. A Porsche 911 tears into the parking lot—his Porsche. Your heart plummets as Blair whispers, “No fucking way.”

The boys turn, heads all over swivel, and then he appears. Satoru Gojo steps out of the Porsche like he didn’t run five red lights on the drive here. His white tee is wrinkled to shit, blue shorts slung low on his hips, sunglasses pushed into his mussed white strands, jaw clenched so hard you see the muscle jump.

In his hand is his phone, the one he used to blow up yours, and he doesn’t walk over to you, no, he stalks. Across the sand, straight toward you with a purposeful, terrifying calm, the kind that makes groups of guys instinctively step back.

But you’re not scared in the slightest. You lift your sunglasses and meet his eyes; cold blue, laser-focused. He stops in front of your towel, shadow sprawled over your body, chest heaving like he’s on the verge of losing it.

“(Y/N),” He hardly ever uses your name, “Get up.”

You make him wait three whole seconds before you do; you stand, unbothered, brushing sand off your thighs, refusing to break eye contact. He takes a step closer, nostrils flaring, “What the fuck do you think you’re doing?”

“Pretty sure I’m sitting on a beach.”

The TKE boys shift behind you, Gojo’s eyes flick to them—Tyler holding a drink, Kyle shirtless and smiling, Zach close enough that his knee had brushed yours.

He laughs once, “With these loser cucks?”

Kyle bristles instantly, “Bro—watch your fucking mouth.”

But Gojo doesn’t spare him a glance, he keeps his eyes on you, “Deadass?” He murmurs, “This the shit you’re on now?”

You shrug, “Looks that way.”

“You ignored sixteen calls. Sixteen.”

“Yeah,” You reply, lifting your drink again, “Cause I didn’t wanna answer.”

Kyle folds his arms, “Yo, she’s busy. Maybe back up.”

Gojo turns his head just enough to look at him, “I wasn’t fucking talking to you,” Then his eyes snap back to yours, “So you’re really out here with TKE?”

“Why not?” You ask.

He scoffs, sucking his teeth, “They know that you were on my dick last night?”

Your cheeks grow hot with rage, but he wants that reaction, so you decide to give him nothing, “Thanks for the reminder. I almost forgot.”

“You forgot?” He repeats, voice tight, “After the way you were screaming my name?”

Kyle steps forward, fists clenching, “Alright, back the fuck off—”

You lift a hand, stopping him without looking away from Gojo, “No. Let him talk.”

“You’re really gonna stand here and pretend last night didn’t happen?”

“You mean the part where you said I’ll never be the only one?” You ask, titling your head, “Or the part where you posted the blonde on your story less than twelve hours later?”

His jaw ticks, “That’s what this is about?” He snaps, “A fucking story?”

“No. It’s about you thinking I’m stupid.”

“You’re jealous.”

You genuinely laugh, “No, Satoru. You’re delusional.”

His hands twitch at his sides, like he’s debating grabbing you or strangling someone. He glances at the boys again and something cold creeps into his countenance, “Answer me something.”

You raise a brow as he gestures at the guys behind you, “You fucking one of them now?”

Tyler coughs, Kyle looks away, Zach smirks like he hopes so, “Why? You care?”

Gojo steps closer, the warmth of his chest brushing the top of yours, “That’s cute. Acting like I don't."

“Go home, Satoru.”

“No.”

“It wasn’t a question.”

His gaze drags over your bikini again, “Get in the car.”

It’s sad—that some part of you almost gives in like always. Because you know that if you left now, the argument would end. It’d end with him giving you the craziest dick of your life and you back at square one; you refuse to do that again.

So, you stand taller, “No.”

A muscle in his cheek pops, “…No?”

“You heard me.”

And because Gojo can’t win with logic and can’t bear the thought of being denied for once in his life, he reaches for cruelty, “Fine…You’re cut.”

Cut. From his roster. But your voice is steady when you say, “Good.”

“Good?”

“Yeah,” You say, “Good. You did me a favor.”

Gojo’s expression flattens, “Cool. I’ll replace you in an hour.”

You take one step forward and smile, “I’ll replace you in fifteen minutes. Won’t be hard.”

The collective gasp from the boys is audible. Gojo doesn't even blink, but the vein in his neck jumps and for the first time since you’ve known him, he looks hurt. Real hurt.

He steps back, then once more, “Enjoy your day,” Adding coldly, “Princess.”

He turns and walks away, sand kicking up beneath his feet, and you don’t look after him. Not even when the Porsche engine snarls and he peels out of the lot so fast seagulls scatter.

Blair exhales, “Holy shit…I’m glad I came.”

Tyler whistles low, “Yo…you’re gonna break that dude.”

“Good,” You say, laying back down on your towel, “It’s his turn.”

But the beach doesn’t go back to normal after that. You tan, you swim once, you drink enough to feel warm, the boys continue to orbit you like planets caught in your gravitational pull, yet it's not the same.

Blair leans in at one point, whispering, “You know you don’t have to actually hook up with any of them, right?”

Right. That was the whole reason why you did this in the first place. To get revenge.

You hum, “I know.”

Though when the sun begins to set, casting amber over the waves, Kyle asks if you want to come back to the TKE house and you hear yourself say, “Sure.”

Not because you’re dying to fuck him, but because of everything Satoru Gojo did. The house is louder and dirtier than Sig Chi—bass rattles the wall, bodies are everywhere. Kyle leads you upstairs, respectful, a little nervous, but beyond eager.

Your stomach twists with anticipation, you’re finally getting your lick back. Kyle closes the bedroom door behind you, “Want a drink?”

“No.”

You step closer and his breath catches, “You sure?”

“Positive.”

He leans in and kisses you…It’s fine, you guess. Soft, warm, nothing like the way Gojo does. You’re unsure if that’s a good or bad thing. Kyle’s hands are on your waist and his mouth moves down your neck. He’s sweet, careful, and you should like this more—you don’t.

But you need it. You need something to hold onto that isn’t him. Kyle whispers, “You’re so fucking pretty,” And you let him guide you toward the bed.

Your phone buzzes in your bag, you ignore it. Then it buzzes again, long and insistent. Kyle notices, “You can get that if you want—”

“No,” You breathe, “Keep going.”

He nods and kisses you again, and you try, God you try to lose yourself in it. But the second his hand slips under your top, your phone lights up in the dark room. Bright enough in your bag that you both see it.

satoru: answer

satoru: stop playing

satoru: (y/n)

You go still, Kyle pulls back, “Hey…you okay?”

“Yeah,” You lie, “Just—just keep going.”

He leans in, but your eyes stay fixed on the glowing screen. Another message comes through and it’s not angry this time. It’s worse.

satoru: please

Your breath stutters as Kyle kisses your shoulder, your phone vibrates again.

satoru: princess please

Your entire body locks, because this isn’t how he talks. This isn’t a man who begs and it definitely doesn’t sound like one who moved on in an hour. Kyle’s hands slide down your waist, his lips brush your collarbone, and then you reazlie—you can’t do this.

You sit up abruptly, “Wait.”

Kyle freezes, “Oh. Uh, did I do something wrong?”

“No,” You say quickly, “No, you’re great. I just—I can’t.”

He bows his head, disappointed, “It’s cool. Really.”

You grab your phone and open the messages, staring at the last one until your chest aches.

satoru: please just pick up

Blair texts you at the same time.

blair: WHAT DID YOU DO? HE LOOKS LIKE HE’S HAVING A BREAKDOWN

You inhale sharply as the truth slams through you. You’re not over him, not even remotely. Your fingers tremble as you text Blair back.

where is he

blair: SIG CHI bro he showed up like a psycho

blair: he asked EVERYONE if they’ve seen you

Your pulse spikes so hard it hurts. Kyle is still on the end of the bed, giving you space and pretending he doesn’t see your face falling apart, “You sure you’re okay?”

You nod even though you aren’t, and stand too quickly, grabbing your bag, “I—I have to go.”

“Because of him?”

“…Yeah.”

He nods slowly, expecting it, like every guy on campus knows that whatever the hell is happening between you and Satoru Gojo is bigger than anything they could touch, “Douchebag doesn’t even deserve you.”

Yeah, he’s probably right about that but you bolt out of the room anyway, run down the stairs, and through the crowd spilling beer everywhere. Someone calls your name, but you don’t care. Your phone is in your hand, Gojo’s name filling the screen over and over like he’s clawing to get to you.

Pushing out into the street, cool evening air slams into your chest and you call him without thinking. It rings only once, “(Y/N).”

“Satoru—”

“You’re at TKE?” He blurts out. There’s noise behind him—music, voices, and footsteps as if he’s pacing through Sig Chi.

“Yes…”

“Did you go back with Kyle?” Your mouth opens, but you’re unable to speak, so he does it for you, “You did.”

“Satoru—”

“Just tell me,” He cuts you off, voice shaking with fury he’s trying to swallow, “Did he touch you?”

Your pulse slams against your ribs, Gojo keeps going, “He kissed you, right? You let him? You went into his room? You let him fucking—” He stops suddenly, breath hitching like finishing the rest of his sentence would choke him.

“Nothing happened.”

“…You’re lying.”

You squeeze your eyes shut, frustrated tears burning, “I left, Satoru. I left him. I’m literally calling you—”

“Why the fuck were you even there?”

“Because of you!”

A voice in the background of Gojo’s line says, “Bro, chill—” And you hear him snarl, “Shut the fuck up,” Followed by a door slamming so loudly you flinch. Now he’s alone and the truth crawls out of him, “I thought you were gone…I thought you actually went and—and fucked him.”

“I didn’t.”

“You almost did.”

Almost…and you would’ve too if he hadn’t kept texting, “You don’t understand,” He says hoarsely, “I’ve been looking for you for hours. I tore through the whole fucking house. I asked everyone. I—”

“Satoru…”

“Where are you now?”

“Heading toward Sig Chi.”

You hear movement and the sound of his breath catching, his shoes hitting the floor, something crashing behind him as he pushes through the thumping house.

“Stay on the phone,” He orders, “You’re not walking alone.”

“I’m fine.”

“Stay on the fucking phone.”

You listen then. Breath syncing with his footsteps as he barrels through the hallway and out the back door, onto the street. He’s running now, you can tell, “Satoru—slow down—”

“No,” He pants, keys jangling, car door slamming, Porsche engine purring to life, “You think I’m letting you walk alone after someone else had their hands on you?”

Your grip tightens on the phone, “So what? You’re coming to get me?”

“I’m already halfway there,” He breathes, rounding a corner so sharp the tires skid, “Don’t hang up.”

“Wasn’t planning on it.”

A long exhale leaves him, desperation blended with rage, “Tell me again. Tell me nothing happened.”

“…Nothing happened.”

He lets out a broken laugh of disbelief, “Good…Because I’m two minutes away, and if he had fucked you—”

You feel it in your bones, the relief so violent it comes out as anger, “Satoru,” You whisper softly, “Just…get here.”

“I’m coming, princess,” And then he hangs up.

The Porsche’s roar echoes down the street long before his headlights appear and once they do, he swings by the curb so fast you stumble back a step. He rolls the window down only to say, “Get in the car.”

You open the door, slide into the passenger seat and the second you’re in, he peels off so hard your shoulder hits the door, “Fuck—relax.”

“Can’t,” His knuckles are white on the wheel, every muscle in his forearm flexes with barely contained aggravation, and he doesn’t look at you once during the drive. He whips into the Sig Chi driveway, parks crooked as shit, and kills the engine.

Finally, he turns his head, eyes blazing, “Inside.”

You don’t argue; you follow him through the front door with your pulse in your throat, up the creaking stairs, through the hall, until he shoves his bedroom door open and pulls you inside, slamming it with so much force the walls shake.

“What the fuck was all of that?”

“Oh, don’t do that,” Your tone is full of bitterness, “Don’t think I forgot about the blonde you posted today. Don’t act like you didn’t show me exactly where I stand.”

“That was different.”

“Was it?” You step closer, chest heaving, “Was it different when I walked into your room last night and saw a trashcan full of condoms? When your sheets were a fucking mess? When your lips were swollen and you looked like you’d just—” You don’t finish that thought. He flinches at your words, but you don’t stop there, “When you fucked me and laughed in my face, telling me I’d never be the only one?”

His throat works, “Say something,” You snap, “Go on. Justify it. Tell me I’m crazy.”

“I didn’t fuck her,” He runs a trembling hand through his hair, “I didn’t fuck anyone,” He says louder, “Not the blonde. Not last night. Not today. Nobody.”

You stare at him, “Satoru. Your room—your trash.”

“I couldn’t even get it up…happy?” He spits out the truth like it hurts, “I kept—” He gestures violently, “—trying. With someone else. But it didn’t matter. My dick wouldn’t stay fucking hard.”

Your mouth falls agape, he keeps going, voice cracking down the middle, “I kept putting the condom on and I’d go soft. Again and again and again,” He laughs once, “That’s why there were wrappers. Not because I fucked anyone, but ‘cause I literally couldn’t.”

He steps closer, “You wanna know why?” You don’t say anything, but he gives you the answer anyway, “You.”

“I can’t stop thinking about you,” He says, voice dropping dangerously soft, “Can’t stop seeing your face, can’t stop remembering how you sound when you cum, can’t stop thinking about how it feels to be inside you.”

Your thighs press together involuntarily, “And do you know how fucking pathetic that makes me feel?” His voice breaks again, “That I can’t fuck anyone else because the only pussy I get hard for is yours?”

Now you’re trembling, “But sure, go ahead. Tell me again you were just being petty. Tell me again that you thought going home with that TKE fuck was gonna hurt me.”

“I didn’t—”

“Yes, you did,” He rasps, “You wanted to make me jealous,” He takes a step closer, “You wanted me to come find you,” Then another, “You wanted me to lose my fucking mind over you.”

Your back hits the wall, he cages you in with his arms, “And congratulations…It fucking worked.”

“Satoru…”

His forehead presses to yours, breaths mingling, anger turning molten, “You’re not replacing me, and I’m sure as hell not letting anyone else touch you…because you’re mine.”

Something hot flickers in your chest, “And you’re mine.”

He freezes, blue eyes turning a shade darker, “Say that again.”

You lift your chin, “You’re mine.”

As soon as the words leave your tongue he surges forward, mouth crashing onto yours with a force that feels like the room exploded. His hands are already on your hips, lifting you, dragging you toward the bed.

Your back hits the mattress, bouncing once before he’s on you, over you, everywhere; kissing you like it’s oxygen. His teeth catch your bottom lip, his tongue forcing its way in, and his fingers tear your shorts down so fast the friction burns.

“Spread,” He growls against your mouth. Without hesitation, you spread your legs wide open. He drags you down the bed by your thighs like you’re something he gets to rearrange however he wants, and when he drops to his knees—it’s over.

His mouth is on your cunt instantly, tongue flattening against your clit, sucking and licking like he’s trying to claim you with his mouth first.

You arch intensely, a choked cry crooning from your throat, “Fuck—Satoru,” Your thighs clamp around his head, but he forces them wider. You try to lift your hips and he pins them down.

“Stay still,” He mutters, “Or I’ll take my time,” It’s a threat, a wonderful filthy one. He eats you until your vision blurs and you’re pulling at his white tendrils; when you cum, you break with your head thrown back, mouth fully open, moaning his name in a way that would destroy him if he weren’t already in shambles.

“You’re so fucking perfect like this,” He pants, climbing over you, dragging his mouth up your stomach, ribs, throat, “Ruined and wet and waiting for me—fuck.”

He lines his cock up without looking, he doesn’t have to at this point. He knows your body by heart, and when he pushes in it’s one languid stroke that make your nails claw into his back and his breath punch out of him, “Shit—baby, so tight—”

He locks one hand behind your knee, shoving it higher, deeper, opening you more than you’ve ever been before, “You feel that?” He grits, hips snapping hard enough the headboard slams the wall, “Feel how easy this pussy takes me after I eat you out?”

The moan that escapes you sounds like a sob, “Feel how deep I am?” He thrusts again, brutal and perfect, “Feel me right fucking there?” One of his big hands presses right on your lower belly, a helpless whimper falls from your lips; his eyes go dark, “That’s where I wanna cum.”

Your stomach drops, “Satoru—”

“I want it so bad I can’t fucking think,” Each thrust is more forceful, sloppier, desperate, “You have no idea,” He pants, “No fucking idea what it did to me the first time—seeing my cum dripping out of you. Fuck, I been thinking about it every night since.”

Your cunt clenches around him, his eyes roll back, “Yeah…” He groans, “You liked that, didn’t you?”

His hand slides to your jaw, holding your face still so you can’t look away, “You want me to fill you again? Want me to make you mine for real?”

God, you shouldn’t want it. Not one bit.

Not with him and not when the risks outweigh the rewards. But at the same time, you fucking do.

Your brain fogs, melts, almost liquifies, “I want—” You gasp, nails sinking into his back, “I want you to fill me—”

He growls, “Fuck, princess—don’t say it unless you mean it—”

You’re too far gone to stop yourself, “Make me yours,” You whisper, trembling, “I want all of it, please.”

Hearing you beg for a load would make even the strongest man fold, and for a guy like Gojo, it takes very little to get him to. He snaps, thrusts turn punishing, ragged, the rhythm of a person who has lost every ounce of sanity, “You don’t—understand what you’re asking for.”

You cling to him, eyes half-lidded, “Satoru—don’t pull out.”

He shudders, grip on you tightening painfully, “Baby—fuck. You’re gonna make me—shit, you’re gonna make me cum—”

You wrap your legs around him and pin him in place, he fails to hide the moan that leaves him, “Oh my God,” He grunts, “You want it—you actually want it.”

He convulses then, slamming into you one last time, shoving himself all the way until his tip kisses your cervix, and cums inside you with a sound that is pure, ruined surrender.

His cock is throbbing, pulse after pulse, pumping you full of hot, thick white ribbons. He stays there, trembling through it, shaking, and when he finally pulls out, he looks down.

The sight that greets him is his favorite in the world. His cum leaking out of your pussy in warm, heavy streams, “Fuck…That’s perfect.”

He drags two fingers through the load, smearing it, then pushing it back in you with the darkest smirk on his face, “I could get addicted to this,” He murmurs, before adding, “Maybe I already am.”

Your chest is heaving, the room spinning around you. He’s still hovering over your hips, transfixed on the mess he made like he can’t look away, “Should make you keep it.”

Your entire body tenses because he doesn't look at your face when he says it—he’s still staring at your legs, like the sight has rewired something fundamental in him.

He pushes his fingers deeper, you whine, “But I can’t,” He mutters more to himself than you, “I shouldn’t.”

He pulls his fingers out and wipes them on your thigh, eyes hooded and dark with something you’ve never seen in him before. Gojo sits back on his heels, rakes a hand through his hair, when it finally hits him—reality.

He actually did it. He came inside you. On purpose this time. His eyes flick up to yours, unsure, “…We need to get you a Plan B.”

You knew that was coming, but the tone is different. He sounds shaken, disappointed even, “Okay.”

But he doesn’t move. He just keeps staring at you—the bite marks blooming on your throat, the mess between your thighs he put there, and something in him cracks all over again, “That was the hottest thing I’ve ever done in my life.”

Your pulse stutters as he exhales hard, standing. The room tilts as he grabs his USC hoodie off the floor, tugging it over his head with shaky hands. He hesitates a second too long before speaking, “I-I didn’t mean to…do it like that.”

“Do what?”

His eyes flick away shamefully, “Nut in you like I was trying to get you pregnant,” He mutters, rubbing the back of his neck, “Because that’s what it felt like,” Your heart skips, he glances back at you, almost pained, “But that’s not—we’re not doing that.”

Silence stretches, then he shakes his head as if snapping himself out of whatever daze he’s in, “Get dressed. Please.”

You pull your shorts back on and he hands you one of his shirts without looking directly at you—like one wrong glance, on more glimpse of you fucked-out and dripping, and he’ll pin you back on the bed to do it again.

When you’re covered enough to leave, he grabs his keys; his hand finds yours, he squeezes without thinking and doesn’t let go. He leads you out of Sig Chi through a side door because he doesn’t want anyone seeing you like this. 

He walks too quick, not talking, not until you reach the quiet part of the sidewalk does he finally say something, “Don’t ever let me lose you like that again.”

You look up and he’s staring straight ahead, but his grip tightens, exposing more than he means to, “Come on,” He murmurs, unlocking the Porsche, “We’ll get the Plan B.”

But even as he says it, even as he feigns rationale, his hand won’t stop squeezing yours. The Porsche unlocks with a chirp, he opens your door for you and then slams his own harder than necessary. He starts driving, fast, silent, and focused but not on the road. 

Every streetlight flickers across his face, shadowing and revealing the truth in flashes. Good. She’ll take the pill. This was just heat, adrenaline, possession. 

But beneath that, something far darker hums through him. Still…fuck. I could give her what no one else can. I want that.

He swallows hard, grips the wheel tighter, drives even faster. The CVS is almost empty, thank God. He shoves his hands into his hoodie pockets because he doesn’t trust them not to shake, walking over straight to the aisle he was in mere weeks ago.

Gojo remembers the last time he bought it, but the last time he never wished, that for one stupid second, that if biology had given him a loophole, that maybe—maybe you’d keep a piece of him.

He grabs the box with stiff fingers and at the register, the cashier doesn’t make eye contact; something ugly and possessive in Gojo likes that. Likes that no one here knows what he just did or what he put in you and how deep you let him.

He pays the fifty dollars again, shoves the box into his pockets, and hands it to you the second he makes it back to the car as if he may take it back if he doesn’t. 

You take the pill out, open a water bottle, tip your chin back, and he watches. His jaw moves once, like he’s grinding the idea to dust. Good. She’s safe. She won’t be pregnant. This isn’t happening. 

Then, right behind it, a quieter, eviller truth. Would’ve been kinda nice if it was. 

And the thought doesn’t fade, it festers. Even after you swallow the pill and he drives away with his hands white-knuckled on the wheel, even after he drops you off at your dorm and tells you to text him when you’re inside. 

No, it fucking lingers. A wrong desire he keeps trying to destroy, a feeling he can’t outrun. Something vital within him shifted when he finished in you that second time, and it bleeds into everything that happens next.

The next morning, you’re brushing your teeth when your phone buzzes.

satoru: you got class at 10 right?

Before you can answer, another text comes.

satoru: be outside in 5

He picks you up with a coffee in the cupholder, the exact way you like it, and a muffin he claims he “accidentally bought two of”. You don’t call him out on the lie. 

Gojo doesn’t drop you off at the curb, either. He walks you all the way to the building and when you turn to go inside, he hesitates, “Text me when you’re done.”

“You don’t have to—”

“I know,” He cuts you off quietly, “But just do it,” And he walks away before you can fight him on it.

The night after, he shows up again in the same hoodie with the same look in his blue eyes, and that same damn inability to stay away.

He kisses you before the door fully closes behind you—soft at first, almost tentative, like he’s afraid of wanting you too much. Then he remembers your voice calling him yours, your legs wrapped around him, your cunt squeezing around his dick while he came inside you, and suddenly? He’s not soft anymore. 

He lifts you, carries you to your bed, lies you down like you’re fragile, but unravels you like he’s ravenous. He fucks you slow and deep, way too deep; breathing into your neck, voice shredded, hands quivering on your thighs.

At one point, he stops entirely. Stops moving, buried all the way inside you, hips pressed flush, eyes squeezed shut like he’s in physical pain, “Princess…” His forehead presses to your jaw, “If I move, I’m gonna cum in you again.”

You shiver and he doesn’t pull out, not yet, only when he finally forces himself; finishing on your stomach, staring at your body the way a sinner stares at temptation—ruined, in awe, and absolutely starved for more. 

In the days after, he starts acting like your boyfriend. Though neither of you ever say the word, and acting like your boyfriend also apparently includes spoiling you rotten, but he’d never admit that’s what he’s doing.

It starts with him handing you his card one afternoon, “Here. Go get your nails done. Want your hands lookin’ nice around my cock.”

You choke on air, but he won’t meet your eyes, pretending it’s not the sweetest, filthiest thing anyone's ever said to you. Next thing you know, he’s paying for all kinds of appointments. He sends you money for your facial along with a text claiming, “i could give you a better one but idt you’d like it as much”.

Then he’s bringing you on routine mall runs. He takes you straight to Sephora, Aritzia, Zara—anywhere you so look at or mention and buys everything you touch. You tell him he’s insane, but he just shrugs, “It’s not a big deal. Gotta keep you pretty for me.”

You don’t buy the reason for a second.

Then comes the dates. Real ones at fancy places. The first time you’re confused when he tells you to “dress nice”. The second time, you’ve learned that “dress nice” means he’s dropping a stupid amount of money at a restaurant where the menus don’t have prices.

From sushi restaurants in Beverly Hills to Italian spots in West Hollywood, the dinner always goes the same way. With him watching you the entire time like the sight of you sitting across from him looking so beautiful is doing things to his soul and paying the bill without giving you any time to even pretend to pick it up.

“Don’t insult my manhood, princess,” He jokes, already placing his card down, “I’d rather die than let you pay a dime.”

But the worst parts aren’t the dates or the ridiculous instances of spoiling you. It’s what happens after.

One night, you’re sitting in his bed when he removes his silver chain he never takes off, the one you’ve seen in every photo and TikTok. He’s hooking it around your throat while you protest, “Toru—”

“Shh,” He hushes, “Just try it.”

It settles against your collarbone, cool and heavy with a distinct weight to it. His eyes drag over your neck, slow and hungry, like the sight of something that’s his on you does something violent to him, “Mm,” He hums, thumb grazing the metal, “Looks real good on you.”

Your pulse stutters and he kisses you before either of you can process what it means.

And then there’s the night where you’re laying on his chest, tangled in the sheets after he fucked you senseless, when you ask, “What’s Japan like?”

His voice softens in a way you feel in your ribs, “Depends where you go. Tokyo’s crazy. Kyoto’s pretty. Snow up north is perfect.”

You smile into his skin, “Sounds amazing.”

“Yeah,” He replies, adding way too casually, “I’ll have to show you one day.”

You’re quiet for a second before saying, “Teach me something.”

His eyes are warm, melting, “Okay…Say this—suki.”

“Suki,” You whisper; he exhales slowly, almost shakily, “What does it mean?”

He hesitates, choosing to lie gently, “It means…I like this.”

You believe him, but the truth is written all over his face. He doesn’t mean he likes the moment, he means you. Then he looks at you with his chain glinting on your neck, wondering when wanting you turned into needing you—and he’s terrified he can’t stop.

And the need for you only grows.

He picks you up every day from class, keeps snacks in his car that he only buys when you’re around, gives you his favorite sweatshirt when he notices your cold, opens your door every time. On his wrist sits your hair tie, although he says it’s for you, part of you thinks he wears it just because it’s yours.

When you’re walking together, he switches sides so he’s closest to the street. When guys stare, he sees it before you do. One afternoon on the quad, a guy from your lab waves too eagerly at you. Gojo’s voice is flat, “Who the fuck is that?”

You elbow him, “He’s just in my class.”

Gojo scoffs, “Yeah. Don’t like how he looks at you.”

You try not to smile, yet you do.

His frat brothers also start to tease him, “Gojo doesn’t even talk to other bitches anymore.”

“Bro’s whipped.”

“He’s in love with the QB’s daughter.”

He throws a pong ball at their heads, but doesn’t bother denying any of it.

Then, the sex between you? It starts to evolve into something precarious. He no longer fucks you like some sleezy, fuckboy frat bro chasing a climax. The tempo is slower, sensual, intimate in a way that makes your blood curdle.

There’s a night in his room with the lights low and music soft, where you’re riding him, moving slow, his hands gripping your hips like you’re sacred.

His head falls back against the pillow, he’s too sensitive, too close, “Baby…” His voice breaks, “Don’t…don’t do that unless you want—”

But you roll your hips anyway and he loses it. His fingertips dig into your thighs, eyes rolling back, breath catching in a strangled gasp, “Fuck, princess—stop, stop—if I cum like this it’s going inside you.”

And the terrifying part is that he doesn’t sound scared of that. He sounds desperate for it.

He pulls out at the very last heartbeat, just barely. His cum splashes across your chest in hot, heavy ropes and he stares at you like he’s memorizing it. He touches it, swipes some with this thumb, smearing it over your skin. He whispers, almost reverently, “God…would’ve looked better in you.”

Then his gaze glosses over his chain around your neck, and he wonders what it would be like to give you something more permanent.

Next weekend, there’s a tailgate at Sig Chi for the USC football game. It’s loud and crowded, red solo cups litter the backyard and Don Toliver is blasting from a blown out speaker Gojo keeps threatening to throw over the fence.

You’re sitting in his lap in a tiny red skirt you probably should’ve reconsidered, but he hasn’t stopped touching you since you showed up. His hand rests on your thigh at first until it slithers its way to the curve just beneath your ass; thumb rubbing slow circles like he’s publicly claiming territory.

Every time you shift, you feel how hard he is under you. He’s shameless in how he pretends not to care, but his brothers definitely notice. One of the Pledges walks by and does a double take, though Gojo doesn’t look up. He just tightens his grip on your waist and says, completely casual, “Yo, Pledge. Flick me up with my girl.”

My girl. The words strike your bones, “Your—your what?”

Gojo finally lifts his eyes, jaw set like it’s the most obvious thing in the world and that he hates the entire Pledge class, “My girl,” He repeats, patting your thigh once, “C’mon, hurry the fuck up, idiot.”

The Pledge blinks and scrambles to grab his phone, you try to move off Gojo’s lap, flustered, but his arm locks around your waist, “Sit still,” He murmurs into your neck, “Wanna see how pretty you look sittin’ on me.”

Your pulse skitters and he doesn’t even look at the camera—he looks at you, hungrily, lazily possessive, like he already knows he’s gonna post this shit.

When the Pledge sends over the photo, he’s immediately plugging it into his feed on Instagram, which is something he never does. His feed is reserved for himself, thirst traps, aesthetics. So when he posts you with a caption, “me and mine”, all of USC sees it and implodes.

He brushes a kiss onto your jaw, “Let them talk.”

And that same night, you barely make it inside his room before he has you against the wall, kissing you like he’s been deprived of it. Your skirt is on the floor already, your top has been shedded. He lifts you, legs locking around his waist, and thrusts into you so deep your vision spots.

His entire body is shaking, “Princess—fuck, slow, slow, if you keep—”

But you’re too cockdrunk to stop. He grips your ass, burying himself inside you to the hilt, moaning into your shoulder like he’s rupturing, “I’m not gonna…baby—I can’t, if you don’t let go.”

You tighten your legs around him and he falls apart. For one horrifying, heart-stopping second, he doesn’t pull out. He stays in your pussy, groaning into your neck, the two of you trembling against each other.

Gojo only yanks himself out at the very last fraction of a second, finishing in thick, desperate ropes on your inner thighs; he stares at the mess like it’s his masterpiece, but also like he wants it somewhere else.

He strokes your thigh with the back of his fingers, voice impossibly soft, “I can’t keep doing this. I’m trying. I swear I’m trying. But every time—every fucking time, I almost stay inside you.”

Your heart skips a beat, “And the worst part?” He looks at you, eyes blazing, “I don’t even know if I’d stop myself next time…”

And it happens two nights later, when things between you have settled into this terrifying, intoxicating rhythm. You’re already falling asleep in his bed, cheek pressed to his shoulder, his arm wrapped around your lower back like he’s locking in you place.

He whispers, “Come here,” Pulling you into his chest so your thigh slots between his and you feel him instantly—he’s hard, achingly so.

You look up at him through sleep-heavy eyes and he caves. He rolls you onto your back, slow, like he’s been waiting for an excuse to fuck you.

His mouth finds yours, hungry and unhurried; your breathing is barely steady when he finally pushes his cock into you and it’s different. All of it is. Far too deliberate, delicate, deep.

He groans into your neck, voice already wrecked, “Fuck…I’m obsessed with you.”

He’s still sliding himself in when you clutch his biceps, arching up into him with his breath catching in his chest, when he loses the last piece of control he had. His hips snap forward sharply, burying his cock fully inside, and curses low like the feeling of being right where he is now knocks the sense out of him.

He does try to pull out once, you feel it, the hesitation in his hips. But for reasons unknown, you wrap your legs around his waist on pure instinct rather than purpose, and he can’t stop what happens next.

Gojo collapses into you with a broken sound, forehead to yours, thrusts morphing sloppy and desperate, “Baby—fuck, don’t—” His voice cracks, “I can’t—if you do that—”

But you’re already tugging him closer, nails digging into his back, those pretty little cries spilling from your lips send him straight past rational thought.

His hands clamp around your hips, dragging you flush against him, “Oh…God—” He chokes and thinks maybe for a second, he’ll try to pull himself back, but the moment he feels you tighten around him, he breaks with a sound he’s never made before.

A desperate, helpless moan punched out him as he bucks his hips and stays there—buried, locked to you like he couldn’t move even if he tried.

“Fuck, I’m cumming—inside…shit,” And you feel it, hot spurts filling you so completely full that it steals your breath. He can’t even stop, his entire body spasms against yours, quaking through the release, his forehead lodged into your throat as if he’s holding onto you while he falls apart.

It’s a lot. More than the last time. More than either of you expected. So much, it’s leaking around him even while he’s still stuffed deep, twitching through the last waves. He doesn’t move, he just stays there, even when he pulls his face up to look at you with blue eyes blown, “…Fuck. I didn’t pull out.”

Your heart sits high in your chest, he watches your expression like it’s life or death, “Honestly…I didn’t even try.”

But that’s when it hits him. He should tell you to go on birth control. He knows it. That it’s the responsible, sensible, smart thing to do; the normal thing guys in college say when they don’t want their lives derailed.

Though, truth is? He doesn’t want normal, not with you. Because birth control kills the possibility, the danger, the fucked up little thrill that coils low in his stomach every time he pushes in deep and realizes that he could claim you in the one way no other guy has.

If you were on the pill, there would be no risk. No moment where he hovers on the edge, shaking, wondering if he should pull out or just stay, and he lives for that moment. That heartbeat of insanity right before he cums, where he thinks, if I don’t pull out, she’s mine for real.

So that’s why he never says the words, “You should get on birth control.”

And as deranged as it is, he doesn’t want to eliminate the one thing that makes fucking you feel holy, catastrophic, and fate-altering.

But…little does Satoru Gojo know that you’re already on it. You got on it right after that second time he finished in you.

Because that night scared you—you couldn’t trust him anymore, you couldn’t trust yourself either, and the recklessness was going to ruin you both.

You weren’t an idiot. Despite being a sheltered good girl your whole life and being inexperienced with sex, you know the consequences. And after watching his hesitation to pull out disappear night after night and feeling him stay inside you longer each time you fucked, you knew you made the right call.

However, you kept it a secret. You figured it was what was best for the both of you. You were protecting yourself all while letting him play out his little fantasy or whatever sick game he gets off on, letting him think every time might be the time he gets you pregnant.

It was smart, it was calculated, it was you being safe. Or…So you thought. Because of course, life had other plans, cruel and ironic ones. The kind of plans that are in motion before you even realize anything is wrong.

The Plan B you took after that second time he finished in you? Yeah. Unfortunately, it doesn’t work when you’re ovulating. And that night was exactly when you were.

The symptoms creep up on you so sneakily that you don’t even notice them. At first, it’s just fatigue. A bone-deep heaviness that sinks into your limbs on a random Monday morning, although you chalk it up to Gojo keeping you up until 3 A.M. again—him pinning your wrists above your head and whispering “one more round, princess”.

But then the smell of breakfast the next day makes you nauseaous, an odd twist within your gut when you catch a whiff of Blair’s bacon egg and cheese sandwich, “Girl, you good?”

“Fine,” You lie, "Probably just dehydrated,” Though you’ve been drinking water all day and still feel wrong.

Then your boobs hurt, really hurt. Tender in a way you’ve never felt before and Blair notices when you flinch throwing your tote bag over your shoulder, “That bad?”

“I think I’m getting sick.”

You’re not getting sick. You know what your body feels like when something is off and this feels different. The next morning you’re brushing your teeth when Blair says casually from the sink beside you, “When did you last get your period?”

“Last month,” But then your hand stops in mid-air.

Last month. You haven’t gotten it this month yet and it should’ve come by now. Your blood runs cold, “Wait…what day is it?”

Blair checks her phone, “October 27th.”

No. No, no, no. Your toothbrush slips from your fingers and clatters into the sink as realization cleaves through your ribs. It’s been three weeks since that night. Three weeks since the Plan B. Absolutely enough time to pass to start experiencing...pregnancy symptoms. And you already know it has a reputation for not always being effective.

“(Y/N)…?” Blair frowns, “What’s wrong?”

You lift your trembling eyes to hers, “Fuck class, we’re skipping. I need to go to CVS.”

She nods at that and the two of you urgently walk together to the CVS of doom and despair. Except this time, there’s no adrenaline buzzing within your veins, only fear.

You’re in the family planning aisle once again, but not to grab a Plan B, instead it’s a box of three pregnancy tests that feel far too heavy in your shaky hands. Blair hovers behind you, pale, “You really think—?”

“I don’t know,” You whisper, voice breaking, “I don’t know.”

But you do. You do know. You just can’t bring yourself to admit it. Your hands continue to tremble as you pay and walk back to the dorms and shut the bathroom door. Blair waits outside for you, “(Y/N)…I’m right here, okay?”

You nod, barely breathing, your reflection in the mirror looks like a stranger—pretty, terrified, wearing his silver chain around your throat like a brand or prophecy to something more.

You open one of the tests, take it, and set it on the counter. You wait two minutes, only two, and grip the sink and pray. For what, you’re not sure. That it’s negative? Or that it’s positive so you don’t have to keep pretending you aren’t already half in love with Satoru Gojo?

Negative. Yeah, definitely negative. You’re only eighteen, in your first semester of college. You moved across the country for this experience. Your dad would literally murder you for fucking it up.

You squeeze your eyes shut, then you look, and everything inside you falls, collapses, and rearranges.

Two pink lines. Bold and immediate. You’re fucking pregnant. That can’t be. You rip open another test and force yourself to pee again. False positives happen all the time, right? Right?

You wait another two minutes, only for the result to be the exact same…pregnant. Yeah, there’s no denying both. But fuck it, might as well take the third.

Another test, another positive. Three positive fucking tests, “Oh my God,” You whisper, “Oh my God…oh my fucking God—”

Blair knocks lightly, “(Y/N)? You okay? What’s happening?”

“He…” Your voice cracks, “He got me…pregnant.”

The word tastes unreal in your mouth, “But didn’t you take a Plan B? Aren’t you on birth control—?”

“I must’ve been ovulating or something,” You hiccup, tears brimming, “I-I did everything right.”

“Baby…open the door.”

You open it, numb, and Blair pulls you into a crushing hug as the three tests shake in your hand, “Oh, sweet girl…” She coos, “What are you gonna do?”

You shake your head, tears hitting her shoulder, “I—I have to tell him.”

As soon as you make it back to your dorm room you text him.

toru come over

now

please

He replies instantly.

satoru: omw what’s wrong

satoru: princess ??

You don’t answer, but minutes later you can hear the rumble of his Porsche pull into the dorms’ parking lot and not even seconds pass before his frantic knocking rattles your door. When you open it, he stops breathing. Your eyes are bloodshot red, your entire body is quaking, and his chain, of course it’s still on your neck.

“(Y/N),” He exhales, stepping inside and shutting the door behind him with trembling fingers, “What the fuck’s going on? Did someone—did a guy—? If someone touched you I swear I’ll—”

“It’s not that,” You whisper and hold out the three tests.

Gojo goes utterly still. He looks at the tests, then at you, then at the tests again. His throat bobs, “…What are those?”

“You fucking know what they are.”

“They’re…positive?”

You nod once, he inhales sharply like someone punched him, “Fuck,” He says it again, quieter, “Fuck.”

You watch his whole demeanor short circuit. At first it’s shock, but then something within him settles, something darker, something like acceptance wrapped in possession. He’s already thinking, you’re pregnant. With my baby. Mine.

His throat works once, hard. His mouth twitches, barely but unmistakably, because he tried to smother whatever expression is trying to surface.

“C’mere,” He murmurs, pulling you into him like he can fold the entire world away. You break immediately, tears spill hot and fast, your hands clawing into his hoodie as you shake uncontrollably.

And Gojo holds you, arms wrapped around your waist, palm pressing the back of your head gently into his chest, and behind your hair, unseen, his lips curl with a quiet, corrupt satisfaction he can’t suppress.

He does feel bad that you’re crying. He really does, but he also doesn’t care in the way he probably should. Because at the end of the day, you’re carrying his baby, and no one else will ever be able to say that.

He keeps rubbing circles into your spine, shushing you softly. His voice is warm, soothing, everything he thinks he’s supposed to sound like in this moment, “It’s okay, princess…breathe. I’m here.”

But really, ever since you said the words, he’s been reminiscing. Which time was it? After the third time he came in you, he’s stayed in you more often than not. He’s lost count of the nights he finished deep inside, hand fisted in the sheets, moaning your name.

Was it the night on his couch? The night he fucked you in the bathroom of his frat formal because he couldn’t stand the way his brothers were looking at you? Was it when he pulled you onto his lap and didn’t even pretend to pull out? Or—

You sob, “I don’t—I don’t know how it happened—I thought—”

He pulls back slightly, thumb brushing your cheek, “Well, we stopped buying Plan Bs. So we weren’t exactly being…safe.”

Your chest tightens, oh, right. He has no idea that you’ve been on the pill, “Satoru…I need to be honest with you.”

His thumb stills against your cheek, petrified for whatever you’re about to say, “…Okay,” He says slowly, carefully, “Tell me.”

Your bottom lip trembles, “I…I’ve been on birth control.”

Everything in him freezes, “…What?”

“I started it…after that second time, the night we fought,” You whisper, tears slipping fast down your cheeks, “I couldn’t trust us anymore. I knew we were being stupid and I just…needed to do something. But I didn’t tell you because I didn’t want things to change.”

Gojo stares at you like the entire universe just rearranged itself behind your eyes. Birth control. You were on birth control and still wound up pregnant. It wasn’t the nights after. It wasn’t the couch or the bathroom, it wasn’t the time he came in you so deep he saw stars behind his eyelids.

No, it was that night. The one where he called you his and you called him yours, the one where he finished inside you on purpose and you wanted it. The night you took the Plan B after he watched his cum drip out of you like it was the eighth Wonder of the World. Of course it was that night; a night that ended up being prophecy.

Gojo isn’t even upset with you for not telling him about the whole birth control thing, either. Matter of fact? Some twisted, fucked up, and deranged part of him feels satisfied. Because you really tried, you tried so hard not to get pregnant.

But fate already made its decision long before either of you pretended you had control and the idea of that makes something warm and primal settle in his chest, “Oh my God…it was that night.”

You squeeze your eyes shut, fresh tears dribbling down your cheeks, “Satoru, I—I don’t know what to do. This wasn’t supposed to happen. I took the pill, I was on birth control, we—we should’ve been fine—”

He shakes his head immediately, firmly cupping the back of your skull. What he wants to say is that this was always supposed to happen, but instead he opts for, “Hey. Stop. No. This isn’t on you.”

Because it isn’t. If anything, the blame sits squarely on him—he’s the one who kept cumming in you like he was trying to write your future with his body alone. You were the one taking precautions and trying to keep things under control. He was the one who didn’t stop.

So, of course you got pregnant. He practically begged the universe for it with the way he fucked you, “I should’ve been pulling out,” He murmurs, thumb brushing away the tears, “But I didn’t. That’s on me.”

Your breath breaks, “How come you don’t you look upset?”

Gojo stiffens at the accusation. He doesn’t look devastated or destroyed and he definitely doesn’t look like a twenty year old frat boy whose life got flipped upside down.

He looks…eerily calm, “I don’t know what I’m feeling yet,” He lies; he knows exactly what he’s feeling and it’s not something he can say out loud without disrupting whatever fragile world you’re clinging to.

You turn away, pressing your hands to your face, shoulders jerking, “My whole life is screwed, Satoru. My dad—my classes—everything. I don’t even know how to breathe right now.”

His stomach twists, he hates that his lack of fear and panic makes him feel like a monster. He steps closer until his chest brushes your back and wraps his arms around you from behind, tugging you into him.

“Princess,” He murmurs against your shoulder, “I know you’re terrified. I get it. You have every right to be. But I need you to hear me,” You don’t look at him, but he tilts his head, voice dropping into something achingly soft, “You didn’t do anything wrong.”

Your lips quiver, “Then why does it feel like everything is falling apart?”

He exhales slowly, forehead dropping to the curve of your neck. Everything is falling apart for you, but for him? It feels like everything is falling into place.

The girl who arrived to USC that every guy wanted, the girl who has always been good until she met Satoru Gojo, had been claimed by him. He closes his eyes, swallowing down the feral pulse in his chest, “It feels like it’s falling apart because you’re shocked. It’s big and sudden. Anyone would feel what you’re feeling.”

You shudder and he tightens his hold, protective in a way that feels instinctual, “But you’re not alone in this. Not for one second.”

You sniff harshly, “You’re taking this way too well.”

He almost laughs at how easily you see through him, “I’m taking it the only way I know how.”

Quietly, privately, his mind says a different thing, because some part of me knew this was coming the second I didn’t pull out. He presses a soft kiss to your temple before you can see the flicker in his expression.

“Talk to me,” You whisper, voice rasped, “Tell me what you’re thinking.”

He hesitates, because the real answer is, you’re pregnant because of me. Because you told me to make you mine and I did. What he says to you is gentler, “I’m thinking that we’ll figure it out and that you’re safe with me.”

But beneath it, humming like electricity in his bloodstream, I don’t regret it. Not even a little. It was always gonna be us. You were meant to be mine.

You don’t even get a chance to respond to what Gojo has said when the universe decides to fuck you over for a second time. Your phone vibrates in the pocket of the hoodie you’re wearing—his hoodie. A single buzz, then another. You still instantly, Gojo’s hands pause on your waist, “Who is it?”

You pull back just enough to fish your phone out, wiping at your cheeks with the back of your hand. Your vision blurs as you blink at the notification. And when you see the name on the lock screen, you freeze entirely.

Gojo’s brows knit, “Baby?”

“…It’s my dad,” You swipe his message open with tottering fingers and the text hits you like a brick to the sternum.

dad: Hey sweetheart! Good news! College gameday is in USC this weekend so I’ll be seeing you in a few days.

dad: I can’t wait to see you, princess. Love you.

Your throat swells, he leans in slightly to read the message himself because you can’t find your own voice, and for the first time tonight, Satoru Gojo breaks, “…Oh fuck.”

Your dad is coming in three days.

Satoru had always been confident. Always the best. Always the one who laughed in the face of danger. But looking into Satoru’s eyes, into that endless azure you only ever saw when he let himself be real with you, vulnerable, you were absolutely, unshakably sure he would come back.

Although there had always been a silent distance between you because of his work — the way his phone could start ringing in the middle of the night, the way he would simply silence it and pull you closer, murmuring that it was nothing — you believed him.

You believed him with every piece of your soul.

So when he disappeared for nineteen days, you were more than confused.

For the first three days you were angry that he didn’t warn you, that he didn’t text or call. Then you started writing first. At first gentle messages, then worried ones, then desperate ones that remained unread.

You called — and only heard the cold “The subscriber is unavailable.” And with every beep, with every new day, a sticky, icy horror grew inside you, crowding everything else out.

You didn’t know anyone you could contact.

You didn’t know where Satoru worked, who his friends were, whether he had a family besides the one the two of you had created in your small apartment...

At some point, when the silence became unbearably loud and you stopped sleeping and eating, staring into the darkness outside the window, a thought crept into your head that made you physically sick: was there ever really anything at all? Had you imagined him?

Or, even worse — he had simply left.

Got tired, got bored, and left without saying a word, leaving you in this ignorance...

Satoru had always seemed closer to the sky than to the ground, and you didn’t even have wings.

You squeeze the bouquet so tightly your fingertips go numb, and the delicate stems of the white roses seem about to snap under the weight of your longing.

Your father’s hand on your elbow feels strangely unfamiliar. You feel his warmth, his pride, his desire to pass you into “reliable hands” — and it makes you nauseous.

Not because of him.

Because of yourself.

Because you’re here.

All of this is wrong.

With every step toward the altar your heart pounds somewhere in your throat, drowning out your breathing. You stare straight ahead at the figure of the groom waiting at the end of this endless path.

And then Satoru came back.

He simply opened the door with his key on the evening of the nineteenth day, and when you heard that click you nearly lost your mind running into the hallway.

He was there. Alive.

Satoru stood with his back against the closed door and looked like he hadn’t slept in weeks. Shadows lay beneath his eyes, his shoulders were lowered, and there was some strange metallic smell in the air that you instantly hated.

But when he saw you, his face changed.

The exhaustion didn’t disappear, but something flared up in him, something so hungry, so desperately longing, that your heart clenched.

Satoru looked at you as if those nineteen days had been an eternity to him, as if all that time he had done nothing but wait for the moment he could see you again.

You wanted to scream, to beat your fists against his chest, to demand explanations.

Instead, you burst into tears.

Silently, your whole body shaking, your face buried in his chest.

Satoru explained nothing.

He only whispered, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, baby, I’m sorry…” somewhere into your hair, and his hands, usually so confident, were trembling as he gathered you into his arms.

His embrace was greedy, aching, almost bone-crushing.

Satoru kissed your wet face, your lips salty with tears, and there was such anguish in those kisses that you stopped asking questions.

You didn’t dare to ask.

You ended up in the bedroom without even turning on the light.

Satoru hovered above you, and when he pushed inside you it wasn’t familiar, not playful. It was desperate. As if he was trying to become a part of you, dissolve into you, hide.

Hide from everyone.

At first you didn’t notice his gaze — heavy, studying, unusually thoughtful. You only saw the features you loved, felt his weight, his warmth. Then you thought he was just deathly tired.

That he needed this — oblivion.

And you pulled him closer, wrapping your arms and legs around him, pressing him to you as tightly as you could.

You let him love you, letting him all the way inside, and you loved him back — with blind, almost painful desperation.

And at some point, when you were already on the edge, when the world had narrowed to the point where your bodies touched, you thought his eyes were shining.

When Satoru, pressing his forehead into the curve of your neck and shoulder, exhaled, “I love you so much… you have no idea,” there was so much pain in his voice that you only squeezed your eyes shut tighter, afraid to scare him away.

The priest begins to speak.

His voice is even, echoing like in an empty church filled with people, but you don’t hear a word.

You only hear the silence.

The same silence that screamed in your ears on the nineteenth day.

The one from five years ago.

The one that settled in your chest forever after that morning when you woke up alone.

You look at the groom, nod at the right moments, smile faintly.

Satoru didn’t let you go for a long time after.

He lay there with his fingers laced through yours, stroking your palm with his thumb. Then, as if remembering something important, he reached for his trousers carelessly thrown on the floor.

You heard the rustle, and when he turned back something glinted in the moonlight in his hand.

Satoru took your hand, and you felt cold metal on your finger. A ring…

You froze, staring at him...

Satoru propped himself up on his elbow, his face very close. He was smiling — that same soft, warm smile you loved so much — but in his eyes something had frozen… something wistful, doomed, that made your heart drop.

“Marry me,” he asked. No pathos, no usual arrogant smirk. “Be mine. Forever.”

Satoru was begging you to stay with him.

“Dearly beloved, we are gathered here today to unite this man and this woman in holy matrimony,” the priest’s voice reaches you as if through cotton.

“What if we were standing here together, Satoru? What if this day were ours?” you ask yourself silently.

Your groom is good. Kind. His eyes are calm and warm, without that terrifying endless blue you used to drown in every day...

But you don’t see him.

You imagine Satoru standing at the altar instead.

He wouldn’t stand still, he would definitely lean toward you and whisper something stupid to make you laugh at the worst possible moment.

You close your eyes for a moment and the image comes to you so vividly it almost hurts: him in a perfectly fitted suit, you in this same dress but with a different light in your eyes. Satoru looking at you, and there’s no longing in that gaze, only happiness. Pure, untouched by pain.

Satoru had always been too full of life, and it burned everyone around him.

You say yes to him and take his last name “Gojo” instead of your own.

He slides a ring onto your finger and you place one on his.

You kiss under the applause, his hands on your waist so familiar you think you might die from happiness right there.

You had a chance.

A chance to anchor all that fragile happiness and call it yours.

But you were afraid.

Afraid of the seriousness in his eyes, afraid it was too good to be true, afraid you’d scare him away by saying yes.

You thought there was still time.

You thought he always would.

Because Satoru always came back.

You didn’t manage to say anything, but he, too perceptive, read everything on your face.

His wistful smile widened slightly, and Satoru removed the ring from your finger himself, placing it in your palm and closing your fingers into a fist.

“It’s okay,” his voice was steady. “Think about it, sweetheart. And when I come back, you’ll give me your answer.”

Something inside your chest snapped at those words.

“You… you’re leaving again?” you breathed, panic ringing in your voice.

Satoru pulled you close, pressing his nose into the top of your head.

“Just for one day, silly,” that familiar teasing note slipped into his voice. “I’ll take care of something and come right back. Meanwhile you can think about how you’re going to call me ‘husband.’”

He kissed you until you relaxed in his arms, lulled by his warmth and a false sense of safety.

You pressed closer to him, feeling how hard his heart was beating, and whispered, “I love you.” You fell asleep with the cold metal of the ring clenched in your fist.

“If anyone knows of any reason why these two should not be joined in marriage, speak now or forever hold your peace.”

Your heart skips a beat. Forever.

You swallow hard.

Inside you something tears, screams, thrashes in hysteria.

Your mind is screaming: Say it! Say you love someone else! Say that the ring hanging on your chest isn’t just jewelry! Say that your heart has been dead for five years, buried with him wherever he is!

You look at the hall.

Guests sit there smiling, some wiping sentimental tears. Your mother sits in the front row, happy. Finally her daughter has “found a home.” Finally you stopped “living in the past.”

But the past isn’t something you can just stop waiting for.

The past is something that lives inside you.

Breathes with your lungs.

Beats with your heart.

The silence stretches a second too long.

A too long.

The groom gently squeezes your fingers in reassurance. He thinks you’re nervous. And you are. Just not for the reason he thinks you are.

“Very well,” the priest smiles. “Then we shall continue.”

And you hate yourself for staying silent.

In the morning Satoru was already gone from your apartment.

Satoru left.

You woke from the cold on the side of the bed where he had been, from the silence. Only the ring you had loosened in your sleep still glimmered on the sheet.

Satoru left without saying goodbye.

And never came back.

He didn’t come the next day, didn’t call in the evening, didn’t text a week later.

Satoru Gojo disappeared without a trace, dissolved as if he had never existed.

As if that night with his desperate love and the ring in your hand had only been a dream.

“I,” the groom begins, his voice firm and confident, “take you to be my wife…”

You look at his lips and see different ones.

Feel another kiss on your own — the last one before sleep. Salty with your tears, gentle, promising a quick return. A lie. Or not a lie?

You will never know.

He vows to love you in sickness and in health, in riches and in poverty, until death do you part.

Until death do you part…

It wasn’t even death that separated Satoru from you.

It was something else.

Something he never told you.

Something that took him away from you, leaving only a ring on a string and a question without an answer.

You waited.

First a year, then two, then five.

You learned to live again, forced yourself to leave the house, smile, work.

You met a good, caring man who looked at you with steadiness and calm.

He proposed, and you said yes. Because you should. Because it was time. Because he was good.

But he was never him.

Because you had always loved only Satoru.

Your turn.

You open your mouth, and it feels like a broken howl will tear out of it. But you speak. You say the words you’re supposed to say.

You vow love to the man standing in front of you.

And every word is a lie.

Not because you don’t want to love him.

Not because he’s bad.

But because the part of you that knew how to love for real — desperately, completely, down to your bones — left with Satoru that morning five years ago.

And you’re still waiting for it to return.

Just like him.

“As a symbol of your love and commitment, please exchange rings,” the priest’s voice drifts.

The groom takes your left hand. You watch as he slides a new ring onto your finger — smooth, golden, proper. It settles exactly where Satoru’s ring had rested that night.

It covers that memory, erases it, makes it nonexistent.

Goosebumps run across your skin. Cold, sticky like fear.

Under the fabric of your dress, on your chest, the small metal circle burns against your skin. It knows. That ring knows you’re betraying it. That you’re choosing life without him.

That you’re giving up.

Now it’s your turn.

You take the ring for the groom from the velvet pillow, your fingers trembling. You slide it onto his finger, and the gesture feels like a final sentence. For you. For the girl who five years ago lay in the arms of the most incredible man on earth and believed it was forever.

“I now pronounce you husband and wife. You may kiss the bride!”

Your groom leans down.

His lips touch yours softly, carefully, properly.

You close your eyes, and in that moment, in that darkness, you don’t feel him.

You taste the salt of your own tears on your lips and the sharp metallic scent that has nothing to do with this bright hall.

The guests are touched, happy for you.

You are not happy. You are mourning him. Mourning yourself. Mourning the life that was stolen from you — by circumstances, by silence, by his cursed job, his cursed confidence, his cursed love that Satoru carried away with him.

The kiss ends. You open your eyes.

Your husband smiles at you, wiping your tears with his thumbs.

“It’s okay,” he whispers. “I love you.”

You nod, swallowing the lump in your throat.

Everything is fine.

Now you’re married.

Now you have a home, a family, a future.

You have everything except him.

And when you walk back down the aisle while guests shower you with rose petals, your hand reaches your chest on its own. Through the fabric of your dress you clutch the ring, the only thing left to you from Satoru. You squeeze it so tightly the metal seems to bite into your skin.

And in your head pulses one thought, one prayer, one scream no one will ever hear:

What if I had said yes back then?

What if I hadn’t let you go?

What if you had stayed?

What if you were alive?

What if you were here?

You walk out of the church to the sound of the wedding march, and the sun blinds your eyes.

But inside you it’s night. That last night. And Satoru looking at you with longing and the purest love as he slides the ring onto your finger, only to disappear forever.

Satoru squeezed your hand back then in the dark of the bedroom, and there was so much tenderness in his eyes you could have drowned in it.

Satoru said he would come back.

He promised you.

But Satoru never came back.

And you marry someone else.

But inside you die every time you remember him.

And standing on the threshold of a new life, in a white dress, with a stranger’s ring on your finger and a new name you now carry, you know one desperate truth: you will love Satoru until the day you die.

Until your very last breath.

Until the moment you close your eyes and maybe finally see him again — smiling, with those crazy eyes that hold the whole sky, his hand reaching out to you.

I’m so sorry, Satoru.

I’m so sorry I didn’t say yes.

And I’m even more sorry that I’m saying it now — to someone else.

But more than anything I’m sorry I never found out whether you would have said something else, if you had known you were leaving forever.

And you will never know that the most desperate wish Satoru had before he died was to see you one last time.

𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭: open.

𝐩𝐥𝐚𝐲𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭: here.

𖤐 𓈒࣪ ᭡ ˖

𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐬:

𝐨𝐧𝐞 - 𝐠𝐨𝐥𝐝𝐞𝐧 𝐛𝐨𝐲

𝐭𝐰𝐨 - 𝐦𝐨𝐧𝐚𝐜𝐨

𝐭𝐡𝐫𝐞𝐞 - 𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐟𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐬

𝐟𝐨𝐮𝐫 - 𝐢𝐦𝐩𝐚𝐜𝐭

𝐟𝐢𝐯𝐞 - 𝐬𝐢𝐧 𝐜𝐢𝐭𝐲

𝐬𝐢𝐱 - 𝐮𝐩 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐚𝐧𝐭𝐞

𝐬𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐧 - 𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐢𝐧

𝐞𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 - 𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐞 𝐬𝐮𝐧𝐫𝐢𝐬𝐞

𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐞 - 𝐰𝐡𝐢𝐭𝐞 𝐧𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭𝐬

𝐭𝐞𝐧 - 𝐩𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐮𝐫𝐞 𝐩𝐨𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐬

𝐞𝐥𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐧 - 𝐜𝐥𝐚𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐲

𝐭𝐰𝐞𝐥𝐯𝐞 - 𝐥𝐢𝐚𝐫

𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐫𝐭𝐞𝐞𝐧 - 𝐜𝐚𝐫𝐞𝐟𝐮𝐥

𝐟𝐨𝐮𝐫𝐭𝐞𝐞𝐧 - 𝐝𝐢𝐬𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐠𝐫𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧

𝐟𝐢𝐟𝐭𝐞𝐞𝐧 - 𝐟𝐢𝐯𝐞 𝐦𝐨𝐫𝐞 𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐮𝐭𝐞𝐬

𝐬𝐢𝐱𝐭𝐞𝐞𝐧 …

𖤐 𓈒࣪ ᭡ ˖