ᶻ 𝗓 𐰁 .ᐟ

weren't sure that was true. Not "I love you," because that wasn't professional. It had never been professional — not from the first day, not during, not now.

He took the button. Put it in his pocket. Smiled with that painful, genuine smile you'd only ever seen on his face a handful of times. And left.

And then — life. Your life. Which continued.

The apartment was perfect.

Fourth floor, south-facing windows, a radiator that actually worked when you kicked it in the right spot, and neighbors you hadn't met yet. You'd signed the lease on a Tuesday, moved in on a Saturday with three boxes and a profound sense of optimism, and by Sunday evening you had decided: this was it. New city, new start, new you. Organized. Adult. Entirely in control of your life.

On Monday you forgot your laundry in the basement.

It was 11:43 PM when you remembered. You were already in bed, half-asleep, when the thought arrived like a small but persistent alarm: your underwear is sitting in a communal washing machine and anyone could touch it.

"Fuck," you said to the ceiling.

The ceiling offered no comfort.

You pulled on the oversized shirt you used as pajamas — the one that reached mid-thigh and had a small coffee stain on the collar — grabbed your keys, and decided this would take four minutes maximum. Go down, grab laundry, come back. No one would see you. It was nearly midnight in a building full of adults who had normal sleep schedules.

The laundry room was in the basement, accessible through a door that always stuck, lit by a single fluorescent bulb that had developed a flicker sometime in the last decade and clearly had no intention of stopping. It smelled like fabric softener and old pipes and something faintly metallic.

It was almost empty.

Almost.

Against the far wall, using a washing machine as a desk, sat a man.

You stopped in the doorway.

He hadn't looked up yet. He was focused on his laptop, one knee bent, foot propped on the machine beside him like he owned it. Brown hair that fell across his forehead at an angle that was either accidental or meticulously crafted — you genuinely couldn't tell. Bandages wrapped both wrists, disappearing under the sleeves of a dark shirt. To his left, a vending machine coffee going cold. To his right, a stack of documents with a stamp you recognized immediately — Armed Detective Agency — and a pen tucked behind his ear.

He looked completely at home in a basement laundry room at midnight. That was perhaps the most unsettling part.

Then he looked up.

And you felt the specific, horrible sensation of the floor dropping out from under you — not literally, though the basement floor was uneven and you wouldn't have been shocked — but the internal kind. The kind that arrives when the universe decides to be spectacularly funny at your expense.

Dazai Osamu.

Of all the apartments in all the buildings in all of Yokohama—

"You look like you've seen a ghost," he said. His voice was exactly as you remembered it. Light. Slightly amused. Like everything was a small joke he was choosing whether to share.

"You live here," you said. Your voice came out remarkably steady, which felt like a personal achievement.

"Apparently." He tilted his head, studying you with the particular attention of someone cataloguing information. "You also live here."

"Since Saturday."

"Since Monday." A pause. "We're neighbors."

"Yes," you said. "I noticed."

Silence.

The fluorescent bulb flickered. The washing machine in the corner thumped through its spin cycle with the enthusiasm of something that had given up caring about noise complaints.

You became acutely aware that you were standing in a basement in a sleep shirt that reached mid-thigh, with your hair in a bun that had been optimistic three hours ago and was now architectural chaos, holding a laundry bag, staring at a man you had spent six months professionally 'not' having feelings for.

"I need my laundry," you said.

"Machine four," he said, nodding toward the left wall without looking away from you. "It finished about twenty minutes ago. I didn't touch it."

"I didn't ask."

"You were thinking it."

You were thinking it. You crossed the room to machine four, opened it, and began transferring everything to your basket with as much dignity as you could manufacture. This would have been easier if your dignity reserves weren't currently running at approximately eight percent.

"Long shift?" he asked.

"I'm not doing this."

"Doing what?"

"This." You gestured vaguely with a balled-up pair of socks. "Casual conversation. At midnight. In the basement."

"Would you prefer formal conversation? I can be very formal. I own a coat."

"I've seen your coat."

"And?"

"It has no buttons."

Something shifted in his expression — subtle, quick, a flicker like the light above you. His hand moved, almost without his permission, toward his pocket.

You both knew what was in there.

You looked away first. Finished gathering your laundry. Hoisted the basket under your arm.

"Goodnight, Dazai," you said.

"Goodnight." A beat. "It's nice, by the way."

You stopped at the door. "What is."

"The shirt." He'd already looked back at his laptop. "Very professional."

You left. You walked up four flights of stairs because you refused to wait for the elevator. You deposited your laundry basket on your bed and sat beside it and stared at the wall and thought: no. Absolutely not. Under no circumstances. I am an adult with a new start and a working radiator and this is not—

Your phone buzzed. Unknown number.

The building wifi password is ApartmentKing2019. You're welcome.

You stared at it.

How did you get my number.

The building manager mentioned you were new. I introduced myself.

That's not an answer.

It's an answer to a slightly different question. Get some sleep, you look tired.

You looked at your phone. Then at the wall. Then at your laundry, which was slightly damp because you'd left it too long.

"Fuck," you said again.

The wall, like the ceiling, offered nothing.

The building, you discovered over the following week, had opinions.

The couple in 401 — Mr. and Mrs. Tanaka, late sixties, matching tracksuits — had lived there for fourteen years and treated the shared spaces as an extension of their living room. Mrs. Tanaka kept a folding chair in the corridor outside their door. Mr. Tanaka left his shoes in a configuration that suggested he'd been interrupted mid-step every single time.

The woman in 403 was named Reiko, early thirties, worked nights, and communicated exclusively through notes left on the communal bulletin board with a level of passive aggression so refined it was almost artistic. To whoever is microwaving fish after 9 PM: we have discussed this. We continue to discuss this. This is my life now.

The student in 405 was called Hiro, played bass guitar at volumes that suggested he believed the soundproofing was better than it was, and apparently survived on convenience store onigiri.

And then there was 407.

Your door was 407A. His was 407B. They were three meters apart in a small corridor that shared ventilation, thin walls, and — you learned when you accidentally leaned against it on day four — a moderate structural wobble that transmitted footsteps with impressive clarity.

You knew when he left in the morning (8:12 AM, never a second off). You knew when he came home (variable — anywhere between 6 PM and 2 AM, depending on what Yokohama had decided to throw at him that day). You knew he made phone calls in his kitchen that he thought were quiet but weren't, that he occasionally laughed at something and then immediately stopped as though surprised at himself, and that he moved through his apartment at night like someone who'd learned not to trust silence.

You knew these things the way you'd learned to know things about him before — observational, clinical, documented nowhere except the back of your own skull.

You didn't knock on his door for eleven days.

He knocked on yours on day twelve.

"I need to borrow salt," he said when you opened it. He was holding an empty shaker and wearing an expression of such complete guilelessness that it was almost insulting.

"You could not need salt less," you said. "You ordered delivery last night."

"I cook too."

"I heard you try to cook on Thursday. It sounded like a war crime."

He had the audacity to look delighted. "You can hear me?"

"The walls are paper. I can hear you breathing."

"Interesting." He leaned against the doorframe. Something in his posture shifted — the casual performance recalibrating, becoming something more precise. "What else have you heard?"

"Nothing I'm going to tell you." You opened your cabinet, got the salt, held it out. "Here. Return it when you buy more."

He took it. His fingers brushed yours in the handover — brief, light, the kind of contact that could be accidental and almost certainly wasn't — and he looked at you with those brown eyes that had always seen too much.

"How are you settling in?" he asked.

"Fine."

"The radiator on this side rattles after 11 PM. If you hit it twice on the left side, it stops."

You blinked. "...thank you."

"The elevator sticks between two and three. Hold the button for an extra second." He straightened off the doorframe. "And Mrs. Tanaka will bring you food if she thinks you're not eating enough. I'd recommend looking slightly sad on Tuesdays. She makes excellent gyoza."

You stared at him.

He was already heading back to his door, salt in hand, moving with that particular Dazai ease — the one that made it impossible to tell if he was paying attention to everything or nothing.

"Why are you telling me this?" you called after him.

He paused with his hand on his door handle. Didn't turn around.

"Neighbor," he said simply. And went inside.

You stood in your doorway for a moment.

Then you closed your door, leaned your back against it, and said to your apartment: "This is going to be a problem."

Your apartment, correctly, did not disagree.

The elevator situation became a thing of legend within the building by the third week.

It wasn't intentional — nothing with Dazai ever was, or everything was, and the line between those two things had always been blurry enough to be useless. It was simply that you both left at 8:12 AM, and the elevator was small, and Yokohama had no interest in making your life easier.

The first morning: coincidence. You'd nodded at each other with the stiff courtesy of two people pretending they'd never met in more vulnerable circumstances. He had coffee. You had your bag. The thirty-second ride passed in loaded silence.

The second morning: you'd tried leaving at 8:09. He was already there.

The third: 8:15. Still there.

The fourth, you looked at him in the elevator and said: "Are you timing me?"

"I have a consistent schedule," he said.

"I have four different schedules now and you're at all of them."

"Routine is comforting." He sipped his coffee. "Good morning, by the way. You have—"

"If you say I have something on my clothes I will get off on the second floor and take the stairs."

"—a very tense expression for 8 AM." He finished placidly. "Long night?"

"The radiator."

"Did you hit it on the left side?"

"I hit it on every side. It's now a percussion instrument."

He made a sound that might have been a suppressed laugh. You stared at the elevator doors and refused to look at him because his face when he was trying not to smile was — not something you needed data on. You had enough data. You had six months of data that you'd spent considerable effort filing under irrelevant.

"I can look at it tonight," he said.

"You don't need to."

"I know how to fix it."

"You also know your building's electrical schematics, which is not normal behavior."

"I like to be informed about my environment."

"That's what people say right before the police find something in their freezer."

This time he did laugh — quick, genuine, and immediately controlled. But you heard it. You catalogued it. Irrelevant, you filed. Absolutely irrelevant.

The elevator opened on the ground floor. You both stepped out.

"I'll bring tools at seven," he said, heading for the exit.

"I said you don't—"

"You'll sleep better." He pushed open the front door, turned briefly, and the morning light caught his face at an angle that made your chest do something you were ignoring. "You look like you haven't slept in a week."

"Excellent. Thank you. Very helpful."

"Seven o'clock," he said, and left.

He came at seven. He fixed the radiator in eleven minutes with a wrench he produced from nowhere and a series of knocks against the pipes that sounded authoritative and deliberate. You stood in the kitchen doorway watching him crouch beside the radiator in your bedroom, hair falling forward, sleeves pushed up, and you thought: I am so normal about this. I am completely fine. There is nothing happening in my body right now that requires documentation.

"Done," he said, standing.

"That's it?"

"That's it." He looked at the radiator with mild satisfaction. "It was just the pressure valve. Common in older buildings."

"How do you know these things?"

"I know a lot of things." He picked up his wrench, caught you watching him, and held your gaze for a moment too long. "It's my most annoying quality."

"One of," you said, before you could stop yourself.

He smiled at that — slow, pleased — and you turned away and walked to the front door and opened it and said: "Thanks. For the radiator."

"Anytime." He moved past you, close enough that you felt the warmth of him, and paused in the doorway. "If the pipes in the bathroom start making noise, don't panic. It's just—"

"If you give me a full building systems tutorial I will actually die."

"—thermal expansion," he finished, unbothered. "Goodnight."

"Goodnight," you said, and closed the door, and leaned your forehead against it.

From the other side, after a second: two knocks. Light. Almost amused.

You knocked back once, which you decided meant get out of my hallway, and heard him walk away.

The bathroom situation was, objectively, not your fault.

Your floor had a shared bathroom at the end of the corridor — an architectural decision that made sense in 1960 and was simply a fact you'd accepted by the time you signed your lease, because the rent was low and the building had charm, which was what real estate listings said about places where the bathroom was communal.

You had an arrangement. Unspoken, but functional: you used it between seven-fifteen and seven-forty-five, he used it between seven-forty and eight-ten. There was a ten-minute overlap built in for reasonable deviation.

The overlap had never been an issue.

Until the Tuesday you came home two hours early from work because of a schedule change and decided to shower before your afternoon started, and went to the bathroom at two-fifteen PM, which was nobody's fault, which was simply — a fact.

The door opened.

You had your hand on the handle. He was on the other side.

The towel he was holding he was using, as it turned out, to dry his face — pressed flat against his nose and eyes, head tilted back — and was not otherwise occupied.

The other towel, the one that should have been around his waist, was apparently somewhere in the bathroom.

One second of total silence.

Then he lowered the towel from his face.

You had spent six months in a clinical environment where bodies were bodies and professionalism was a wall you'd built carefully and maintained with diligence. Six months of not noticing, of not cataloguing, of redirecting your attention with such disciplined consistency that you'd occasionally given yourself headaches.

Six months of professional distance.

You now had extremely specific new data.

He was — the bandages were off, which meant you could see the scars clearly, the old ones layered under newer ones, and his skin was still slightly damp, and he was looking at you with an expression of pure shock which was remarkable because you had genuinely never seen him shocked before.

It lasted perhaps three seconds.

Then he said: "...oh."

And you said: "Oh my god."

And he said, with recovering composure: "I miscalculated."

"PUT SOMETHING ON."

"Working on it—"

"WHY ARE YOU JUST STANDING THERE—"

"You're standing in the doorway—"

You scrambled sideways. He stepped back. There was a moment of spatial comedy where you both moved the same direction and then the opposite direction and you ended up with your back flat against the corridor wall and your eyes on the ceiling and your heart going at a speed that your nursing training told you was technically fine but emotionally inadvisable.

From inside the bathroom: the sound of a towel being deployed.

Then: "You can open your eyes."

"I'm not opening my eyes."

"I'm decent."

"Define decent."

"Covered."

"That's a very low bar."

A pause. Then, from slightly closer — he'd opened the bathroom door further — in a voice that was trying very, very hard to be normal: "Are you alright?"

"I'm fine."

"You look like you're communicating with the ceiling."

"I am communicating with the ceiling. The ceiling has not recently shown me anything I cannot unsee."

"I wouldn't call it—"

"Do not finish that sentence."

Silence.

Then, very quietly, he said: "I'm sorry. That was—I didn't know you'd be home early."

The genuine apology was, in some ways, worse than if he'd been smug about it. You finally looked at him. He was in the doorway, towel around his waist now, hair dripping, and he looked — unguarded. The way he got sometimes when he didn't have time to assemble the performance.

"It's fine," you said. Your voice was only slightly strangled. "We'll fix the schedule."

"Yes."

"No more overlaps."

"Agreed."

"Great." You picked up your shower bag from where you'd dropped it on the floor. "I'll come back at three."

"Right." He moved to let you pass. You walked back to your apartment with your back very straight and your face extremely neutral and you closed your door and then pressed your back against it and slid down until you were sitting on the floor.

From the wall, after a moment: two knocks. Are you alright?

You knocked back once. Fine. Go away.

A pause. Then three quick knocks that sounded, somehow, apologetic.

You sat on the floor for another ten minutes.

Your nursing degree had not covered this.

The wall communication system had started as an accident and become, somehow, infrastructure.

It had begun with the picture frame — he'd knocked too hard during a phone call, your frame had fallen, you'd knocked back in irritation. He'd knocked twice in what you'd interpreted as sorry. You'd knocked once for whatever. And from there it had evolved through some process of mutual unconscious negotiation into something that worked.

One knock: I hear you.

Two knocks: I'm fine / you're fine / we're fine.

Three knocks: come here.

Four knocks: not now.

Five in rapid succession: emergency (used once, when his smoke alarm went off while he was on a call and he needed someone to reach his kitchen before his building deposit evaporated).

Mrs. Tanaka from 401, who had apparently been listening to all of this for three weeks through her own thin walls, stopped you in the corridor one morning with the expression of someone who had opinions.

"You two are very sweet," she said.

"We're just neighbors."

She patted your hand. "Yes, yes. Neighbors." She said it the way people say of course when they mean absolutely not.

You started to respond. She had already moved toward the elevator, humming.

The Friday tradition started on a night when you were too tired to cook and too proud to order delivery alone.

You'd been on your feet for eleven hours. You'd come home, sat down on your couch, stared at your kitchen with the specific existential emptiness of someone who cannot perform one more task, and thought: I could order ramen. But I would have to decide. And deciding is a task.

And then, without fully examining the decision, you stood up, walked into the corridor, and knocked on 407B.

He opened the door in a wrinkled shirt with his laptop under his arm and a look of someone who had also been working too long and found this surprising but not unwelcome.

"I'm too tired to order alone," you said.

A beat.

"What do you want?" he asked.

"Shoyu ramen with extra chashu."

He stepped back. You came in.

His apartment was — you'd never been past the kitchen before. The living room had a couch that was functional but clearly third in importance after his desk and his floor, both of which were occupied by organized chaos: stacks of documents, books left face-down, a mug that had been used as a paperweight. The windows looked out over the same street as yours. The lights were low.

It felt oddly comfortable. Like somewhere that had been lived in rather than arranged.

He ordered from his phone — your ramen and his, two portions of gyoza, edamame because "protein that isn't sodium, please" — and then dropped onto the couch with his laptop and you sat on the other end and found a documentary about cephalopod intelligence on his television and that was that.

When the food arrived he distributed it with the efficiency of someone who'd eaten alone at a desk for too long and was recalibrating, and you ate side by side on the couch in the blue light of the television and watched octopuses solve puzzles and didn't talk much and it was—

Easy.

That was the unsettling part. It was easy in a way you hadn't anticipated, a way that didn't require performance or deflection, that was just — two people eating ramen watching a documentary, and the documentary was interesting, and the ramen was excellent, and he made a comment about cephalopod cognition that was genuinely insightful, and you made a comment back, and then you were talking — actually talking, not circling each other — for the first time since the laundry room.

He talked about a case he couldn't share details of in a way that still communicated its shape. You talked about a patient situation in the same way — protecting specifics, keeping the humanity. He listened. You listened. The octopus on screen opened a jar.

"Dextrous animals," he said.

"Don't start admiring them. The last thing you need is more ways to feel understood by something non-human."

He looked at you sideways. Something flickered. "Who says I feel understood by non-human things?"

"You have a specific energy," you said. "The octopus probably relates to you."

He was quiet for a moment. Then, quietly, like he was deciding whether to say it: "I'm easier to understand than I've made it seem."

You looked at him.

He was looking at the screen.

"I know," you said.

He didn't respond to that. But his shoulder was three centimeters closer to yours than it had been, and you didn't move away, and the documentary played on.

He didn't leave until midnight. You walked him to your door — which was absurd, since his door was six steps away, but it was what happened — and stood in the doorway and said goodnight, and he said goodnight, and he lingered one moment, just one, looking at you with something gathered behind his eyes that he chose not to say.

Then he smiled — the soft one, the real one — and went home.

You stood in your doorway for a moment, and then Mrs. Tanaka's door opened, and she looked at you from six meters away and said: "Goodnight, dear," with tremendous pointed serenity, and closed her door again.

You closed your door.

It became a Friday thing.

Then sometimes Thursday. Then occasionally Wednesday when one of you had a hard day. Then once on a Tuesday simply because he'd found a good documentary and knocked three times on the wall, and you'd knocked back once, and ten minutes later you were on his couch.

The food expanded. Ramen became Korean BBQ became Thai became the night you both tried to cook together in his kitchen, which resulted in a smoke alarm, a ruined pan, and the best-tasting disaster either of you had ever eaten, standing at his counter at 10 PM eating imperfect yakisoba directly from the wok.

He started keeping shoyu ramen in his cabinet. You started buying the specific tea he liked and didn't use it for anything else.

These were facts neither of you mentioned.

The couch distance decreased by measurable increments over four weeks.

This was also a fact neither of you mentioned.

The night he took his sweater off was just a warm evening in April — his thermostat ran low and the building heating was inconsistent, but that night something had clicked on and the apartment was close and warm. He pulled the sweater over his head mid-conversation and tossed it over the back of the couch, and was left in a plain black shirt, and continued talking about the relative merits of Yokohama's competing ramen establishments without pausing.

And you continued the conversation and were completely normal about it.

You were not completely normal about it. But you continued the conversation, which was the part that counted.

Except.

He'd pushed up his sleeves. This was a new development. He usually kept his sleeves down — the bandages were a part of his silhouette, so consistent they'd become invisible to you professionally, but the skin beneath them was something you'd only ever seen in clinical context: measuring, wrapping, disinfecting. Now, without them, you could see the length of his forearms in the lamp light, the way his hands moved when he talked, the scars that mapped a history you knew parts of and not others.

He noticed you noticing.

Not immediately. Maybe thirty seconds later, when you'd looked away and back and he'd been watching you with an expression you couldn't parse — not defensive, not wounded, not performing. Just — watching.

"Does it bother you?" he asked.

"No," you said, and meant it, and held his gaze to make sure he heard the no.

Something shifted. He looked down at his arm, turned it slightly like he was seeing it from your angle.

"I forget sometimes," he said. "What it looks like to someone else."

"It looks like someone who's still here," you said.

He was quiet for a long moment.

"That's an oddly good way to put it," he said finally.

"I work with language sometimes."

"You work with bodies."

"They're connected."

He looked at you — full attention, the kind he deployed rarely and deliberately — and said nothing, and the apartment was warm, and the lamp was low, and you were close enough that you could see the detail of his expression, and he said nothing, and you said nothing, and then his phone buzzed with a case notification and the moment dissolved into logistics, and you both exhaled.

But the sweater stayed off.

And the distance didn't increase.

It started because you had a day off and he had a half-day and neither of you had made plans and it was raining.

Not dramatic rain. Not the kind that suggested atmosphere or narrative significance. Just grey, relentless, Tuesday-afternoon rain that made going outside feel like a personal attack and staying in feel like the only reasonable response to existence. You'd been on your couch for an hour with your phone, scrolling through nothing, eating chips you didn't want, when the three knocks came.

You stared at the wall.

The wall knocked again. Three times. Come here.

You knocked back once. I hear you. Then four times. Not now.

A pause.

Then, from the other side of the wall, so close you could almost feel it through the plaster: five rapid knocks. Emergency.

You were off the couch in two seconds.

You threw open your door. His door was already open. He was standing in the frame in a soft shirt and joggers and his hair was doing whatever it wanted — loose, slightly chaotic, the version of him that only existed on days when he didn't have to be anyone specific — and he was holding his laptop with both hands and wearing an expression of such manufactured urgency that it was almost impressive.

"What's the emergency," you said.

He turned the laptop screen toward you.

Genshin Impact. Two accounts. A domain you recognized.

You stared at it.

You stared at him.

"That's not an emergency," you said.

"It's a pyro emergency."

"That is not a REAL—"

"I have been stuck on this domain for three days," he said. "Three days. Do you know what that does to a person?"

"You could use a guide—"

"I don't use guides."

"Of course you don't—"

"I use resources," he said. "You are a resource."

"I am NOT a resource—"

"You have Hu Tao. Hu Tao is the resource. You're just her transportation."

You opened your mouth. Closed it. Opened it again.

"Did you just call me a chauffeur for my own fictional character—"

"I called you a resource. It's a compliment."

"IT IS NOT—"

"In Agency terminology, a resource is something highly valuable and strategically—"

"DAZAI—"

"Please," he said. And then — the absolute audacity — he made a face. Not the charming face, not the performative face, but something closer to actual, genuine, please I'm actually asking you — and it was so unexpected that your brain stuttered.

You looked at the rain.

You looked at your couch through the open door behind you, which you'd been staring at for an hour with the intellectual stimulation of a houseplant.

You looked at him.

"I'm choosing the next domain," you said.

"Naturally."

"And you don't get to comment on my playstyle."

"Wouldn't dream of it."

"And if you correct my rotation even once—"

"I would never—"

"Even once, Dazai, I will close the game and leave."

"Completely understood," he said.

He was on your couch in forty-five seconds. You'd barely closed the door.

The first twenty minutes were fine.

You got set up. You sorted team compositions. You explained your Hu Tao build with the specific enthusiasm of someone who had spent time on it and had opinions, and he listened with an expression of polite patience that you recognized as him already having assessed the build and found three things he wanted to say about it.

He said none of them.

You entered the domain.

It went fine for approximately ninety seconds.

"Her charge attack window is—" he started.

"Is what," you said, in a tone that ended sentences.

"—is very well timed," he finished. "Good."

You narrowed your eyes at the screen. "That's not what you were going to say."

"It's what I said."

"Dazai."

"Play the game."

You played the game. Hu Tao ran directly into a group of enemies and you fumbled the burst timing and lost forty percent of her health in four seconds and heard, from beside you, the very specific sound of someone inhaling slowly through their nose.

"Say nothing," you said.

"I'm not—"

"Not a word."

"I wasn't going to—"

"I can HEAR you thinking it—"

"I'm just breathing—"

"You're breathing critically—"

"THAT'S NOT A THING—"

"You're doing the thing where you breathe like you have notes—"

He turned to look at you with an expression of profound wounded innocence. "I have never breathed critically in my life."

"You absolutely have. You do it in the elevator. You did it when I told you about the January cooking incident. You're doing it RIGHT NOW—"

"I am breathing normally—"

"Your rotation," he said suddenly.

"WHAT—"

"The Hu Tao rotation. If you do the N2C into charged attack before the burst you'll—"

"I KNEW IT—"

"It's a minor—"

"You lasted FOUR MINUTES—"

"The domain has a timer—"

"YOU SAID YOU WOULDN'T—"

"I said I wouldn't comment. I'm advising. Completely different."

"THOSE ARE THE SAME THING—"

"Commenting is observational. Advising is constructive—"

"I will close this game," you said. "I will close it right now. I will close it and go back to my apartment and eat my chips and you will fail this domain for a fourth day in a row—"

He closed his mouth.

You played the domain.

He did not comment.

He did not advise.

He did, however — and you noticed this — start moving his character to stand directly in front of Hu Tao's charge attack path, perfectly positioning to set up reactions without saying a single word about it. Silent. Efficient. Cooperative in a way that was somehow more infuriating than the comments because it meant he was helping without being able to take credit for it.

"I see what you're doing," you said.

"Playing the game."

"You're positioning to cover my rotation."

"I'm positioning optimally."

"For my rotation."

"For the domain mechanics."

"Which happen to align perfectly with my rotation."

"Coincidence."

"YOU DON'T BELIEVE IN COINCIDENCE—"

"I believe in positioning," he said serenely, and walked his character directly into a crowd of enemies to pull their aggro off Hu Tao with the casual martyrdom of a man who had made peace with his choices.

You stared at the screen.

You stared at him.

"You're taking damage on purpose," you said.

"I'm managing enemy positioning."

"To protect Hu Tao."

"To optimize the domain clear."

"Which you're doing because her rotation is—"

"Don't put words in my mouth."

"THEN STOP SILENTLY FIXING MY GAMEPLAY—"

"I'm not fixing anything!" He pointed at the screen with genuine animation, which was rare enough that you almost forgot to be annoyed. "Look — if you use the burst here, the elemental gauge is already primed from my setup, you'll get a full vaporize—"

"Oh my god you literally cannot stop—"

"JUST USE THE BURST—"

"FINE—"

You used the burst.

The numbers were enormous. The domain enemies died in approximately four seconds. The results screen appeared: S rank, first clear, completion bonus.

Silence.

You both looked at the screen.

"See," he said.

"Don't."

"I'm not saying anything."

"You're breathing something—"

"I'm breathing normally—"

"You're breathing smug—"

"That's still not a thing—"

"It is ABSOLUTELY a thing and you're DOING IT—"

He turned to look at you with an expression of such controlled composure that it was basically a confession, and you looked at him with an expression that communicated everything you thought about him and his breathing and his positioning and his entire presence in your apartment on this rainy Tuesday afternoon, and then you both dissolved.

Not politely. The real kind — yours catching in your chest and his breaking through whatever composure he'd been maintaining, and for a full thirty seconds you were both just laughing on your couch like idiots, and it was — it was—

Fine. It was fine. It was the best kind of fine.

You played for another hour and a half.

The commentary didn't stop, exactly, but it evolved — became less instruction and more argument, which was better, which was what you actually wanted, which was what most things with him turned into eventually. You fought about team compositions. You fought about artifact priorities. You fought about whether Hu Tao or his character had contributed more to the last domain clear, a debate that lasted twelve minutes and ended in a draw neither of you accepted.

He was good at this. Genuinely good — not in the showing-off way, not performing competence for an audience, but the real kind that came from actual engagement. He got interested. He leaned forward when the mechanics got complicated. He made a sound of genuine satisfaction when something clicked, and once, when you pulled off a particularly good rotation completely by accident and the numbers were spectacular, he said "there it is" in a tone that was so quietly pleased it landed somewhere in your chest and stayed there.

"You're enjoying this," you said.

"I'm playing a game."

"You're enjoying it. You have the face."

"I don't have a face."

"You have the face you get when something works the way it's supposed to. You had it when you fixed my radiator."

He looked at you sideways. "You were watching my face when I fixed your radiator?"

"I was supervising the work."

"From the kitchen doorway."

"Supervisory position."

"For eleven minutes."

"It's a complicated radiator—"

"The face," he said, turning it back on you, "that you have right now, is the one you get when you've said something you didn't mean to say and you're trying to decide if you can walk it back."

You looked at the screen.

"Play the game," you said.

"You were watching my face," he said, with quiet, devastating satisfaction.

"I was watching the RADIATOR—"

"For eleven minutes—"

"It's a COMPLICATED—"

"What specifically about the radiator required eleven minutes of facial observation—"

"DAZAI I WILL CLOSE THIS GAME—"

"You won't, we're in the middle of a domain—"

"WATCH ME—"

"You have a three-star rating at stake—"

You did not close the game. You played the domain. He was smiling at the screen with the specific expression of a man who had filed something away and intended to keep it, and you were staring at the screen with the specific expression of someone who had absolutely been watching his face for eleven minutes and had no good explanation for it.

The domain cleared. Four stars. Personal best.

"Good rotation," he said.

"Thank you," you said.

"See what happens when you listen to advice."

"I will end you."

"The burst timing specifically was—"

You hit him with a couch pillow.

He caught it. Held it. Looked at you.

"Was that a tactical decision?" he asked.

"That was an emotional response."

"Interesting." He set the pillow aside. "And if I said the burst timing was genuinely excellent—"

"I'd say you're doing damage control."

"And if I meant it?"

You looked at him.

He was looking at you. Close — the couch distance had done its thing again, the gradual drift of two hours of sitting together — and his expression was the version that showed up when he'd stopped managing it. Warm. Specific. Directed at you like it had nowhere else to be.

"Then I'd say thank you," you said. Quieter.

"Thank you," he said back.

"That's my line—"

"I'm thanking you," he said. "For coming over. For the domains. For—" He paused. "For being on the other side of the wall."

Oh.

You looked at him. He looked at you. Outside the rain was still going, grey and persistent and completely indifferent to whatever was happening on your couch.

"That's a lot to read into a couch visit," you said. Your voice was only slightly unsteady.

"I have a lot of feelings about the couch visit," he said.

"Dazai—"

"I have a lot of feelings about most visits," he continued, in the tone of someone who has decided to say something and is going to say it. "About the elevator. About the miso. About the fact that you knocked back when I knocked at 3 AM instead of telling me to go away." He held your gaze. "About the fact that you're still here."

Silence.

The rain against the windows. The game still open on the screen, characters standing idle.

"I knocked back because I was awake anyway," you said.

"I know."

"And the miso is just breakfast—"

"I know."

"And the elevator is just an elevator—"

"I know." He tilted his head slightly. "None of that is what I meant."

"I know," you admitted.

He smiled. Not the performance. The real one, the small quiet one that you'd catalogued four times before and had never had an adequate word for.

"Another domain?" he said.

"Another domain," you agreed.

You fell asleep somewhere in the fourth hour.

You knew this because you woke up to the screensaver cycling — little stars drifting across the screen — and the rain still going soft against the windows, and his breathing slow and even against your hair.

You took inventory.

Your head was on his shoulder. His head was resting against yours. The laptop had been set on the coffee table at some point, carefully, and a blanket — your blanket, from the back of the couch — had been pulled over both of you, which meant he'd done that, which meant he'd been awake while you slept and had done that quietly and then gone back to sleep himself, and you lay very still for a moment with that fact and felt it settle somewhere important.

His heart was steady under your cheek.

The city outside made its low constant sound.

You thought: I could stay here.

You thought: I'm going to stay here.

You thought: I have been filing things under irrelevant for nine months and I am very tired of the filing.

From the wall — faint, soft, two careful knocks. Mrs. Tanaka. Somehow. Always somehow.

You raised your hand without moving the rest of you and knocked back once, very gently.

From the other side: one knock. Satisfied. Good.

Dazai stirred slightly. Not awake — somewhere close to it, the way he existed near the surface of sleep, always half-listening.

"Hm," he said, into your hair.

"Nothing," you whispered. "Go back to sleep."

A pause. Then his arm shifted, settled more completely around you, and he exhaled slowly and went still.

You lay in the quiet with his warmth and the rain and the screensaver stars and thought about laundry rooms at midnight and a flickering bulb and two people doing the math, and thought: all roads, probably. All roads led here.

Outside, the rain kept falling.

You closed your eyes.

The fire alarm went off at 2:49 AM on a Thursday.

Not a gentle ping. Not a polite chime. The full system — all floors simultaneously — at a volume that suggested the building had decided to have a breakdown and had chosen to include everyone in it. You launched upright out of a sound sleep, caught your water glass on the way up, swore, grabbed your keys and your phone and your coat and were out the door in forty-five seconds.

The corridor was chaos.

Mr. Tanaka was there in full outdoor clothes, which meant he slept in them or had dressed with alarming speed; Mrs. Tanaka had her purse and a container of gyoza she was, apparently, not leaving without. Reiko from 403 was in full makeup, which led to questions. Hiro from 405 had his bass guitar. The guitar.

And Dazai.

Dazai was standing in his doorway with a bundle of Agency files under one arm, his coat half-on, and his hair in a state that suggested he'd been deeply asleep for the first time in days. He looked — startled. Actually startled, with the sleep still in his eyes and the guards down, like the alarm had caught him somewhere underneath the performance.

He saw you and the performance came back — but slower than usual, like the system was buffering.

"False alarm," he said. "Third floor triggered the—"

"We're evacuating anyway," you said.

"The moisture sensor in the third floor supply closet has been miscalibrated for weeks, there's no—"

"Dazai." You grabbed his arm. "Building safety protocols. Come on."

He came, because arguing with you in a corridor at 3 AM with Mrs. Tanaka watching was apparently below even his threshold for conflict.

Outside was cold. March had not committed to being spring yet, and the pavement was damp, and you stood on the street with the assembled residents of your building in various states of undress and consciousness while two fire trucks confirmed what Dazai had already told you: miscalibrated sensor, no fire, everyone could go home, the building manager would receive a very official complaint.

Mrs. Tanaka had opened the gyoza container and was distributing them to neighbors on autopilot. Hiro was sitting on the curb with the bass guitar. Reiko was on her phone. Mr. Tanaka had somehow produced a folding stool.

You were standing next to Dazai on the pavement when you realized you were cold — properly cold, the coat you'd grabbed being a light one, better suited for April than March-pretending-to-be-February.

You shivered.

He noticed.

He didn't say anything. He just took off his coat and held it out.

"Don't," you said.

"You're shivering."

"You'll be cold."

"I run warm." He pushed the coat toward you slightly. "Take it."

"This is—" You looked at the coat. At him. At Mrs. Tanaka, who had absolutely been watching this exchange and looked profoundly satisfied. "This is going to start something."

"It's already something," he said quietly. Not aggressive. Not teasing. Just — factual. Like the building has four floors or the elevator sticks between two and three.

You took the coat.

It was too big, which you'd expected — he had broader shoulders — and it smelled like him, which you had not adequately prepared for. Not the coffee-smell from mornings or the cooking-smell from his kitchen, but underneath all that: something clean and dark and specific to him.

You put it on and looked at the street and said nothing.

He stood beside you and looked at the same street.

Mrs. Tanaka drifted past and said, to no one specifically: "Such a nice evening," and moved on.

"She knows," you said.

"Everyone knows," he said. "Reiko put a note on the bulletin board."

You turned to stare at him. "She—"

"Two weeks ago. It said: To the residents of 407A and 407B: please resolve your situation before the sexual tension damages the ventilation system." He paused. "I thought it was quite specific for a passive-aggressive note."

"And you didn't tell me?"

"I thought you knew."

"HOW WOULD I KNOW IF YOU DIDN'T—"

"It was on the bulletin board."

"I DON'T READ THE BULLETIN BOARD—"

"That's on you, really—"

You turned to face him fully, coat and all, and said: "Are you telling me that our neighbors have collectively noticed and documented whatever is happening here before either of us has said a single word about it?"

He looked at you. Careful, now. The performance was back but it was thinner than usual — like gauze over something real.

"It seems that way," he said.

"That is humiliating."

"Or flattering, depending on your perspective."

"What's your perspective?"

He held your gaze. The fire trucks were packing up behind you. The Tanakas were talking to Reiko. Hiro was still on the curb. The city was very quiet.

"My perspective," he said, "is that I have been trying to be careful. Because what I want and what is good for you are not always the same thing, and I know which one matters more." A pause. "And also I live six steps away from you and I am not interested in destroying the first place I've lived in three years that felt like somewhere I could stay."

You were quiet.

"The facility," you said.

"The facility," he confirmed. "I had—strategies. For managing things. Being there did something to them." He looked at his hands, briefly. "You did something to them."

"You were my patient."

"I know."

"That was—I was your nurse. The power dynamic—"

"You're not my nurse anymore." He looked up. "And you're not managing me. You haven't been for six months." He paused. "Nine, if you count from when I actually stopped needing managing."

"When did you stop needing managing?"

"Approximately four days after I arrived." A beat. "I was difficult on purpose."

"I know you were difficult on purpose—"

"You stayed anyway."

You stopped.

He looked at you with the particular expression you'd catalogued exactly once before — the one from his last day, when he'd taken the button, when something in his face had opened briefly before he'd closed it again.

"You stayed anyway," he said again. Quieter. "Every shift. Every incident. Every time I made it difficult, which was often." He exhaled slowly. "I have not spent a significant portion of my life not-dying in order to be subtle about the things that matter. But I've also spent enough time in rooms with you to know when not to push." He held your gaze. "So I'm not pushing. I'm just—saying."

The fire trucks were gone. The street was quiet and cold and lit orange by the city glow.

You looked at him — really looked, the clinical-nurse part of your brain offline, the careful-professional part disengaged, just you looking at Dazai Osamu in March at three in the morning in your coat — and thought: I have been filing things under irrelevant for nine months and the filing cabinet is full.

"You kept the button," you said.

He reached into his pocket. Held it out on his palm — small, dark, the button from his coat that you'd handed him the last day and hadn't expected to see again.

"Yes," he said.

"This whole time."

"Yes."

You looked at it. Looked at him.

"You're an enormous amount of trouble," you said.

"Extensively documented."

"And annoying."

"Also documented."

"And you hacked the elevator."

"Twice, technically. The second time was to test—"

"Dazai."

"Yes?"

You closed his fingers over the button. Held your hand there for a moment.

Then you kissed him.

He went very still for exactly one second — and then he kissed you back, and it was slow and deliberate and exactly like him: careful at first, like he was checking that this was real, and then not careful at all. His hand came up to the side of your face, and his coat smelled like him, and his mouth was warm, and it was — a lot. It was a lot.

When you pulled back, his expression was something you'd never catalogued. Open. A little undone.

"Was that—" he started.

"Yes," you said.

"Okay," he said. And smiled — not the mask, not the performance. The real one. The one you'd seen maybe four times in your professional relationship and had filed under irrelevant with genuine optimism.

"FINALLY," said Mrs. Tanaka from approximately three meters away, and everyone else on the pavement very kindly pretended they hadn't been watching.

It happened on a morning in October, seven months after the fire alarm, ten months after the laundry room, at the kitchen table over miso soup that was going cold because neither of you had touched it in five minutes.

This was normal. The miso always went cold. You talked too much, or he read too much, or the morning light came through the window at a specific angle that made thinking about soup impossible. You'd stopped apologizing for the cold miso approximately three months ago, which felt like a milestone of some kind.

He had made breakfast. You had made coffee. He was reading something on his tablet with the focused attention of a man who was not, you had learned, actually reading — because when Dazai was actually reading his left hand moved, small unconscious annotations against his knee, and right now his hand was still.

He was thinking about something.

You watched the street outside. The October light was clean and gold, the kind that only existed for about three weeks of the year before winter took it. His tea was going cold next to the miso. The radiator was doing its thing. Somewhere in the building Hiro was playing bass at a volume that suggested he'd forgotten it was before nine AM.

Normal. Devastatingly, comfortably, completely normal.

You had spent ten months learning the shape of this — the specific texture of mornings with him, the way silence between you had changed from loaded to easy, the way easy had started to feel like something you were afraid to examine too closely in case examining it made it fragile.

You were examining it right now, actually, which was probably a mistake.

"Hey," he said.

"Hm."

"Marry me."

The coffee cup stopped halfway to your mouth.

You put it down.

He was still looking at his tablet.

You looked at him. At the tablet. At him.

"...I'm sorry?" you said.

"Marry me." He set the tablet face-down on the table and looked at you with the particular directness he used when he'd decided something and was done with the lead-up. "I've been thinking about it for several months. The conclusion is consistent."

"Several months," you said.

"Since approximately May."

"May." You did the math. "That's—that's five months, Dazai—"

"Yes."

"You've been—for five months you've been—"

"Thinking about it. Yes." He held your gaze. "I think clearly when I have enough data, and I've had enough data for a while. I just wanted to be sure the feeling wasn't—" He paused. "Circumstantial."

"And it's not."

"No." Simple. Flat. Like the sky is blue or the elevator sticks between two and three. "It's not circumstantial. It's you. It's been you for longer than five months, if I'm being accurate, and I am usually accurate."

You looked at him.

He looked back.

"You're proposing over miso soup," you said. "At eight in the morning."

"You were looking at the window." His voice shifted — the careful management dropping away by degrees, something more exposed underneath. "You had your coffee and the light was on your face and you looked—" He stopped. "You looked like somewhere I want to be. You always look like that. I've been carrying this for three weeks and I looked at you and I thought — now. While it's exactly this. While it's just a morning."

Three weeks.

"You've had a ring for three weeks," you said.

"I was waiting for the right moment."

"And you decided the right moment was—"

He reached into his pocket.

And put the ring on the table between you.

You looked at it.

It was simple — not understated, but precise. A blue stone that caught the October light and held it. The kind of thing chosen by someone who had paid attention, who had catalogued, who had filed away a passing comment or a glance at a shop window or something so small you didn't remember making it and turned it into this.

"You asked Mrs. Tanaka," you said. Not a question.

"She has excellent taste."

"Before you asked me."

"It was a surprise. The consultation was logistically necessary."

"DAZAI—"

"She was very helpful," he said. "She also cried a little, which I hadn't anticipated, and then she made me gyoza, which I had."

You looked at the ring. At him. At the ring.

Ten months of mornings. Ten months of wall-knocking and miso soup and Genshin domains in the rain and fire alarms and a coat that never quite went back and a button kept in a pocket for longer than ten months, longer than you'd been neighbors, longer than you'd known him as anything other than a patient in a ward who looked at you like you were something he was trying not to want.

"Say something," he said. Quiet. The performance was gone — all of it, every layer, and what was underneath was just him, sitting at your kitchen table in the October light, waiting.

You looked at his face.

You thought about the first time you'd seen him actually afraid — not performed fear, not strategic vulnerability, but the real kind, in a room in the facility at two in the morning when he'd thought no one would come and you'd come anyway. You thought about what it had taken him to let you see that. What it had taken him to learn that you'd stay.

You thought about a button in a pocket.

You stood up.

He watched you cross the small distance of the kitchen and didn't move, just watched, and you took his face in both hands and he exhaled — sharp, quiet — and then you kissed him.

Not soft. Not careful. Not the question-kiss from the street at 3 AM or the slow relieved thing that had followed it. This was different — this was everything, ten months of it, the full weight of every morning and every almost-said thing and every filed-under-irrelevant feeling that had never actually been irrelevant, and you kissed him like you meant to and he made a sound against your mouth that was low and undone and his hands found your waist and gripped.

He kissed you back.

The kind of kiss that started in the chest and worked outward — deep and thorough and unhurried, his hands sliding from your waist to your back pulling you into him, and you felt the exhale go out of him like something releasing, like a held breath finally let go. He kissed you like he had been thinking about this for five months, which he had, which you now knew, and there was something in it that was both desperate and careful at once — the specific combination of someone who wanted something badly enough to be afraid of breaking it.

You pulled back just enough to breathe.

His forehead came to rest against yours. Both of you breathing hard. His hands were still at your back, yours still framing his face, and you could feel his pulse under your thumbs, quicker than his resting rate — you knew his resting rate, you'd taken it hundreds of times, and this was not it.

"Hi," he said. Low. Rough at the edges.

"Hi," you said.

"Is that a yes."

"That was obviously a yes—"

He kissed you again.

Less careful this time. His hand came up into your hair and the other pulled you closer and you grabbed the front of his shirt and kissed him back with everything you had, and he made a sound that you felt more than heard, and the table was behind you and the October light was everywhere and the miso was cold and none of it mattered at all.

When you finally broke apart properly you were both thoroughly out of breath and his hair was wrecked and your coffee was somewhere you'd stopped tracking.

"The ring," he said, into your hair.

"Right." You pulled back. He picked it up from the table — fingers steady, which you noticed, which you catalogued, which you loved — and took your hand and put it on.

You looked at it on your finger.

You looked at him.

He looked at you with the expression you'd first seen on a street in March at 3 AM and had been cataloguing ever since — open, unguarded, every defense down, just him looking at you like you were the thing he'd been trying to get back to for years without knowing what it was.

"October light is good," you said.

"Told you," he said.

"You didn't say anything about October light—"

"I said the feeling wasn't circumstantial." He tucked a strand of hair behind your ear, slow and deliberate, the gesture he used when he wanted to touch you and needed an excuse. "October, March, any month. The feeling is the same."

You looked at him for a long moment.

Then you said: "The miso is cold."

"I know."

"You're going to make new miso."

"Yes."

"And then we're going to eat breakfast like normal people."

"Yes."

"And then," you said, "you're going to tell me exactly what Mrs. Tanaka said when you showed her the ring."

Something crossed his face. "I'd rather not—"

"She cried—"

"She was moved—"

"What did she SAY, Dazai—"

"She said—" He stopped. Closed his eyes briefly. "She said finally, I've been watching you two idiots for ten months and my heart can't take it anymore."

You put your face in your hands.

"And then," he continued, with the specific tone of a man delivering bad news, "she knocked on Reiko's door to tell her, and Reiko updated the bulletin board preemptively, so by the time I came back upstairs there was already a note that said Congratulations to 407A and 407B, we've updated the board."

"Before you'd even asked me—"

"Before I'd even asked you."

"The whole building knew before I did."

"To be fair," he said, "the whole building has known for approximately nine months."

You looked at him through your fingers.

He looked back with an expression that was trying very hard to be neutral and failing completely because underneath it he was — happy. Actually, simply, visibly happy, in the way that sat differently than anything performed, that had no strategy and no management and no careful distance.

Just happy.

Just this.

"Make the miso," you said.

"Making the miso," he said.

He turned to the kitchen. You stayed where you were for a moment, looking at the ring in the October light, listening to the sounds of him moving in the kitchen that you'd learned first through a wall and now directly, and thought: ten months. Ten months from a laundry room at midnight to this kitchen in October.

Not a long time, in the scale of things.

Long enough.

From the corridor: two knocks. Mrs. Tanaka, inevitable and omniscient.

You knocked back twice. We know. Thank you.

From the kitchen, without turning around: "Is that Mrs. Tanaka?"

"It's always Mrs. Tanaka."

"What did she say."

"Congratulations, I think."

"What did you say back."

"Thank you."

A pause. The sound of the miso pot. The radiator doing its thing.

"Good," he said. Quiet. "That's good."

You sat back down at the kitchen table and looked at the October light and the cold miso and the ring on your finger and thought: irrelevant. None of this was ever irrelevant.

None of it.

Not from the beginning.

You said take care of yourself like it was a small thing. No one had said it to me like they meant it in a long time. I put the button in my pocket and thought-for the first time in a while-I'll try. I think it worked. - Dazai Osamu

ty for reading!

That day, your date had been simple. Just a study date at the library. Nothing fancy. But somehow, it felt warm and intimate, like it was something special just between the two of you.

Maybe it was the yellow lamps casting a soft glow over the tables. Maybe it was the quiet atmosphere, broken only by pages turning and distant footsteps. Or maybe it was Gojo himself, blushing nonstop when you leaned closer and asked him to explain a formula you totally didn’t get.

He tried. He really did. But every time you nodded along, eyes focused on him, lips slightly parted in concentration, his thoughts went blank. His glasses kept fogging up, forcing him to wipe them every few minutes while apologizing under his breath.

“I swear I know this..”he said nervously. “I just..uhm.. forgot how to breathe for a second.”

You laughed, soft and amused, and that alone nearly killed him. Afterward, you walked together down the street, shoulders brushing, fingers loosely intertwined. That’s when you passed the electronics store.

It was nothing special at first. Just another storefront glowing with screens and bright lights. Then you stopped.

Your grip on his hand tightened as your gaze snapped toward the window. Multiple televisions played the same commercial on loop, colorful and upbeat.

A hot pink tamagotchi spun across the screen. Your reaction was instant.

“Oh my god..”you gasped, eyes sparkling. “No way!” 

You tugged Gojo’s hand excitedly, nearly pulling him off balance as you pointed at the screens. He followed your gaze, blinking in confusion before realization slowly dawned on him.

“Toruu,” you said, practically bouncing. “They just released a new version of tamagotchis! Aren’t they adorable?” You looked back at the commercial like it was the best thing you’d seen all day.

Gojo smiled without even thinking about it. Seeing you excited always did that to him. “Yeah..”he said softly. “They’re really cute.”

You rummaged through your pink purse, movements quick and hopeful. You pulled out your wallet, flipped it open, then paused.

Your smile faltered. You checked again, like maybe money would magically appear if you looked hard enough. It didn’t.

“Oh..”you murmured, shoulders drooping slightly. “Right.”

The realization hit you, and your excitement drained away. You sighed, expression falling into something quietly disappointed. Empty pockets. No budget left this week. You slipped your wallet back into your purse and tugged Gojo’s hand again, turning away from the store.

Gojo noticed immediately. “Babe?” he asked gently. “What’s wrong?”

You shook your head, forcing a smile that didn’t quite reach your eyes. “Nothing. I just… don’t have any money to afford one.”

By the time you reached your apartment, the mood had shifted. You turned to face him, lifting your hand in a small wave.

“It’s getting late..”  you said. “You should go home now. Meet up tomorrow?”

Gojo hesitated. He wanted to stay. He always did. But the thought of unfinished assignments piling up in his room loomed over him. “Yeah..”he said eventually, smiling softly. “Let’s meet again tomorrow.”

He waved as you went inside. But instead of heading back to his own apartment, he turned around.

And walked straight back toward the electronics store.

He couldn’t stop thinking about your expression. The way your excitement faded so quickly. The way you tried to hide your disappointment for his sake.

He wanted to cheer you up. He needed to.

Inside the store, it was relatively quiet. Only a handful of people browsed shelves or tested devices. Seven, maybe ten. He didn’t really care.

His eyes scanned the place until something caught his attention. An arcade area.

He paused. Since when did electronics stores have arcades? Then he saw it.

A claw machine filled with tamagotchis.

Pink, blue, pastel colors packed tightly together. And right there, unmistakable even from a distance, was the hot pink one you had been eyeing. Gojo swallowed.

“This’ll be hard..” he muttered to himself. But he didn’t hesitate. He exchanged cash for tokens, the weight of them cold in his palm. He stepped up to the machine, heart pounding, and pushed a token into the coin slot.

The screen flickered to life, cheerful 8-bit music bubbling up from the speakers. He straightened his glasses with his index finger, shoulders squaring like he was about to face a final boss instead of a claw machine.

“Okay..”he muttered to himself, leaning closer. “Angle first. Timing second. Precision third.”

The claw hovered uselessly over a pile of pastel plastic eggs and dangling keychains. And there it was, the hot pink tamagotchi. Bright, glossy, almost glowing under the arcade lights. The exact one you’d gasped over earlier.

Gojo swallowed. “This one’s for her..”he whispered, like the machine could hear him.

He nudged the joystick left. Too far. Back right. Forward a little. His tongue poked out slightly in concentration, brows knit so tight it almost hurt.

“Okay… now!”He slammed the button.

The claw descended with a mechanical whirr, grabbing nothing but air before clamping down on a pale blue one instead.

It slipped out immediately. “…Ah.”

He blinked. Once. Twice.

“That’s fine,” he said quickly, fumbling another coin into the slot. “That was just a test run.”

Round two, This time he aimed more carefully, breathing slow like he was lining up a shot in a game. The claw caught the pink tamagotchi by the chain.

“O-Oh.. Oh!”

And promptly let go. It bounced back into the pile with a cruel little plink.

Gojo sagged against the glass. “No, no, no, that was perfect. You saw that, right?” He stared accusingly at the machine. “That was literally perfect.”

The machine, of course, did not care. Coins disappeared one after another. His score was zero. His hope was rapidly declining.

“Come on..”he pleaded under his breath, pushing his glasses up again. “She looked so happy when she saw it. I just… I just wanna give her one nice thing.”

Another try. Another loss. A kid nearby snickered.

Gojo pretended not to hear it.

By the time he was on his sixth round, his hair was a mess from running his fingers through it, sleeves rolled up like he was ready to fistfight the claw.

“Okay,” he said firmly. “This is the one.”

The claw descended. This time, it grabbed the hot pink tamagotchi perfectly, dead center, chain secure. It lifted it up, slow and triumphant, swinging gently as it rose.

Gojo’s breath caught.

“Yes—Yes—YESSS!—“

The claw began moving toward the prize chute.

He could already imagine your face. Your squeal. The way you’d grab his sleeve and bounce a little on your heels, eyes sparkling, makeup catching the light. The way you’d grin at him like he’d just hung the moon.

“Please..” he whispered. “Please.”

Then a voice cut in. “Satoru!”

An arm suddenly slung over his shoulders.

“WHAT?!” Gojo jolted, The claw jerked, The hot pink tamagotchi slipped.

It fell, Right back into the pile.

Gojo slowly turned his head.

Mr. Geto Suguru grinned at him, chin resting casually on Gojo’s shoulder. “Wow..” he said, amused. “You were really locked in.”

On the other side of the machine, Shoko leaned against it, arms crossed, cigarette unlit between her fingers. “We’ve been watching you for ten minutes.”she added flatly. “You’re terrible at this.”

Gojo stared at them, eyes wide, soul visibly leaving his body.

“…You..”he said shakily, pointing at Geto, “ruined everything!”

Geto laughed. “Relax. You were gonna lose it anyway.”

“I had it!”Gojo snapped, jabbing a finger at the glass. “I literally had it in the claw.”

Shoko raised a brow. “For someone who is good at everything, you sure lack coordination.”

Gojo groaned, dragging his hands down his face. “I hate you both.”

Geto squeezed his shoulder, still smirking. “So. Wanna explain why you’re blowing your allowance on a tamagotchi?”

Gojo hesitated, His ears turned red. “…It’s for my girlfriend..”he muttered.

Shoko’s expression softened, just barely. “The gyaru one?”

Gojo nodded. “She wanted it really bad. Pink. Specific pink. Not the coral one. Not the magenta one. This one.” He gestured helplessly. “She didn’t have money this week.”

Geto clicked his tongue. “Man,” he said, shaking his head. “You’re hopeless.”

“Awfully hopeless.”Shoko agreed.

Gojo sighed, slumping again. “…I just wanted to see her smile.”

For a moment, neither of them teased him.

Then Geto chuckled. “You know..”he said, “for a genius, you really are stupid when it comes to love.”

Gojo didn’t even argue.

Because it was true.

Gojo loved you, really loved you. He loved the way your bracelets clinked when you moved, the way your lip gloss caught the light, the way you pretended not to understand formulas just so he’d lean closer and explain them. He loved how you’d poke his cheek and call him cute when he got flustered, how his heart would short-circuit every single time.

Shoko exhaled slowly, pushing herself off the machine.

“Alright then,”she said, stepping in front of Gojo and casually holding out her hand. “Move.”

Gojo blinked. “H-Huh?”

She shot him a sideways look. “Let the professional wing woman handle this.”

Geto let out a low laugh. “Oh, this I wanna see.”

Gojo hesitated, then shuffled aside, shoulders hunched as if he were surrendering his dignity along with the joystick. “It’s… kind of rigged,” he muttered. “The grip loosens near the chute and—”

“Yeah, yeah,” Shoko said, already dropping a coin into the slot. “I know.”

The machine came to life again. Shoko didn’t lean in too close or overthink it. She studied the pile for barely five seconds, eyes half-lidded, posture relaxed like she was doing this out of boredom rather than intent.

Geto tilted his head. “You even care which one it is?”

“The hot pink one,” she replied flatly. “Chain on the left. Slight tilt.”

Gojo stared at her. “How do you..”

She nudged the joystick with two fingers, minimal movement. Forward a tap. Right a hair, Then she stopped.

“Timing matters more than positioning.”Shoko added, pressing the button.

The claw descended. It clamped down cleanly on the hot pink tamagotchi, chain snug between its prongs.

Gojo’s eyes widened. “No way.”

The claw lifted. No wobble. No slipping. It carried the tamagotchi across the machine like it had made a promise.

Geto let out a low whistle. “Damn.”

The claw opened. The tamagotchi dropped straight into the prize chute with a satisfying clack. Then the machine chimed cheerfully, like it was mocking Gojo on purpose.

Gojo froze.

“…It’s in..” he said quietly.

Shoko reached into the chute and pulled it out, the hot pink plastic gleaming under the lights. She turned it over once, inspecting it, then held it out to him.

“One try,” she said. “Told you.”

Gojo took it with both hands like it might disappear if he didn’t. His mouth opened, then closed. His glasses slid down his nose, and he pushed them up with shaking fingers.

“I… Shoko..”he started, then stopped, overwhelmed. “I spent like… way too much money.”

“Clearly.”she replied.

Geto clapped Gojo on the back. “All that suffering just for you to get shown up.”

Gojo didn’t even care. He stared at the tamagotchi, thumb brushing over the smooth surface. “She’s gonna love it..”he murmured, voice soft. “She’s really gonna love it.”

Shoko turned away already, lighting her cigarette. “Yeah.”she said, exhaling smoke. “That’s the point.”

Gojo smiled to himself, small and stupid and so full it almost hurt.

Because tomorrow, when you lit up like the sun over a stupid little hot pink tamagotchi, every lost round would be worth it.

The next day passed painfully slow for Gojo.

Every lecture felt twice as long. Every note he scribbled in his notebook somehow turned into your name in the margins. The hot pink tamagotchi sat safely in his bag, wrapped in a handkerchief like something precious, and every time he felt it shift, his heart did a stupid little flip.

By the time afternoon rolled around, his palms were already sweaty.

You were meeting outside the campus café, the one with the big windows and pastel chairs. When Gojo spotted you from across the street, his breath hitched like it always did.

You looked… unreal.

Honey-blonde hair styled perfectly, gloss catching the light, nails clicking softly against your phone as you waved when you saw him.

“Satoruu,” you called out, voice bright. “Sorry I’m late.”

“No, no, it’s fine,” he said quickly, pushing his glasses up. “I just got here. Like. Just now.”

A lie. He’d been there ten minutes early.

You smiled at him, looping your arm through his naturally, and he nearly short-circuited on the spot.

As you walked together, chatting about nothing and everything, Gojo kept glancing at his bag. His chest felt tight, nerves buzzing under his skin. He almost missed what you were saying until you tugged his sleeve.

“Earth to Satoru,”you laughed. “You okay?”

“Y-yeah,” he replied, voice cracking slightly. He cleared his throat. “Actually, um… I have something for you.”

You paused. “Huh?”

He stopped walking too, heart pounding so loud he was sure you could hear it. Slowly, he slipped his bag off his shoulder and rummaged inside, fingers clumsy. He pulled out the small wrapped bundle, holding it out to you with both hands.

“I saw how much you liked it yesterday,” he said, eyes flicking away shyly. “And you looked really sad when you said you couldn’t get one so I just… wanted to.”

You frowned in confusion, then carefully unwrapped it.

And froze.

“…No way..”you whispered. There it was. The hot pink tamagotchi. The exact one. Glossy, perfect, adorable.

Your hands trembled slightly as you held it up, eyes wide. “Satoru… this is the one I wanted. This exact one.”

Gojo nodded, smiling nervously. “Yeah. I remembered.”

You let out a small sound that was halfway between a gasp and a squeal, then suddenly threw your arms around him.

“Thank you, thank you, thank you—!”you said breathlessly, hugging him tight. “I love it. I love it so much!”

Gojo stiffened for half a second before melting completely, arms wrapping around you instinctively. His face burned, ears bright red.

“I’m glad..” he murmured into your hair. “I’m really glad.”

You pulled back just enough to look at him, eyes soft. Then you leaned up and pressed a quick kiss to his cheek. His brain shut off.

Completely.

“God..”you laughed, noticing his expression. “You’re so cute when you’re flustered.”

He made a strangled noise. “I-I’m not.”

You grinned, slipping the tamagotchi into your purse like it was treasure. “I’m keeping this forever, you know.”

Gojo smiled, heart full, watching you fiddle with it excitedly as you walked again.

Yeah.

He’d fight a hundred claw machines for that smile.

(you were only there for an assignment. philosophy 301: observing scientific rhetoric. you needed to write three pages analyzing how scientists communicate to non-specialist audiences. he was convenient, scheduled during your free period. you didn't even know his name.)

"..as this research shows how we can never predict the radioactive decay from any nucleu-" his voice wavered in shock - somebody actually admired him? not just listens or understands but admires..?. he tried really, to force his words that were scrunched deep into his throat but as he persisted "i.." nothing seemed to leave his now dried up mouth - like someone dehydrated him and left him seeking for refuge, desperately needing one single droplet of water in the heat of a desert.

that look of admiration shifted into confusion then annoyance. how could you have such contradicting emotions into one expression?

you raise an eyebrow in interest, eyes rolling—barely, but he caught it—and the message was clear: who let this awkward man on stage? that made him wince internally.

he interpreted your intensity, your white-knuckled grip, your laser focus as admiration— you were infact analyzing him like a specimen, cataloging his failures with the clinical detachment you'd been taught in your philosophy classes. observation without investment. criticism without cruelty, but also without care.

that destroyed him completely.

· · ─ ·ʚɞ· ─ · ·

the haunting 101

the weeks after the presentation, satoru learns what it means to be haunted.

not by ghosts. by memory. by a single moment that plays on loop every time he closes his eyes—your face, your expression shifting from what he thought was fascination to unmistakable disappointment. the eyebrow raise. the eye roll so slight anyone else would have missed it.

he didn't miss it. he sees you three days later.

he's crossing the quad, backpack heavy with textbooks he's been trying and failing to read, when he spots you on a bench under one of the old oak trees. the afternoon sun filters through the leaves, dappling your face in light and shadow. you're laughing at something on your phone, earbuds in, completely unaware of the world around you. the breeze catches your hair, moves it across your face. you brush it back absently. you look comfortable. happy. alive in a way that makes his chest hurt.

his heart stops.

then starts again, too fast, painful against his ribs like something trying to escape. his palms go instantly sweaty, the textbook slipping slightly in his grip. his mouth goes dry—that same desert feeling from the presentation, like all the moisture has been sucked out of his body and replaced with sand and panic.

he changes direction so sharply he nearly walks into someone. mumbles an apology without looking up. takes the long way around the science building even though it adds ten minutes to his walk and makes him late for his advisor meeting.

you never look up. you never see him.

· · ─ ·ʚɞ· ─ · ·

the haunting 102

tuesday morning, 9am. he needs coffee or he's going to die and leave a wallowing corpse on the university floor.

the campus coffee shop is packed with the usual morning crowd—students who actually sleep at night and wake up at reasonable hours, professors with their worn leather satchels and perpetual air of being slightly annoyed by existence. the space is small, cramped, claustrophobic. the espresso machine screams and hisses like it's being tortured. it smells like burnt coffee and sugar and that underlying scent of too many bodies in too small a space—deodorant and perfume and the faint tang of stress sweat already at 9am.

the line moves slowly. someone ahead is asking detailed questions about milk alternatives. the barista looks like she wants to die. satoru's been standing here for five minutes, staring at his phone, trying to ignore the way his stomach is eating itself.

then he hears your voice.

"black coffee, one sugar. and one of those croissants if they're fresh."

his entire body locks up.

you're ahead of him in line. three people ahead, but close enough that if he took five steps forward he could touch you. close enough to smell your perfume—something floral and light, completely at odds with the heavy coffee shop air. jasmine maybe, or something sweeter. it cuts through the burnt coffee smell like a knife.

the barista calls your name. your full name, clear and bright in the crowded space.

you grab your coffee, check your phone, turn—

he's already moving. slips out of line, out the door, into the cold november air that shocks his lungs and makes his eyes water. or maybe that's not the cold. his heart is pounding like he's just run a marathon. his hands are shaking so badly he has to shove them in his pockets. there's a slight ringing in his ears.

he doesn't get coffee.

goes to his 10am lecture running on zero caffeine and three hours of sleep and the taste of panic coating his tongue like metal.

sits in the back row and can't focus on anything except the way your voice sounded ordering coffee. one sugar. not two, not zero. one. exactly one. he writes it down in his notebook like it's important data. like he's conducting an experiment.

later, alone in his apartment, he looks you up properly. finds your instagram—private, but the profile picture is enough to make his chest hurt. you're laughing, mid-motion, caught in a moment of genuine joy. finds your philosophy department profile. reads that you won an award last year for an essay on phenomenology and consciousness.

he downloads the essay. reads it three times. it's brilliant. of course it's brilliant. you're brilliant and he's an idiot who fell apart in front of you and you've forgotten he exists.

he closes his laptop and doesn't open it for two days.

· · ─ ·ʚɞ· ─ · ·

the haunting 103

the library becomes dangerous territory.

he sees you there on a thursday afternoon, second floor, east wing where the philosophy and literature sections live. the afternoon sun streams through the tall windows, illuminating the dust motes floating in the air like tiny galaxies. you're at a table surrounded by books with intimidating titles—being and time, critique of pure reason, the phenomenology of spirit. you're taking notes in a notebook covered in stickers—coffee cups and planets and tiny mushrooms. your pen moves quickly across the page, then stops. you tap it against your bottom lip—three times, pause, three times again—while you think.

he's on the third floor, supposedly working on his dissertation. he's been standing at the railing for forty-five minutes, partially hidden behind a bookshelf, just... watching.

the way you chew on your bottom lip when you're concentrating. the way you push your hair behind your left ear when you're frustrated—always the left, never the right. the way you stretch your neck, rolling your shoulders like you've been sitting too long. the way you take a sip of coffee, make a face because it's gone cold, but drink it anyway.

you never look up. never see him standing there like a creep, cataloging your existence. he watches you for two hours. writes nothing.

his phone buzzes.

his advisor: where are you? we had a meeting scheduled. fuck.

when you finally pack up and leave, he feels the absence like a physical thing. the space you occupied goes empty and the library feels cavernous, too big, too quiet. the dust motes keep floating but they're not beautiful anymore, just particles suspended in empty air.

he stays until they kick him out at 2am.

· · ─ ·ʚɞ· ─ · ·

his roommate suguru finds him staring at his laptop at 3am on a cold saturday.

the apartment is dark except for the blue glow of the screen. the heating's broken again—has been for a week—so satoru's wearing two hoodies and still shivering. the cold seeps up through the floorboards, makes the whole place feel like a tomb. there's the smell of old coffee and the takeout containers neither of them has bothered to throw away—something with a hint of garlic from three days ago, slowly rotting. the refrigerator hums its broken-compressor hum, a grinding sound that never quite stops. outside, someone's car alarm is going off, shrill and insistent, has been for an hour.

"you're doing it again."

satoru doesn't look up. his eyes hurt from the screen glare—actually hurt, that gritty, burning feeling that means he's been staring too long. his neck hurts from sitting in the same position for hours. his hands are cold. everything hurts. "doing what?"

"that thing where you pretend you're working but you're actually having an existential crisis." suguru's voice is rough with sleep. "I can tell the difference now. it's been three weeks of this."

"I'm fine, suguru."

"you've typed three words in the last hour. I can see your screen from my bed—the glow is keeping me awake. that's not fine, that's catatonic."

suguru sits up. his bed creaks loudly in the quiet apartment—old springs that sound like they're dying. he turns on the lamp beside his bed. the light is warm and yellow and makes everything look softer than it is, makes the mess of their apartment look almost cozy instead of depressing.

"also you've been wearing the same hoodie for four days and you smell like depression and old coffee. so. talk."

satoru closes his laptop. the sudden darkness is disorienting. his eyes struggle to adjust. "nothing to talk about."

"bullshit." suguru's wearing his glasses, the ones he only wears at night when his contacts come out. they're crooked. he pushes them up. "is this about your presentation? because dude, everyone bombs presentations sometimes. it's not—"

"it's not about the presentation."

"then what?"

how does he explain it? that there was someone in the audience whose opinion somehow mattered more than the entire scientific community's? that you've looked at him with what he thought was admiration and it turned out to be analytical disdain? that he can't stop seeing you everywhere, that his entire world has reorganized itself around avoiding and seeking you in equal measure? that he's in love with someone who doesn't know his name?

wait. no. not love. he's not—

"nothing. forget it."

suguru is quiet for a long moment. the car alarm finally stops outside. the silence is somehow worse. "you know what your problem is? you're brilliant with particles and completely useless with people. whatever this is—whoever this is—you need to either deal with it or let it go. you can't keep—" he gestures at satoru's entire situation with a flick of his wrist, the laptop and the dark circles and the way he's curled in on himself. "—whatever this is. it's not sustainable."

"I know."

"do you? because from where I'm sitting, you're driving yourself insane over something that probably isn't even as bad as you think it is."

it's worse. it's so much worse. because it wasn't a moment of humiliation he can recover from. it was a moment of connection he imagined completely. he invented a story where you cared, where you were fascinated, where he mattered.

and reality showed him otherwise.

reality showed him that he's just another awkward academic to you. forgettable. already forgotten.

"I'll figure it out," satoru says.

"when?"

"eventually." he huffs

suguru sighs, long and disappointed. "you're impossible." he turns off the lamp. darkness again. the apartment settles back into cold and silence. "get some sleep, satoru. you look like death."

satoru doesn't sleep.

he opens his laptop again in the dark and stares at the cursor blinking in his dissertation document. types: element 119. deletes it. types: radioactive decay. deletes it.

types your name. stares at it for ten minutes. deletes it.

· · ─ ·ʚɞ· ─ · ·

the haunting 104

he starts taking different routes to class.

the long way around the quad that adds fifteen minutes—past the science buildings on the east side, around the maintenance shed that always smells like gasoline and cut grass, through the parking lot where the asphalt is cracked and weeds push through. it avoids the bench where he saw you that first time, the oak tree with its sprawling branches, the patch of grass where students sit when the weather's beautiful.

he learns your schedule without meaning to. or maybe he means to and won't admit it. just by avoiding you, he maps your movements like he's charting the orbit of a celestial body. tuesdays and thursdays you have class in the philosophy building at 2pm—he knows because he saw you walking there once, twice, three times until the pattern was undeniable. so he makes sure he's nowhere near there during those times. takes his lunch at 1pm or 3pm, never 2pm. uses the bathrooms on the opposite side of campus.

mondays, wednesdays, and fridays you're usually in the library in the afternoon. second floor, east wing, by the windows. he knows this because he's checked. accidentally-on-purpose walked past. saw you there once and now avoids that entire section like it's radioactive.

but the campus is only so big. avoidance only works until it doesn't.

he sees you anyway.

he needs a textbook for his advanced quantum field theory seminar. the bookstore is warm—too warm after the biting cold outside. it smells like new books and tea from the cafe in the corner, that specific scent of paper and binding glue and the cinnamon from someone's latte. the fluorescent lights are too bright. there's pop music playing over the speakers, tinny and grating but addictive.

he's in the science section, running his finger along the spines. quantum field theory, advanced particle physics, statistical mechanics. the books are expensive. he's trying to decide if he can get away with using the library copy or if he needs his own.

then he sees you.

three shelves over, in the historic section. you're reaching for something on the top shelf, and you're not quite tall enough. you're on your toes, stretching, your whole body extended upward. your jacket—that green one, the one he's seen before—rides up with the movement.

he can see a sliver of skin at your waist. just an inch, maybe two. the curve of your lower back. the waistband of your jeans.

his brain short-circuits.

you're still reaching, fingers just barely brushing the spine of whatever book you're trying to get. you make a small frustrated sound—he can hear it from here, this soft "come on" that's half-muttered to yourself. you stretch higher. more skin. he can see the shift of your muscles, the flex of your body trying to extend just a little further.

someone should help you. someone should offer to get the book down. that's what a normal person would do.

he stands there frozen, staring, heart pounding so hard he can feel it in his teeth. his palms are instantly sweaty. the textbook in his hands might as well weigh a thousand pounds.

you give up, lower down onto flat feet. your jacket falls back into place. you're looking around now, maybe for an employee, maybe for someone tall enough to help.

your eyes are sweeping the store. they're going to land on him.

panic floods his system like molten ice. he's already moving—backwards first, then turning, abandoning his textbook on a completely wrong shelf. introduction to organic chemistry sitting where quantum field theory should be. he doesn't care. he's walking fast toward the exit, weaving between displays, nearly knocking over a rack of university-branded t-shirts.

the cold air outside hits him like a slap. his breath comes out in clouds. his heart is still racing.

he walks three blocks before he stops, leans against a building, tries to remember how to breathe normally.

that night he goes back to the bookstore twenty minutes before closing. buys the textbook from a bored employee who doesn't look at him twice. walks home in the dark, thinking about that strip of skin, that frustrated sound, the way you moved.

he's so fucked.

· · ─ ·ʚɞ· ─ · ·

the haunting 105

he's been in the lab all day. it's past 7pm and he hasn't eaten since... he can't remember. his advisor kept him late going over data, pointing out inconsistencies, asking questions satoru couldn't answer. he feels hollowed out. exhausted. his hands smell like latex gloves and whatever chemical he was working with.

the dining hall is bright and loud and overwhelming after the quiet of the lab. it smells like institutional food—something with tomato sauce, garlic bread, that underlying scent of industrial cleaning products and steam tables. the noise is incredible. hundreds of students talking, laughing, the clatter of trays and silverware, the hiss of the soda machines.

he gets food without really looking at it. some kind of pasta. garlic bread. water. his tray feels heavy. everything feels heavy.

he's scanning for an empty table, somewhere quiet, preferably in a corner where he can eat quickly and leave—

and then he sees you.

you're at a table in the middle of the dining hall. surrounded by friends—three other people, all talking over each other in that comfortable way that suggests they've known each other for years. there are textbooks pushed to one end of the table, dinner spread out, someone's laptop playing music he can't hear from here but can see the glow of.

you're animated. laughing. your hands move when you talk—quick gestures that punctuate whatever story you're telling. you're wearing a sweater he hasn't seen before—dark red, oversized. your hair is different today. pulled back somehow. he can see the line of your neck.

one of your friends—a girl with dark curly hair—says something. he can't hear it over the dining hall noise. but he sees your reaction.

you throw your head back, laughing so hard you have to cover your mouth with your hand. the movement is unconscious, natural, beautiful. your shoulders shake. your eyes squeeze shut. the laugh is loud enough to carry across the dining hall even through all the other noise. it's bright and genuine and unselfconscious.

it's the most beautiful sound he's ever heard.

it makes him feel like he's swallowed glass. like something sharp and broken is lodged in his chest, cutting him from the inside. his hands tighten on his tray. the plastic creaks.

you're so... alive. so present. so comfortable in your body, in your space, in your friendships. you belong here. you fit.

he doesn't fit anywhere.

he's still standing in the middle of the dining hall, holding his tray, staring at you like a creep. someone bumps into him—"excuse you"—annoyed. he needs to move. needs to find a table. needs to stop looking at you.

your head is turning. you're looking around the dining hall. maybe looking for someone. maybe just people-watching.

your eyes are going to land on him.

he moves. fast. back toward the exit. out the door he just came through. the cold air hits him again—it's snowing now, light flurries that melt on contact. his breath comes out in clouds. he's still holding his tray.

there's an outdoor seating area—empty because it's december and snowing and no one eats outside in december. metal tables and chairs covered in a thin layer of snow. he brushes off a chair. sits. the metal is cold even through his jeans.

he eats his pasta. it's gone lukewarm. the garlic bread is soggy. he can't taste any of it. he's just putting food in his mouth, chewing, swallowing, because his body needs fuel and this is fuel.

the snow falls. his hands go numb. he can see his breath.

through the dining hall windows, he can still see you. still laughing. still warm. still living a life that doesn't include him and never will.

and when he gets back to his apartment, suguru takes one look at him and says "you look like someone died."

"no one died."

"then why do you look like you're grieving?"

satoru doesn't have an answer.

· · ─ ·ʚɞ· ─ · ·

the haunting 106

he's walking to his quantum mechanics class. it's 1:47pm. the class starts at 2pm. he's cutting it close but he needed to stop by his apartment to get the problem set he forgot this morning, and then there was a line at the coffee shop, and now he's practically jogging across campus with his too-hot coffee sloshing in its cup.

the air is brutally cold. the kind of cold that stings your lungs when you breathe. the sky is that pale gray that promises more snow. the wind cuts through his jacket—he didn't dress warm enough this morning. his ears hurt. his hands are numb even wrapped around the hot coffee cup.

there are other students moving between classes. everyone hunched against the cold, moving fast, breath coming out in clouds.

and then he sees you.

you're walking toward him. not directly toward him—you don't see him. but you're on the same path, coming from the opposite direction. earbuds in. you're nodding your head slightly, moving to music he can't hear.

your breath makes clouds in the cold air—little puffs of white that dissipate immediately. you're wearing that green jacket again—the one from the bookstore. it's not warm enough for this weather. you're hunched against the cold, hands shoved deep in your pockets. your nose is pink. your cheeks are flushed.

you look cold and miserable and somehow still beautiful.

you're maybe twenty feet away now. fifteen. getting closer.

you're going to see him. you're going to look up and recognize him—except you won't recognize him because you've never known him. you'll just see some random guy staring at you. you'll think he's a creep.

or worse. worse. you might recognize him. might suddenly connect him to the presentation. might remember where you've seen his name before. might realize—

his heart is pounding. he can feel it in his throat, in his wrists, behind his eyes. his palms are sweating even though his fingers are numb. his mouth goes dry, tongue sticking to the roof of his mouth.

ten feet. you're humming now. he can almost hear it under the wind.

fight or flight. every time it's the same choice. every time he chooses flight.

there's a path to the right. barely a path—more like a gap between buildings. he's never noticed it before. he takes it.

the gap is narrow. he has to turn sideways in one spot where someone's left recycling bins. it smells like old beer and something rotting. the ground is icy. his coffee sloshes, burns his hand through the cup. he comes out on the other side of the building, completely disoriented.

he's on the wrong side of campus. the opposite side from where his class is. he checks his phone. 1:53pm.

he's going to be late. he's never late.

he runs. actually runs, coffee abandoned in a trash can, backpack bouncing against his spine, his breath coming in white clouds. his lungs hurt from the cold air. his legs hurt. everything hurts.

he makes it to class at 2:04pm. professor yaga gives him a look but doesn't comment. satoru slides into his seat in the back row, heart still pounding, hands shaking.

he can't focus on anything. can't hear the lecture. can't take notes. he's just sitting there, breathing hard, thinking about the way you looked in the cold. the way you hummed. the way you were just... existing. walking to class. living your life.

and he ran away from it. again. like a coward. like someone who's afraid of a girl who doesn't even know his name.

--

every time, his body has the same response.

heart rate spikes—he can feel it in his throat, in his wrists, behind his eyes. physical and undeniable. his pulse in his ears like a drum. palms sweat even in the cold. even when his fingers are numb. even when it makes no sense. mouth goes dry, tongue sticking to the roof of his mouth. he can't swallow. can't speak. can't think.

fight or flight. the oldest response. the most basic survival instinct.

he always, always chooses flight.

he's twenty years old. he's discovered a new element. he's been to stockholm. he's published in nature. he's given lectures to rooms full of nobel laureates.

and he's running away from a philosophy student who doesn't even know his name.

running away from the girl who destroyed him six months ago with a single look.

running away from the only person he's ever wanted to run towards.

· · ─ ·ʚɞ· ─ · ·

twenty-four weeks. six months.

he's gotten good at avoiding you. expert level. knows your patterns better than his own. your routine is mapped in his brain like a formula—tuesday/thursday, philosophy building, 2pm. monday/wednesday/friday, library, afternoon. coffee shop, mornings when you have early classes. that bench under the oak tree when the weather's nice.

he's an expert at existing in your orbit without ever colliding.

and then one night, 11pm on a wednesday, he's in the library because where else would he be?

the main entrance is all glass and steel, modern renovation grafted onto a building from the 1960s. automatic doors that whoosh open, letting in blasts of february cold that the heating system can't quite compensate for. there's a security desk just inside where a obnoxious guard scrolls through his phone, barely glancing at student IDs.

past security, the entry hall opens up—high ceilings, fluorescent lights buzzing their persistent electrical hum, the smell of old books and new anxiety mixing with stale coffee and dry heating and that particular scent of stress that no amount of air freshener can cover. the carpet is industrial—blue-gray, stained in places, worn down to threads in high-traffic areas. it smells faintly of mildew when it rains.

the main floor is organized chaos. rows of study tables, mostly full even at this hour. computer stations along the walls, all occupied. the circulation desk is closed but the returns bin is overflowing. there are vending machines in the corner—humming their refrigerator hum, offering caffeine and sugar for $3 a hit. someone's phone is ringing unanswered. someone else is typing like they're trying to kill their keyboard.

it smells like desperation in physical form. coffee—always coffee, in travel mugs and disposable cups and the expensive reusable ones. energy drinks, the chemical-sweet smell mixing badly with the coffee. someone's eating something with too much garlic. the heater is blasting hot, dry air that tastes like dust and old building, making everyone's throat scratch, making the whole place feel like a desert.

the sound is what gets you. it's not quiet. it's the absence of the right kind of noise. no conversations—those are banned. just the persistent hum of HVAC pushing air through old ducts. fluorescent lights buzzing, especially the dying ones. keyboards clicking. pages turning with aggressive, frustrated whisper-shouts. pencils scratching against paper. the occasional cough.

the bathrooms are in the back, and they smell like industrial cleaner trying and failing to cover decades of academic stress. the water pressure is bad. the hand dryers are loud enough to damage hearing.

satoru is on the third floor—the quiet floor, the serious floor. up here the carpet is even more worn. the study carrels are individual fortresses, little wood-paneled cells where PhD students go to slowly lose their minds. the stacks are dense—floor-to-ceiling shelves of books that haven't been touched in decades. it smells more like old paper up here, less like coffee. mustier. the air doesn't circulate as well.

he's got a table near the window. can see the campus below—streetlights making pools of yellow, the occasional student hurrying between buildings. his laptop is open. he's been staring at the same paragraph of his dissertation for an hour.

and then you walk in.

he sees you before you see him. you're three floors down but he can see you through the central atrium—the library's design means all the floors are open in the middle, creating this vertical space where you can see all the way down to the ground floor.

you're walking like someone who's exhausted. backpack weighing you down. you're wearing that green jacket again. you look frustrated. defeated.

you head for a table on the ground floor, third row back. drop your bag with a heavy thud he can't hear but can see. pull out a textbook.

physics for non-majors.

even from three floors up, even at this distance, he can see the defeat in your body language. the way you slump in your chair. the way you press your palms against your eyes.

you're struggling.

he should stay up here. should maintain the careful distance he's cultivated for six months. should protect himself from another opportunity to be seen and found wanting.

but you're struggling with physics.

and he knows physics.

and you look like you're about to cry.

and before he can think better of it, before he can stop himself, before his brain can catch up with his body—

he's gathering his stuff. closing his laptop. walking toward the stairs.

his heart is pounding. his hands are shaking. every step down feels like walking toward something inevitable. something that's going to hurt.

but you need help.

and he can help.

and maybe—maybe—this time will be different.

and just like that, everything changes.

just like that, he gets his second chance.

just like that, he's more fucked than ever.

· · ─ ·ʚɞ· ─ · ·

you're in the library at 11pm again, physics textbook open, on the verge of tears because nothing makes sense and your exam is in two days.

the library at this hour is a special kind of purgatory. the fluorescent lights buzz overhead with that persistent electrical hum that burrows into your skull after enough hours. they cast everything in a sickly blue-white glow that makes everyone look half-dead, which is fitting because everyone here feels half-dead. the heating system clanks and groans through old pipes, either blasting you with dry air that tastes like dust and desperation or leaving you shivering in your hoodie.

it smells like old books and new anxiety. the musty paper smell mixing with stale coffee, energy drinks, and that particular scent of stress sweat that no amount of air freshener can cover. someone three tables over is eating something that smells aggressively like ginger. your stomach growls in response even though you're too stressed to be actually hungry.

the silence isn't really silence. it's the sound of dozens of students slowly losing their minds in unison. keyboards clicking. pages turning with aggressive whisper-shouts of frustration. pencils scratching. someone's pen clicking obsessively—click click click click—until someone else hisses "stop" and there's a brief, tense pause before it starts again, quieter.

you've been sitting in this uncomfortable chair for three hours. the plastic digs into your spine in a way that guarantees tomorrow will hurt. your coffee went cold an hour ago but you keep sipping it anyway because the bitter, chalky taste is something to focus on besides the swimming symbols in your textbook.

the words on the page have stopped being words. they're just symbols now, meaningless hieroglyphics mocking your inability to understand basic motion. you've read the same paragraph on newton's second law six times and it's somehow making less sense with each repetition.

you press your palms against your eyes until you see stars. the pressure helps somehow. when you open them again, the equations haven't magically become clearer.

"you're using the wrong equation."

you look up, disoriented, eyes adjusting. white-haired guy at the next table over. you hadn't really noticed him before—the library at 11pm is full of ghosts, everyone hunched over their own personal disasters. but now that you're looking, he's hard to miss.

white hair that catches the terrible blinding light and somehow makes it look intentional. pale skin that suggests he might be as nocturnal as the rest of you. dark clothes—black shirt, black jacket slung over his chair. the kind of deliberately neutral outfit that says he doesn't want to be perceived but is too striking to pull it off.

he's not looking at you—eyes fixed somewhere over your shoulder like making direct eye contact might physically hurt him. but he's clearly talking to you, fingers fidgeting with the edge of his laptop, knee bouncing under the table in a nervous rhythm that makes the table vibrate slightly.

"what?"

"problem twelve." he gestures vaguely at your textbook, and you notice his hands are shaking slightly. "you're using the equation for uniform acceleration but the problem states non-uniform. you need calculus for that one."

his voice is quiet, careful, like he's afraid of taking up too much space in the air between you. there's something fragile about it. something that makes you think of glass about to crack.

you stare at your textbook, then back at him. he's still not meeting your eyes. a muscle jumps in his jaw. his fingers tap against his laptop—tap tap tap tap, anxious rhythm.

"we haven't learned calculus. this is physics for non-majors."

"oh." he finally meets your eyes for a brief, electric second before looking away again. his adam's apple bobs as he swallows. "then... the problem is probably mislabeled. or it's extra credit. can I—" he hesitates, fingers drumming faster against his laptop. "can I see?"

you should probably say no. it's weird, right? random guy commenting on your homework from across the library? but you're desperate and he seems harmless—awkward in that specific way physics majors tend to be awkward, like he's more comfortable with particles than people. like every word costs him something to say out loud.

and there's something else. he looks as exhausted as you feel. dark circles under his eyes that suggest he's as much a creature of this fluorescent nightmare as you are. his coffee cup is empty but he keeps reaching for it anyway, hand closing around nothing, like the muscle memory of caffeine is all he has left.

"sure." you angle your textbook toward him, and you don't miss the way he tenses. like you've asked him to do something monumental instead of just look at a physics problem.

he doesn't move closer at first. just leans slightly in his chair, and you can hear it creak under the shift of weight. he's squinting at the page, and you realize he's trying to read it from where he is, too nervous to actually close the distance.

"you can come closer," you say slowly. "I don't bite."

the look he gives you is startled, almost frightened, before he schools it into something neutral. "right. yeah. okay."

he closes his laptop with a soft click that sounds too loud in the library quiet. stands up, and he's tall—you hadn't registered that before—all long limbs and careful movements like he's constantly aware of how much space he takes up and apologizing for it.

he sits in the chair beside you, and you can feel the heat coming off him in the over-air-conditioned library. he smells like coffee and something clean—laundry detergent maybe, or shampoo. something normal and almost comforting in this place that smells like academic suffering.

but he's still not quite close enough to see the problem clearly. he's left almost a foot of space between you, perched on the edge of his chair like he might need to flee at any moment.

"I'm not going to murder you," you say. "you can actually sit like a normal person."

"sorry." he shifts incrementally closer. his knee is still bouncing. "I'm just—sorry."

he says sorry like punctuation. like it's the baseline state of existing in proximity to another person.

his finger traces the problem text, and his hands are interesting—long fingers, neat nails, the slight calluses that suggest lab work. they're still trembling slightly. nervous. everything about him radiates nervous energy, that vibrating tension of someone who wants to be anywhere but here but can't quite make himself leave.

"okay, so..." his voice is steadier when he's talking about physics. like the math gives him something to hide behind. "they're asking about acceleration but they've given you a velocity function that changes with time. see? it's not constant."

you lean in despite yourself, and you catch him holding his breath when your shoulder nearly brushes his. he smells like he's been in this library for days. that specific scent of someone who's been breathing recycled air and stress for too long.

"I... think so?"

"here." he pulls a blank sheet from his own notebook, and you see his papers are covered in equations that make your textbook look like elementary school math. his handwriting is surprisingly neat—precise, careful, like everything else about him. "the question is badly worded for an intro class, but what they probably want is..."

he starts writing, and something shifts. the nervousness doesn't disappear but it redirects. flows into the movement of his hand, the scratch of pencil on paper—that specific sound that's become the soundtrack of this library, of these late nights, of slow academic death.

his explanation is... different. not like your professor who lectures at the board like he's addressing a conference he'd rather not be at. not like the textbook that assumes you already understand and is just going through the motions.

he's breaking it down into pieces, checking your face for confusion. and he's good at reading faces—when your brow furrows, he stops. adjusts. tries again from a different angle.

"wait." you stop him, and he flinches slightly at the interruption. "go back. why did that equal that?"

no impatience. no condescension. just: "right, okay, so..." and he explains it again, differently, his knee still bouncing under the table, fingers still drumming against the paper between sentences.

until something clicks.

"oh my god." you sit back, and the chair creaks loudly in the quiet. someone shushes you from across the room. you lower your voice. "oh my god, I actually understand it."

the smile that crosses his face is brief but genuine—surprised, almost shocked, like he wasn't sure it would work. like he's as relieved as you are. "yeah?"

"this textbook is absolute garbage at explaining things. you did in two minutes what I've been trying to understand for an hour." you look at him properly now. really look at him.

he's objectively attractive in that specific way that cartoon characters are attractive—features almost too perfect, too symmetrical. the white hair should look ridiculous but somehow doesn't. and his eyes, now that you're really seeing them, are striking. pale blue, almost gray in this terrible lighting.. and are those just frames? the lenses are nearly clear. "are you a physics major?"

"yeah." he's already retreating slightly, physically pulling back like he's worried he's overstayed his welcome. "sorry, I shouldn't have interrupted your studying, I just—"

"no, please." you touch his arm without thinking, then immediately pull back. "I have seventeen more problems and my exam is thursday and I'm completely lost. can you—would you—" you pause. "do you tutor? I can pay you."

something complicated crosses his face. "you don't have to pay me."

"I can't just take up your time for free."

"I'm already here." he gestures at his laptop, his scattered papers. "I'm just working on... research. it's fine. I can help."

there's something in the way he says it—like he's trying to convince himself as much as you.

you don't leave right away. you work through more problems. he keeps helping, getting more comfortable, more animated when he's explaining physics. you notice things: the way his whole face changes when he's talking about something he loves, how he automatically adjusts his explanations based on your reactions, that he's patient in a way that feels genuine, not performative.

it's almost midnight when you finally pack up.

"I'm here most nights," he says, closing his laptop. "if you need help again. for the exam."

"most nights? do you sleep?"

a half-smile. "not really."

you laugh, but you're also mentally cataloging this information. library. late night. physics help available.

"I'm here tomorrow night. same table?"

he pauses, something flickering across his expression. then, "same table."

he doesn't ask your name. he already knows it—saw it on the attendance sheet that day six months ago, looked you up in the student directory afterwards like some kind of masochist, tortured himself with your social media presence, your philosophy department profile, the awards you've won for your essays.

you don't ask his name either. you'll realize this later, embarrassed, and have to awkwardly ask tomorrow.

but there's something and he's so completely, utterly, hopelessly fucked.

· · ─ ·ʚɞ· ─ · ·

library session one

you show up the next night with two coffees.

"i didn't know what you liked," you say, setting one down near his laptop. the cup leaves a faint ring of condensation on the wooden table. you can feel the heat radiating from it, see the steam curling up in lazy spirals. "so I got you what I get. If you hate it I can—"

"it's perfect." he wraps his hands around the cup like it's precious, like you've handed him something infinitely more valuable than a $4 coffee. his fingers curve around the paper sleeve, and you watch his throat work as he swallows. his eyes meet yours—soft and startled and grateful in a way that seems disproportionate to the gesture. "thank you."

it's too sweet. the sugar hits his tongue wrong, cloying and heavy, coating his teeth. he hates sweet coffee—always has, takes his black when no one's watching. but he drinks it anyway, every drop, feeling the too-hot liquid burn down his throat. and he orders the same thing for the next three months until you finally catch him making a face, his nose wrinkling involuntarily, his mouth twisting into something between a grimace and a smile when he thinks you're not looking.

you settle into the chair beside him—the same configuration as yesterday, close enough to share the textbook but not quite touching. your elbow is maybe three inches from his. you can feel the heat of him in that small gap, smell that clean eucalyptus scent mixing with coffee and old books. "i realized I never got your name. I'm—"

"i know." He says it too quickly, and you watch color bloom across his cheekbones—a faint pink that spreads to the tips of his ears. he catches himself, blinking rapidly, and you can see him scrambling for recovery. "i mean—you're in the student directory. i looked up who else was taking physics this semester. for... study group purposes."

a lie. a terrible lie. his voice pitches slightly higher at the end, and he won't quite meet your eyes. but you accept it with a small laugh, the sound bright in the quiet library.

"creepy, but efficient. i'm impressed." you pull out your notebook—the pages are getting dog-eared now, filled with his handwriting mixed with yours. the spiral binding catches on your sleeve with a small metallic whisper. "so, mysterious physics major who stalks the student directory—what's your name?"

"satoru. gojo satoru."

something flickers across your face—brief, confused, like you've heard the name before but can't place it. your eyebrows draw together fractionally. your lips part like you're about to say something, then close. the moment passes. "satoru. okay." you test the name in your mouth, the syllables unfamiliar on your tongue. "ready to save me from newton again?"

you had written his name in your assignment. subject: Gojo Satoru, Physics PhD candidate. but you'd written twenty pages that semester, cited dozens of names. they all blurred together—just another brilliant mind reduced to a footnote, a reference, a line in your bibliography that you'd never expected to materialize into a person sitting beside you smelling like eucalyptus and drinking coffee he hates.

he nods, pulls your textbook closer, and you both pretend this is just about physics.

the pages make a soft rustling sound as he flips through them. His finger traces down the chapter index—you notice he has long fingers, pale and precise, the nails neatly trimmed. there's a callus on his right middle finger from holding pens.

It takes you forty-five minutes to realize you're not actually struggling with the homework anymore. youu're asking questions just to keep him talking, watching the way his hands move when he explains angular momentum—sweeping arcs through the air, fingers tracing invisible orbits—the way his eyes light up when you actually understand something. they go brighter, more vivid, and his whole face transforms. he leans closer without seeming to realize it, and you can see the individual lashes framing his eyes, pale at the roots and darker at the tips.

"you're good at this," you say. "teaching, i mean. You should be a TA or something."

his laugh is short, almost bitter. the sound catches in his throat, comes out rough. "i'm not good at teaching." his hands drop to the table, fingers curling against the wood.

"you're literally teaching me right now. and I actually get it for the first time all semester."

"that's different. this is..." he gestures vaguely between you, and you feel the air move with the motion, watch the play of muscle and tendon in his forearm where his sleeve is rolled up. "one on one. small. when there's a crowd, when people are watching, I—" he cuts himself off. his jaw tightens. you can see the muscle jump beneath his skin.

"stage fright?"

"something like that." His voice is quiet. he's looking down at the textbook now, at the equations that probably make perfect sense to him, that he could solve in his sleep. his fingers tap against the page—once, twice, a nervous rhythm.

you want to push, but something in his expression stops you—a guardedness, a door closing. instead you say: "well, lucky for me you're good at the small scale stuff." you bump your shoulder against his gently, and feel him tense for a fraction of a second before relaxing. the contact is brief but you feel it echo through your whole arm, warm and electric.

lucky for him too, he thinks. or maybe the worst luck in the world. He hasn't decided yet. your shoulder is still warm where it touched his, and the library suddenly feels too small and too large all at once, and he can still taste that too-sweet coffee on his tongue and he doesn't hate it as much as he should.

· · ─ ·ʚɞ· ─ · ·

library session four

it's been two weeks. your exam came and went—you got a B, which felt like a miracle.

when you'd told him, breathless and disbelieving as you'd stared at the grade on your phone, his whole face had transformed. the careful composure he usually wore had shattered like glass, replaced by something incandescent. his eyes had gone wide and bright, crinkling at the corners, and he'd smiled—not his usual half-smirk but a full, unguarded grin that made him look years younger. "i knew you could do it," he'd said, voice rough with something that sounded almost like pride, and then softer, almost to himself, "i knew it."

his hand had twitched at his side like he'd wanted to reach for you, to pull you into a hug or grab your shoulder or something, but he'd caught himself, fingers curling into his palm instead. the wanting had been written all over his face though—transparent as glass, obvious as gravity. you'd felt the phantom warmth of it anyway, the almost-touch lingering on your skin like static electricity.

you should probably stop coming to the library at 11pm now that you don't need help anymore.

you come anyway.

the library smells like old paper and lemon cleaning solution and the particular mustiness of a building that's never quite warm enough. your sneakers squeak against the linoleum as you approach your usual table—the one by the window that overlooks the quad, where the fluorescent lights flicker every forty-seven seconds (you've counted).

"i don't have physics homework tonight," you announce, setting down your bag with a soft thud that echoes in the near-empty third floor. your coffee (black, one sugar) and his (too sweet, but he won't admit it) are already on the table, still steaming faintly. the bitter-sharp scent of your coffee mingles with the almost cloying sweetness of his—you can smell the caramel syrup from here.

satoru looks up from his laptop, and something cautious crosses his face—a subtle downward twitch at the corners of his mouth, a fractional widening of his eyes before his expression smooths into something carefully neutral. his fingers pause on the keyboard, hovering over the keys. the brightness from three days ago when you'd shown him your grade is gone, replaced by something guarded, braced for impact. "oh. okay." his voice is even, but there's a tight quality to it, like he's holding his breath.

"buuut I have a philosophy paper due friday, and I work better when someone else is around. so." you pull out your laptop, feeling the cool metal against your palms, hearing the familiar click as it opens. "is it okay if I just... work here?"

the relief that floods his expression is almost comical. his shoulders drop at least two inches. the tension around his eyes—you hadn't even noticed it was there—melts away, and his mouth curves into something that's trying very hard not to be a grin and failing. that incandescent brightness returns, softer this time but no less real, warming his features from within. "yeah. of course. i'm just running simulations anyway." he says it too eagerly, words tumbling over each other. his hands resettle on the keyboard but don't actually type anything—just rest there, fingertips barely touching the keys, trembling almost imperceptibly.

you settle into what's become your chair—the one with the slightly wobbly left leg that you've learned to compensate for. the vinyl is cracked and cold through your jeans until your body heat warms it. for twenty minutes, the only sound is typing—his rapid and rhythmic, yours more hesitant—and the occasional sip of coffee. yours has cooled to the perfect drinking temperature. you can feel the caffeine hitting your system, sharpening your focus.

after a moment of silence, he speaks, "what's your paper about?" his voice cuts through the silence, softer than usual.

you glance over. he's not looking at his screen anymore. his laptop displays rows of numbers and graphs, but his eyes are on you—a pale, crystalline blue that's almost unsettling in its intensity. the overhead lights catch on his white hair, making it glow like a halo. or a warning. "Heidegger's concept of 'being-toward-death.' super cheerful stuff."

"the idea that awareness of mortality gives life meaning?" he's leaning forward slightly now, elbow on the table, chin propped on his fist. you can see the individual creases in his shirt sleeve, the faint shadow of exhaustion under his eyes.

you blink. "you know Heidegger?"

"i know some philosophy. mostly philosophy of science, but." he shrugs, and you hear the rustle of fabric, catch the faint scent of whatever detergent he uses—something clean and sharp, like mint or eucalyptus. "I read."

"physics majors don't usually read continental philosophy for fun."

"i'm not most physics majors."

it's not said arrogantly. just... factually. like he's stating something obvious about himself that you should already know. his gaze is steady, unwavering, and there's something almost vulnerable in it—like he's offering you this piece of himself and waiting to see what you'll do with it.

"okay, übermensch, what do you think about being-toward-death?"

he considers this, fingers drumming against his coffee cup—a soft, rhythmic tap-tap-tap that you can feel more than hear. his eyes shift away, focusing on something in the middle distance. the fluorescent lights flicker. forty-seven seconds. "i think it's incomplete. Heidegger focuses on the subjective experience of mortality, but he ignores the physical reality. entropy. decay." his voice takes on a different quality when he talks about physics—more animated, his hands starting to move, sketching invisible equations in the air.

"the universe itself is being-toward-death on a cosmic scale. every system tends toward disorder. every particle is running down. we're not special for dying—we're just... participating in the fundamental nature of reality."

you stare blankly at him. his face is earnest, completely serious, eyebrows slightly drawn together in concentration.there's a small furrow between them that you want to smooth away with your thumb. the thought startles you. "that's the most depressing thing i've ever heard."

"but accurate." he meets your eyes again, and there's a hint of a smile now—barely there, just a slight upward curve at one corner of his mouth.

"i can't put that in my paper. my professor would have an existential crisis."

"your professor should have an existential crisis. it's good for philosophers." the smile widens. you can see his teeth now—straight except for one canine that's slightly crooked, overlapping the tooth next to it.

you laugh—really laugh—and the sound bounces off the high ceilings, fills the empty library with something warm. something in his face softens, his whole expression opening up like a flower turning toward sunlight. the harsh fluorescent light suddenly seems warmer. his eyes are doing that thing again—going bright and unguarded, looking at you like you've just handed him something precious. "you're weird, satoru."

"yeah." he says it like he's heard it before, like it's a fact he's made peace with. But there's something in his eyes—a flicker of old hurt, quickly buried. "i know."

you don't say: i like that you're weird. but you think it, the words forming in your mind with crystalline clarity. he sees you thinking it—you can tell by the way his breath catches, barely audible but you're close enough to hear it, by the way his fingers still on the coffee cup, by the way his pupils dilate just slightly. the air between you feels charged, electric, like the moment before a storm breaks.

you end up staying until 2am, your philosophy paper forgotten, talking about entropy and meaning and whether the heat death of the universe negates all human achievement. your second coffee has long gone cold in its cup, bitter dregs at the bottom. you can feel the exhaustion in your bones, but your mind is racing, alive with ideas. it's the kind of conversation you usually have with your philosophy classmates, except satoru brings equations into it, grounds it in thermodynamics and quantum mechanics, makes the abstract terrifyingly concrete. his voice is hoarse from talking by the time you finally pack up.

when you finally leave, he walks you to your dorm. says it's on his way.

(it's not on his way. it's twenty minutes in the opposite direction. you don't know this. you probably never will.)

· · ─ ·ʚɞ· ─ · ·

library session eight

you're halfway through a problem set when your pencil rolls off the table.

you both reach for it.

his hand gets there first, fingers brushing against yours for maybe half a second—barely contact, just the ghost of touch, skin on skin—but you both freeze. the pencil clatters to the floor, forgotten, the sound absurdly loud in the quiet library. rolling, rolling, until it hits the table leg with a hollow tap. you can feel the warmth of his hand even after he's pulled back, a phantom sensation that lingers on your knuckles. your nerve endings are firing like they've been shocked, hyperaware of that tiny point of contact. his fingers had been surprisingly warm, slightly rough at the tips like he bites his nails or writes too much.

"sorry," he says, voice slightly rough, catching on the word. he clears his throat. "i'll—" He leans down to grab the pencil from where it's rolled under your chair, and suddenly he's in your space, close enough that you can feel the warmth radiating off him. you catch a whiff of that eucalyptus scent stronger now, mixed with something else. clean laundry. mint toothpaste, maybe. the coffee on his breath—still too sweet. he surfaces with the pencil, holds it out to you between two fingers, and his ears are pink again. bright pink, the color spreading down his neck, disappearing under his collar.

you take it, careful not to let your fingers touch this time, though part of you wants to. the wood is warm from his hand, smooth under your thumb. "thanks."

the silence that follows is different from your usual comfortable quiet. charged. electric. the air feels thick with it, pressing against your skin. you can hear everything—the hum of the fluorescent lights overhead, sixty cycles per second, that slight buzzing that usually fades into background noise. the distant sound of someone shelving books on the first floor, the soft thud of spines against wood. the heating system clicking on with a low mechanical groan, air starting to whisper through the vents. your own heartbeat, loud in your ears, faster than it should be. his breathing, slightly uneven.

"so," you say, too loud. your voice seems to bounce off every surface. "angular momentum."

"right. Yeah." he blinks, refocuses on the textbook, but it takes him a moment. you watch his eyes track across the page, not quite reading. His finger finds the relevant equation but he has to read it twice before speaking, lips moving silently the first time. "so the key thing about angular momentum is that it's conserved in a closed system. like—you know when figure skaters pull their arms in and spin faster?"

you nod. watch his mouth form the words. he has a small scar at the corner of his lip, barely visible, a thin white line maybe half a centimeter long. you've never noticed it before. wonder distantly how he got it. his lips are slightly chapped—it's getting cold out, everyone's skin is drying out. you can see where he's been worrying the bottom one with his teeth.

"that's conservation of angular momentum. same principle applies here, just..." he trails off, and you realize you're staring. He's staring back. his eyes are doing that thing again—that impossibly blue, catching the harsh fluorescent light and somehow making it soft. his pupils are dilated in the dim library, making his eyes look darker. you can see yourself reflected in them, tiny and inverted. "just more mathematical."

"right," you echo. you have no idea what he just said. the words entered your ears but didn't process, got lost somewhere between his mouth and your comprehension. all you can think about is that his knee is three inches from yours under the table and your hand is still tingling.

he runs a hand through his hair—a nervous gesture you're starting to recognize. it leaves the white strands standing up slightly, messy, catching the light like fiber optic cables. you want to smooth them down. want to know if they're as soft as they look. "should I explain it again?"

"no, I—" you look down at your notebook, at the equation he's written there in his precise handwriting. the numbers blur slightly. you blink hard, force your brain back online. focus on the physics. the math. something concrete. "i think i get it. so if the radius decreases, the velocity has to increase to keep L constant?"

"exactly." his face lights up—that transformation again, the one that makes your chest feel tight, like someone's wrapped a hand around your lungs and squeezed. his whole expression opens, eyes crinkling at the corners, mouth curving into a genuine smile that shows that slightly crooked canine. "exactly, you've got it."

the praise sends an unexpected flush of warmth through you. you duck your head, pretending to write in your notebook. "good teacher," you murmur.

"good student," he replies, just as quiet. his voice has dropped lower, intimate in the empty library.

your phone buzzes against the table—a harsh vibration that makes you both jump. you glance at it—12:47am, the numbers glowing blue-white in the dimness. you have class at nine. you should leave. get at least six hours of sleep. you make no move to pack up. your textbook stays open. your notebook stays on the table. his laptop is still running simulations, the screen casting a pale glow on his face.

"can I ask you something?" the words are out before you can stop them, before you can think about whether you actually want to know the answer.

he goes very still. you see every muscle tense—shoulders, jaw, hands. even his breathing seems to pause. "sure." the word is careful, guarded.

"why do you always have coffee waiting? you're always here before me. do you just... camp out at the library every night?"

something crosses his face—caught, almost guilty. his eyes dart away, focus on a point somewhere past your shoulder. "i like the quiet. good place to work." the words come out rehearsed, like he's prepared this answer.

"at 11pm."

"i'm a night owl." he's fidgeting now, fingers tapping against the edge of his laptop. tap-tap-tap, an irregular rhythm.

"every night?"

"most nights." he's not looking at you anymore, studying the textbook with sudden intense focus, like the diagram of rotational motion is the most fascinating thing he's ever seen. "it's not—i mean, i'd be here anyway. the coffee's just... it's on the way. there's a 24-hour place near my dorm."

(another lie. the 24-hour coffee shop is twenty minutes in the opposite direction from his dorm, tucked into a corner near the engineering building. he leaves at 10:15pm every night to make sure he gets there, gets the coffee—yours black with one sugar, his disgustingly sweet because you bought it that way once—and makes it to the library before you arrive at 11.

he's timed it down to the minute. knows that if he leaves at 10:17 he'll be two minutes late. knows which route has the fewest streetlights out. knows that the barista working nights on thursdays always gives him an extra shot of espresso for free.)

you let it go. file it away with all the other small things you're starting to notice. the way he remembers how you take your coffee. the way he always walks you home, even though he claims it's on his way. the way he looks at you when he thinks you're not paying attention—like you're a theorem he's trying to prove, a puzzle he can't quite solve, something precious and fragile and just out of reach. the way his breath catches when you laugh. the way he leans in when you talk, like he doesn't want to miss a single word.

"i'm glad you're here," you say instead, the words softer than you intend. "the nights, i mean. it's nice. having company."

his eyes snap to yours, wide and startled, unguarded for just a moment. for a heartbeat he looks almost scared, like you've just said something dangerous, something that could detonate in his hands. his lips part slightly, and you watch his throat work as he swallows. then his expression softens into something that makes your stomach flip, that sends heat pooling low in your abdomen. something warm and open and achingly vulnerable.

"yeah," he says quietly, voice barely above a whisper. "it is."

you work in silence for another hour. the numbers start to blur together on the page. your hand is cramping from writing. at some point your knee bumps against his under the table and neither of you moves away. the contact is barely there—just a point of warmth through two layers of denim—but you're aware of it with every breath. can feel the solid presence of him, the small movements when he shifts his weight. t

he table is small enough that you're constantly almost-touching—elbows nearly brushing, hands coming close when you both reach for the textbook. the air between you feels charged, like static electricity before a storm.

when you finally pack up at 2am, your brain fuzzy with exhaustion and caffeine and something else—something unnamed that sits warm and heavy in your chest—he does that thing where he pretends walking you home is on his way. closes his laptop with a decisive click. stretches, and you try not to watch the way his shirt rides up, exposing a thin strip of pale skin above his jeans.

the october air is cold enough now that you can see your breath, small clouds that dissipate in the darkness. the campus is dead quiet except for your footsteps on the pavement—his heavier, yours lighter, falling into an easy rhythm. your shoulders brush occasionally when the sidewalk narrows. the streetlights cast long shadows, turn everything orange and surreal. somewhere in the distance a siren wails. a dog barks. the normal sounds of a city at night, but they feel muted, distant, like you're walking through a bubble that contains just the two of you.

"hey satoru?" you call out.

"mm?" he turns his head to look at you, and the streetlight catches in his eyes.

"next time you don't have to get the coffee. we could just... I don't know. meet here and then go get it together or something."

you feel more than see him go still. his footsteps stutter for just a moment before resuming. "together?" the word comes out strange, like he's testing it. tasting it.

"yeah. I mean, if you want. seems fair since you always—" you gesture vaguely, breath clouding in the cold. "you know."

"i want to," he says, too quickly. then, more carefully, like he's trying to dial it back, "that would be good. yeah."

there's something in his voice—relief and longing and something almost like fear. you glance at him but he's looking straight ahead, jaw tight, hands shoved deep in his pockets.

when you reach your dorm he does that small wave thing, hands in his pockets, breath clouding in the cold air. the motion makes him look younger somehow, uncertain. "see you tuesday?"

"tuesday," you confirm. wave back, your fingers already numb from the cold.

inside, the lobby is overheated and smells like stale popcorn and floor cleaner. you climb the three flights to your floor, legs heavy with exhaustion. your roommate is asleep, the room dark except for the glow of her phone charging. you drop your bag, go to the window.

he's still there. standing under the streetlight, looking up. the light turns his hair silver-bright, makes him look like something otherworldly. a ghost. an angel. something not quite human. he stands there for a long moment—thirty seconds, a minute—just looking. you can't see his expression from here but something about his posture seems lonely. small, despite his height.

then he turns and starts walking, not toward the direction he said his dorm was, but the opposite way. east instead of west. you watch his figure get smaller, watch him pass under streetlight after streetlight, until he finally disappears around the corner by the physics building.

huh, you think.

you stand at the window for a moment longer, breath fogging the glass. your fingers are pressed against the cold pane. below, the street is empty. just pools of orange light and darkness.

you don't mention it on tuesday.

but when you get to the library at 10:45—fifteen minutes early, your heart beating faster than it should—he's already there, two coffees on the table, looking up with that soft, startled expression like you've just appeared out of nowhere.

like he's been waiting for you.

(he has.)

· · ─ ·ʚɞ· ─ · ·

library session ten

it's thursday and you're not doing physics.

"I have a philosophy presentation tomorrow," you say, dropping into your chair with a heavy sigh that seems to echo in the empty third floor. your bag hits the floor with a thud—heavier than usual, stuffed with books you've been hauling around all day. "i need to practice it out loud but my roommate's asleep and I—" you pause, suddenly uncertain. "would it be weird if I just... presented it to you?"

satoru looks up from his laptop, and something flickers across his face. Interest, maybe. or concern—you can't quite read it. "what's it on?"

"Sartre. existence precedes essence. the whole 'we're condemned to be free' thing." you pull out your notes, pages covered in highlighter and frantic marginalia from when you'd been trying to make sense of Being and Nothingness at 3am. the pages are crinkled, coffee-stained. "it's only ten minutes but I keep losing my place and—"

"yeah," he interrupts, too quickly. then, softer, "i mean, yes. I'd like to hear it."

there's something in his voice. eagerness, carefully restrained. like you've just offered him something he didn't know he wanted.

you stand up, smooth down your shirt even though there's no one here but him. clear your throat. the fluorescent lights buzz overhead. "okay. so. um." your hands are already shaking slightly, papers rustling. "Jean-Paul Sartre argued that—"

"wait." he closes his laptop with a quiet click, pushes it aside. turns his chair to fully face you, giving you his complete attention. his eyes are steady on yours, patient. "okay. go ahead."

something about the way he's looking at you—focused, interested, no judgment in his expression—makes your shoulders relax slightly.

"Jean-Paul Sartre argued that existence precedes essence," you begin again, and this time your voice is steadier. "unlike objects, which are created with a purpose—a chair is made to be sat on, a knife is made to cut—humans exist first, and only afterward do we define ourselves through our choices and actions."

you glance at your notes, lose your place, find it again. your finger traces down the page, smudging the highlighter. "this means that we have no predetermined nature. no essence handed to us by God or biology or society. we are, in Sartre's words, 'condemned to be free.'" you look up, checking if he's still with you.

he's leaning forward now, elbows on his knees, chin resting on his laced fingers. completely still. listening with an intensity that makes you feel pinned, examined. but not in a bad way. like every word you're saying matters.

"the condemnation comes from the weight of that freedom. We are entirely responsible for who we become. we can't blame God, or fate, or our upbringing. every choice we make is a choice we're making not just for ourselves, but—" you flip a page, the paper catching on your thumb, "—for all of humanity. because in choosing, we're saying 'this is what a human should do in this situation.'"

"but that's not quite right," satoru says, and you stop.

"what?"

"sorry." he sits back slightly, looking almost apologetic. his hand comes up, rubbing the back of his neck. "i don't mean to—you're explaining it well. i just meant Sartre's argument. the idea that every choice is a choice for all of humanity—it's too broad. too... abstract." his eyes are distant now, thinking. "when I choose to have coffee at 11pm, i'm not making a universal statement about humanity's relationship with caffeine."

you can't help it—you laugh, the sound bursting out before you can stop it. "that's exactly what my professor said. well, not about the coffee. but that Sartre's ethics are too demanding. that they lead to paralysis because every tiny choice becomes this huge moral weight."

"so what do you think?" he tilts his head, genuinely curious. "do you buy it? the whole condemned to be free thing?"

you set your notes down on the table, presentation temporarily forgotten. "i think... i think there's something true in it. the part about how we define ourselves through our choices. but the weight of it—" you gesture vaguely, trying to find the words. "i don't know if i believe every choice is that significant. sometimes you're just tired and you want coffee. sometimes you're just trying to pass physics."

his mouth quirks into a small smile. "sometimes you're just trying to help someone pass physics."

"right. like—" you pause, something clicking into place in your mind. "those choices still mean something. they still define who you are. but maybe not in this grand universal way. maybe just in a... smaller way. a personal way."

"the small scale stuff," he says quietly, and you remember—lucky for me you're good at the small scale stuff.

"yeah. the small scale stuff." you repeat.

the silence that follows is comfortable. thoughtful. you can hear the heating system, the distant hum of computers in the lab downstairs. your coffee has gone cold in its cup.

"you should keep going," he says after a moment. "with the presentation. you were doing well."

"was I?" you pick up your notes again, suddenly self-conscious. "i feel like I keep going off on tangents."

"you do," he agrees, and there's amusement in his voice. "but they're good tangents. you're not just reciting facts. you're actually thinking about them. engaging with them." he leans back in his chair, and you hear it creak slightly. "your professor will like that. even if they disagree with your conclusions."

you study him for a moment. he's relaxed now, more than you've seen him. usually there's a tension in his shoulders, a guardedness in his expression. but right now he looks... comfortable. content. like this—sitting here at 11:47pm in an empty library talking about existentialism—is exactly where he wants to be.

"okay," you say. "from the top?"

"from the top."

you present the whole thing twice more. he doesn't interrupt again, just listens, nods at certain points, makes small encouraging gestures when you stumble over words. by the third run-through, you're not even looking at your notes. the arguments flow naturally, and you can see the through-line of your own thinking clearly for the first time.

"that was perfect," he says when you finish. "seriously. you're going to do great."

the praise makes something warm bloom in your chest. "thanks for listening. i know this isn't exactly—" you gesture at his laptop, at the equations you can see on the screen. "your area."

"i liked it." He says it simply, like it's obvious. "i like hearing you talk about things you care about."

the words hang in the air between you. you can feel your face heating, are grateful for the dim lighting that hopefully hides it. "i like hearing you talk about physics," you offer, then immediately feel stupid. "even when I don't understand half of it."

"you understand more than you think." he opens his laptop again, but slowly, like he's reluctant to break whatever spell has settled over your corner of the library. "want to do some actual homework now, or are you too philosophized out?"

"i should probably—" you glance at your phone. 12:15am. "i should probably look at my physics reading. we have that quiz on Monday."

"chapter seven?"

"yeah. rotational dynamics. which i definitely, totally understand and am not at all terrified of."

he grins—quick and bright and almost playful. "liar."

"okay, yes, i'm terrified. Are you happy?"

"very." he's already pulling up the textbook pdf on his laptop, turning the screen so you can both see. "come here, i'll walk you through it."

you move your chair closer—close enough that your shoulders are almost touching, that you can feel the warmth of him along your left side. the screen glows blue-white in the darkness. his fingers move over the trackpad, pulling up diagrams and equations, and you try to focus on the physics and not on the way his voice drops lower when he's explaining something complex, the way he smells like eucalyptus and coffee and something uniquely him.

"so the moment of inertia depends on the distribution of mass," he's saying, and you can feel his breath on your shoulder when he leans in to point at something on the screen. "the farther the mass is from the axis of rotation, the larger the moment of inertia. that's why figure skaters—"

"spin faster when they pull their arms in," you finish. "conservation of angular momentum. you already taught me that."

"just making sure it stuck." he glances at you, and he's close enough that you can see the individual shades of blue in his eyes. not just one color but layers—pale blue near the pupil, darker at the edges, with flecks of something almost silver. "did it stick?"

"yeah," you say, quieter than you intend. "it stuck."

you're staring at each other. the laptop screen has gone dark from inactivity, plunging you into deeper dimness. the only light now is the fluorescent glow from the main library area, filtering through the gaps in the bookshelves. you can see the exact moment his eyes drop to your mouth—quick, involuntary, like he couldn't help it—before snapping back up.

he pulls back slightly, breaking the moment. clears his throat. "we should—the quiz. let me pull up some practice problems."

"right. yeah. practice problems."

but neither of you moves to turn the laptop back on. not for several long seconds. not until someone laughs on a lower floor and the sound echoes up the stairwell, breaking whatever was building between you.

the rest of the night is quieter. you work through practice problems while he runs his simulations, and the silence is punctuated only by the scratch of pencil on paper, the click of keys, the occasional question and answer. but something has shifted. you're hyperaware of every almost-touch, every shared glance, every moment when his hand gets close to yours on the table.

when he walks you home at 2am, the cold october air biting at your exposed skin, you walk closer together than usual. your arms brush with every third step. neither of you mentions it.

at your dorm, he does his usual wave. waits until your light comes on. you watch from the window as he walks away—the correct direction this time, you note. or maybe he's just gotten better at the lie. maybe he walks the correct way for three blocks and then doubles back. maybe he's been doing that all along.

you don't know.

(you're starting to want to.)

· · ─ ·ʚɞ· ─ · ·

library session twelve

it's tuesday and satoru is wearing a different shirt.

this shouldn't matter. it doesn't matter. except you've seen him in the same rotation of clothing for weeks now—three button-downs in various states of wrinkled, two sweaters with holes in the sleeves, that one hoodie with the faded logo—and tonight he's wearing something new. dark blue, fitted, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows in a way that seems deliberate. intentional. like he thought about it.

"hey," he says when you arrive, and his voice is slightly higher than usual. nervous.

"hey." you set down your bag, and your hand trembles slightly when you reach for the coffee he's already gotten you. your fingers brush the cup and it's still warm—which means he got here even earlier than normal. "new shirt?"

you watch color flood his cheeks, spreading down his neck. "oh. yeah. the... the other ones were all dirty."

(a lie. you're getting better at spotting them. his shirts were fine. he did laundry on sunday like he always does, you've seen him in the same blue button-down twice since then. this is new. this is for you.)

"it's nice," you say, and your voice comes out softer than intended. "the color. it's... it's good."

"thanks." he's not looking at you, fingers drumming against his own coffee cup in that nervous rhythm you've memorized. tap-tap-tap-pause-tap. "how was your presentation? friday?"

"oh." you'd almost forgotten. "it went well, actually. got an A. professor said I had 'interesting insights on Sartre's ethical implications.'" you smile at the memory. "pretty sure that's academic speak for 'you went off script but I liked it.'"

his face does that thing—that full, unguarded smile that transforms him completely. "I knew you'd do well. you were—" he pauses, seems to catch himself. "it was a good presentation. when you practiced."

there's something in the way he says it. something weighted. like he's saying more than just the words.

you sit down, and somehow end up closer than usual. your chair scrapes against the floor and you end up near enough that your knees are almost touching under the table. you notice it. freeze for a half-second. shift slightly away but not all the way. neither of you acknowledges it but you can feel the space between you like a physical thing. charged. electric.

"so what are we working on tonight?" he asks, pulling his laptop closer. his fingers are shaking slightly on the trackpad. you've never seen his hands shake before.

"chapter eight. torque and equilibrium." you pull out your textbook but you're hyperaware of where he is in space. the exact distance between his elbow and yours on the table. "but I should probably warn you, I'm completely lost."

"you're not lost. you just think you are." he pulls up the chapter on his screen, angling it so you can both see, and you catch a whiff of his detergent—he changed it, or maybe you're just noticing it more. something clean and fresh with a hint of cedar. "torque is just... it's rotational force. you already understand force. this is the same thing, just spinning."

"just spinning," you echo. "why do you make everything sound so simple?"

"because it is simple. once you see the pattern." he points at a diagram on the screen and you both lean in at the same time. his shoulder brushes yours—just for a second—and you both jerk back like you've been burned. there's a pause. a weird charged silence. "see?" his voice is slightly strained. "force times distance. that's all torque is."

you're trying to focus on the diagram but your skin is still tingling where he touched you. "so if I want to open a door, I push far from the hinges to maximize torque."

"exactly." he turns his head to look at you and you realize suddenly how close you're sitting. close enough to see the faint freckles across his nose. close enough that if you leaned forward just a few inches—

you don't lean forward. neither does he. but you both seem to realize the proximity at the same time and there's a moment where neither of you moves. frozen. his eyes are very blue.

then he clears his throat and looks back at the screen. "you do understand. you just don't trust yourself."

"maybe I just like having you explain things," you say without thinking, and immediately want to take it back. too honest. too revealing.

his fingers still on the trackpad. "oh," he says quietly.

the silence that follows is thick. awkward. you can hear your own heartbeat, loud in your ears.

"so," you say too brightly. "practice problems?"

"right. yeah. practice problems." he's typing too fast, making mistakes, having to backspace. you pretend not to notice.

you try to focus on the physics. you really do. but you keep getting distracted by stupid things. the way his fingers move over the keyboard. the way he worries his bottom lip when he's thinking. the way his hair falls into his eyes and he pushes it back with an impatient gesture.

and you keep almost-touching. reaching for the same pencil. both moving to point at the same equation. every time there's contact—just a brush of fingers, a bump of elbows—you both pull back like you've been shocked. apologize. avoid eye contact.

it's searing.

"are you okay?" he asks after the fifth time you've lost your train of thought mid-sentence.

"fine. just—" you scramble for an excuse. "tired. long day."

"we can stop if you want." there's something in his voice. disappointment, maybe, buried under concern.

"no. I want to stay." too emphatic. you try to dial it back. "I mean, I need to understand this for the quiz monday."

"right. the quiz." he runs a hand through his hair, messing it up. you want to smooth it down. you don't. "let me show you another example."

he pulls the textbook closer to him, which means closer to you. you're sharing the book now, both leaning over it, and you're acutely aware of every place your bodies almost touch. his arm next to yours. his knee a centimeter from your knee. the warmth radiating off him.

"so the system is in equilibrium when the sum of all torques equals zero," he's explaining, and his voice is slightly unsteady. his finger traces the diagram and you're watching his hand instead of the physics. "which means—are you listening?"

"yes," you lie.

"what did I just say?"

"...something about equilibrium?"

he laughs—quiet and a little breathless. "you're not paying attention at all."

"I am. I'm just—" you meet his eyes and forget what you were going to say. he's looking at you with an expression you can't quite read. something soft and uncertain and almost scared. "distracted."

"by what?" it comes out barely above a whisper.

you should say something about the quiz. about being stressed. instead you say, "I don't know," which is somehow more honest.

he swallows hard. you watch his throat work. "me too," he admits quietly. "I've been—for weeks now, I can't—" he stops. takes a breath. "never mind."

"no, what?" you're leaning closer without meaning to.

"nothing. it's—" he shakes his head. "it's stupid."

"tell me anyway."

he looks at you for a long moment. you can see him weighing something. deciding. "I think about you," he says finally, so quiet you almost miss it. "when you're not here. more than I should. more than makes sense for—" he gestures vaguely at the textbook. "for physics homework."

your heart stops. starts again, harder. "oh."

"yeah." he laughs awkwardly, won't meet your eyes. "so. that's—I'm probably making this weird. sorry. we can just—"

"I do too," you interrupt. the words tumble out before you can stop them. "think about you. I mean. when I'm not here." you can feel your face burning. "I see something and wonder what you'd say about it. or I check the time and start getting ready to come here even when I don't have homework and—" you stop. this is too much. too honest.

he's staring at you now. "really?"

"really."

"oh," he breathes. and then: "I wore this shirt because—" he stops. starts again. "you said you liked this color once. weeks ago. on someone else's shirt. I don't even know if you remember."

"I remember." your voice is shaking. "I wore this sweater because you said green was your favorite color on me."

the silence that follows is deafening. you're both just looking at each other, and the air feels thick, hard to breathe. his eyes drop to your mouth—just for a second—and your stomach flips.

then someone laughs on a lower floor and you both startle, jerking apart. the spell breaks.

"we should—" he starts.

"yeah. physics. right." you're not looking at each other now. both staring determinedly at the textbook.

but your hand is on the table between you and so is his, and they're very close. almost touching. you can feel the warmth of his skin. see his fingers twitch like he wants to reach over. you want him to reach over. your pinky moves closer. so does his.

you're both pretending to read the textbook but you're not reading anything. you're focused entirely on the shrinking distance between your hands.

his pinky brushes yours. the contact is feather-light. barely there. but neither of you pulls away.

you shift your hand slightly. now your fingers are overlapping. not quite holding hands but not not holding hands either. your heart is racing so fast you feel dizzy.

"so torque," he says, voice strained, not looking up from the book. "is equal to force times distance."

"right," you manage. your hand is tingling where you're touching him. "force times distance."

"and when the system is in equilibrium—" his index finger curls around yours. still casual. still deniable. "—the net torque is zero."

"zero," you echo. you have no idea what you're saying. all your focus is on the point of contact. his finger hooked around yours.

you sit like that for several minutes. pretending to study. hands linked between the coffee cups and physics textbook. not acknowledging it. both terrified that if you acknowledge it, it will stop.

eventually you have to turn the page and the spell breaks. you both pull back. there's an awkward pause.

"I should—" you start. "it's late. I should probably—"

"oh. yeah. of course." he sounds disappointed. "I'll walk you back."

"you don't have to—"

"I want to."

the walk back is torture. you're walking close enough that your arms brush occasionally. every point of contact feels massive. significant. you're both talking too much, too fast, filling the silence with nervous chatter about nothing. philosophy and physics and the weather and anything except what just happened.

at your dorm, you both stop. stand there awkwardly.

"so," he says.

"so," you echo.

"same time thursday?"

"yeah. thursday." you pause. "thanks for—for the help. with physics."

"anytime." he's looking at you with that soft expression again. "I mean it. anytime."

you should go inside. you're both just standing here. "okay. good. I'll—thursday."

"thursday," he confirms.

neither of you moves.

"I should—" you gesture at the door.

"right. yeah." he takes a step back. "goodnight."

"goodnight, satoru."

you're halfway through the door when he calls your name. you turn back.

"I—" he stops. seems to lose his nerve. "sleep well."

"you too."

you watch from your window as he walks away. he makes it to the corner, pauses, looks back at your building. stands there for a long moment before finally continuing on.

you touch your fingers where his had been. they're still tingling.

this is bad, you think. this is going to be a problem.

you can't wait until thursday.

· · ─ ·ʚɞ· ─ · ·

library session fourteen

it's thursday and satoru isn't here.

you arrive at 11pm exactly—maybe a minute early, maybe you were eager, maybe you'd spent an extra ten minutes picking out your shirt (green, because he likes green on you, because you're just as bad as he is)—and the table is empty. no laptop with its familiar array of stickers (a periodic table, a cat with glasses, something in japanese you can't read). no coffee cups sweating condensation onto the wood, leaving those overlapping rings you've both stopped bothering to wipe away. no satoru with his messy white hair and nervous hands and that way he looks up when you arrive like you've just made his entire night worthwhile.

you wait.

you sit down in your chair—the wobbly one you've gotten used to—and pull out your textbook. chapter nine, angular momentum. you read the same paragraph three times without absorbing a single word.

11:15. nothing.

the library is almost empty. there's someone on the first floor, you can hear the distant sound of pages turning. the fluorescent lights hum their endless sixty-cycle song. the heating system clicks and groans. outside the window, campus is dark except for the scattered orange glow of streetlights.

11:30. you text him. you coming?

you watch the message deliver. wait for the read receipt. nothing.

your leg bounces under the table. you bite your thumbnail, a nervous habit you thought you'd broken in high school.

11:45. you try calling. it rings once, twice, three times. your heart sinks with each ring. four, five, six.

"you've reached gojo satoru, leave a message."

his voice on the recording is awkward, formal. you can hear him cringing at himself even through the recording. there's a pause before the beep like he forgot what he was supposed to say next.

beep.

"hey, it's me. just—wondering if you're okay? you're usually here by now. call me back." you try to keep your voice light, casual, not like anxiety is already coiling in your stomach like a snake.

you hang up. stare at your phone. the screen shows your wallpaper—a photo you took last week of the autumn leaves on the quad, gold and red against grey sky. you'd almost changed it to the selfie you'd convinced satoru to take with you three days ago (he'd looked terrified of the camera, you'd both been laughing, it was perfect) but that felt like too much too soon.

by 12:15 you're packing up your untouched textbook, anxiety fully transformed into something sharper. fear, maybe. what if something happened? what if he's sick? what if he got hit by a car or mugged or had some kind of lab accident with radioactive materials—

or what if he finally got tired of spending every night tutoring you? what if tuesday was too much, too weird, too intense? what if he went home and thought about your fingers tangled with his and realized he didn't actually want this, didn't want you, what if he's avoiding you—

no. no, he wouldn't do that. not without saying something. not after the way he looked at you, not after that soft confession about thinking about you when you're not there.

but what if he would?

you pull up the student directory on your phone. your hands are shaking slightly as you type his name. gojo satoru, physics phd candidate. there's a dorm listed. warren hall, room 447.

you shouldn't go. it's creepy. invasive. stalkerish. he probably just fell asleep or his phone died or he's busy with research and forgot and you're being completely irrational—

you're already walking.

the cold october air hits you like a slap when you exit the library. it's gotten colder in the past few hours—probably in the low forties now, cold enough that you can see your breath, cold enough that you wish you'd brought a heavier jacket. you shove your hands in your pockets and walk fast, partly for warmth and partly because if you slow down you'll lose your nerve.

warren hall is on the far side of campus—a solid twenty-five minute walk from the library. past the humanities building (dark, locked, silent), past the student center (a few lit windows on the upper floors, the distant thump of music from someone's room), past the science quad with its modern glass buildings that glow blue-white from the emergency lighting inside.

warren hall is newer than your building—maybe ten years old instead of fifty. all key card access and security cameras and a front desk that's unmanned at this hour. you catch the door when someone leaves—a tired-looking grad student with a messenger bag and dead eyes—slip inside before it closes. the lobby is too warm, overheated in that way institutional buildings always are. it smells like carpet cleaner and instant ramen and the particular musk of too many people living in close quarters.

the elevator has an "out of order" sign taped to it. of course it does.

you take the stairs, your footsteps echoing in the concrete stairwell. someone has taped inspirational posters to the walls at each landing. "you got this!" "don't give up!" "almost there!" they get progressively more deranged as you climb. by the fourth floor it just says "why?" with a picture of a cat looking existentially exhausted.

fourth floor. the hallway is long and narrow, painted that specific shade of beige that exists only in institutional buildings. the carpet is dark blue, industrial, stained in places you don't want to examine too closely. the hallway smells like microwave popcorn and old socks and someone's weed brownie experiment gone wrong.

you find 447 at the end, past doors decorated with whiteboards and name tags and one very elaborate fantasy map. satoru's door is plain. just the number. no whiteboard, no decoration. somehow that feels very him.

you hesitate with your hand raised to knock.

what are you doing? what if he's here with someone? what if he's asleep? what if he doesn't want to see you? what if you're completely overreacting and he's going to think you're unhinged for tracking him down like this—

you knock before you can talk yourself out of it.

nothing.

the silence is absolute. you can hear your own heartbeat, loud in your ears. can hear someone's tv through the wall to your left, canned laughter from a sitcom.

you try again, louder. your knuckles sting from the impact. "satoru? it's me. are you okay?"

more silence.

you try the handle—just to see, just to confirm it's locked so you can leave and tell yourself you tried—and it turns.

unlocked...

your heart jumps into your throat, pulse suddenly racing. unlocked. his door is unlocked. what if something's wrong? what if someone broke in? what if he's hurt inside?

"satoru?" you push the door open slowly, every horror movie you've ever seen playing in your head. "I'm coming in, okay? I just want to make sure you're not dead or—"

the room is empty.

you let out a breath you didn't know you were holding.

it's small—barely bigger than your own dorm. maybe ten by twelve feet, most of it taken up by furniture. a single bed in the corner, neatly made with plain navy sheets and a pillow that looks flat and sad. a desk absolutely buried in papers and textbooks and coffee cups in various states of empty. a small bookshelf overflowing with physics texts and actual literature—you spot dostoevsky and camus and, inexplicably, a collection of poetry by mary oliver. a tiny kitchenette area with a microwave and electric kettle. a closet with the door half-open, showing a depressingly small collection of clothes (lots of white and blue, everything rumpled).

barely any decoration except a periodic table poster on the wall above his desk—the kind where each element is color-coded by category—and a small succulent on the windowsill that looks half-dead, its leaves brown and shriveled. there's a single photo taped to the wall by his bed: satoru and an older couple, possibly his parents, all three of them squinting into the sun. he looks younger. happier. less tired.

his laptop is open on the desk, screen still glowing with that pale blue light.

you shouldn't look. you absolutely should not look. this is a massive invasion of privacy. this is wrong. this is—

but what if something in there tells you where he is? what if there's a note, a calendar entry, something to explain why he didn't show up? what if he's in trouble?

you move closer, shoes sinking into the thin carpet. the desk is chaos—printed papers covered in equations you can't begin to understand, lab notebooks with coffee stains and scribbled margin notes, a mug with cold coffee and a film on top, three different pens (blue, black, red), a calculator that looks like it costs more than your textbooks, a stack of grant applications paper-clipped together.

the laptop screen shows a document—academic formatting, double-spaced, dense with citations and technical language that might as well be a foreign language.

your eyes catch on the title at the top.

Synthesis and Characterization of Ununennium (Element 119): A Novel Approach to Superheavy Element Creation Through Modified Hot Fusion Reactions

Gojo, S., Department of Physics, Graduate Program in Nuclear Science

Nakamura, T., Department of Physics

Submitted to: Physical Review Letters

your brain stutters. stops. tries to process. fails.

element 119. synthesis of a new element. ununennium.

that lecture. the one from your assignment at the beginning of the semester. that brilliant, awkward physicist who'd discovered element 119 and could barely string two words together in front of a crowd. who'd rushed through his slides like he was being chased, whose hands had shaken so badly the laser pointer kept jumping around the screen. who'd gotten flustered at questions and stammered through answers and looked like he wanted the earth to swallow him whole.

who'd made you write in your paper: there's something deeply humanizing about seeing a scientist—especially one who made such a groundbreaking discovery—be so genuinely uncomfortable with public speaking. it reminds us that brilliance doesn't come with confidence pre-installed. that the person who just expanded our understanding of atomic physics is still just a person, still nervous, still human.

you scroll down, hands shaking. the abstract is full of technical terms you don't know. isotopes and decay chains and cross-sections and beam energy. but you catch fragments:

...successful synthesis of element 119 through the fusion of titanium-50 and berkelium-249...

...detection confirmed through alpha decay chain analysis...

...represents a significant advance in superheavy element research...

there are dates. the experiment was concluded in july. the lecture was in september, right before the semester started. right before you'd been assigned to write about a recent scientific advancement. right before you'd sat in the library at 11pm struggling with physics homework and a white-haired, blue-eyed stranger had asked if you needed help.

"oh my god," you breathe.

you scroll further. more documents in his recent files. drafts of papers. data analysis. emails from his advisor about publication timelines and conference presentations. an email from someone at berkeley asking him to give a talk. an email from CERN with the subject line "research opportunity."

and then—

a folder labeled "papers to read."

you click it without thinking, without considering that this is wrong, that you're violating his privacy, that you should stop—

your philosophy paper on heidegger. saved as a PDF. dated from three weeks ago.

you open it. the margins are full of comments in his handwriting—small, precise, the letters cramped.

this is a really interesting point about authenticity

hadn't thought about it this way before

I wonder if this connects to what you said about entropy that night? both about finding meaning in the face of inevitable ending?

you close it with shaking hands. scroll further.

an article about sartre's concept of bad faith from a philosophy journal. bookmarked. highlighted in yellow—something about self-deception and avoiding freedom.

an article about the ethics of artificial intelligence that you'd mentioned wanting to read during one of your late-night conversations. saved.

a PDF of mary oliver's wild geese with one line highlighted: you do not have to be good.

and then—

a document titled simply "notes."

you shouldn't open it. you absolutely should not open it.

you open it.

it's not dated. just... observations. fragments. a running list.

—takes coffee black with one sugar, always waits for it to cool to exactly 140 degrees before drinking (I timed it, approximately 7 minutes after purchase)

—gets frustrated when she doesn't understand something immediately but won't ask for help until she's tried at least three times on her own

—chews on her pen cap when she's thinking, has probably consumed a concerning amount of plastic

—birthday in -your birthday month- (mentioned it when talking about spring break plans, specifically, same as the ides of march and she made a joke about betrayal)

—wants to go to grad school but isn't sure where yet, keeps changing her mind between continental philosophy and ethics

—thinks I'm weird but in a good way??? (she said this. I have replayed this seventeen times in my head. "good way" means positive. probably.)

—laughs with her whole body, throws her head back, it's the best sound I've ever heard

—she wore the green sweater again today, I think she knows I like it, or maybe I'm reading into things, I'm definitely reading into things

your heart is hammering against your ribs so hard it hurts. you scroll further and there are more notes, going back weeks. the first entry is from early september.

—asked me for help with physics, looked at me like I might actually be able to help, like I wasn't just the weird guy who can't talk to people. maybe this semester won't be completely terrible.

then more, scattered observations:

—she came back. didn't have to. chose to.

—remembers things I say, brought up something I mentioned about quantum tunneling three days later

—bit her lip today when she was concentrating and I forgot how to explain angular momentum

—I think I'm in trouble

the most recent entry is from tuesday. two days ago.

—she wore the green sweater. she remembered. she REMEMBERED.

—held her hand for 4 minutes and 23 seconds before she had to turn the page. wanted to do it again immediately. wanted to never stop. wanted to—

—I think about her constantly. when I'm running simulations I imagine explaining them to her. when I read something interesting I mentally compose how I'd tell her about it. when I'm falling asleep I replay conversations, thinking about what I should have said, what I wish I'd been brave enough to say.

—she makes me want to be less afraid. she makes me want to be brave. she makes me want to be normal even though I've never been normal a day in my life and I don't know how to start.

—I'm in love with her. I think. I don't have a reference point. but if love is wanting someone else's happiness more than your own, wanting to know everything about them, wanting to be better for them—then yes. definitely. unequivocally.

—I'm terrified she'll realize I'm too much. too intense. too weird. that she'll—

it cuts off there. like he couldn't finish the thought.

you're staring at the screen when you hear footsteps in the hallway. voices.

"—just need to grab my laptop and then we can go over the data from tonight's run. the decay chain is slightly different from what we predicted—"

the door opens. satoru freezes in the doorway.

he's wearing his lab coat—white, rumpled, stained with something that might be coffee or might be chemicals you don't want to think about. his hair is more disheveled than usual, standing up like he's been running his hands through it for hours. he has safety goggles pushed up on his forehead. there's a smudge of something dark on his cheek. he looks exhausted—eyes shadowed, shoulders tight with tension.

there's an older man behind him—late fifties, greying hair, wearing an identical lab coat and carrying a stack of folders thick enough to be a weapon. professor nakamura, you recognize him vaguely from around campus. he's apparently somewhat famous in physics circles, though you couldn't say why.

satoru's eyes—those impossibly blue eyes that you've memorized in every shade and mood—go wide. then wider. his face drains of color, going from pale to absolutely bloodless in the span of a heartbeat. his mouth opens. closes. opens again. no sound comes out.

his eyes dart to his laptop. to you standing in front of it. back to you. the recognition and horror that crosses his face is almost comical. almost, except you can see real fear there too.

"I—" he starts. his voice cracks. "I can explain."

professor nakamura looks between you with barely concealed amusement, one eyebrow raised, a small smile tugging at his mouth. "I'll just—" he clears his throat. "I'll wait in my office. room 342 in the physics building. bring the data when you're ready, gojo. take your time."

the emphasis on "take your time" is meaningful. he's definitely laughing at satoru.

he leaves, closing the door behind him with a soft click that sounds deafening in the sudden silence.

you and satoru stare at each other for what it seems like hours.

he still hasn't moved from the doorway. his hands are clenched at his sides, knuckles white. you can see him trembling—just slightly, but definitely trembling. his eyes are doing that thing where they jump around, looking at you then away then back, like he can't decide whether to maintain eye contact or flee.

"you didn't show up," you say. your voice sounds strange to your own ears. distant. like you're underwater. "I was worried."

"I was in the lab." the words come out in a rush, defensive. "we were running the particle accelerator and it took longer than expected and I lost track of time and my phone died and I—" he stops. swallows hard. you watch his throat work, watch him try to gather himself. "you read it."

it's not a question. it's a statement of fact, heavy with resignation.

"element 119," you say. "you made element 119."

"yes." barely a whisper.

"you synthesized a new element. you discovered—no, created—something that has never existed before in the universe." your brain is still trying to process this. "you were the one. the lecture. the one I wrote my assignment about."

"yes." he won't look at you now. he's staring at the floor, at his shoes (scuffed sneakers, the laces on one are coming untied), anywhere but your face.

"why didn't you tell me?" you're not angry—you should maybe be angry about the invasion of privacy, about the secret-keeping, but you're not. you're just baffled. genuinely confused. "when I mentioned that assignment, when I talked about that lecture—why didn't you say it was you?"

"because—" he runs a hand through his hair, agitated, messing it up even more. the safety goggles fall off his forehead and clatter to the floor. he doesn't pick them up. "because I didn't want you to know. I didn't want you to—" he makes a frustrated gesture, hands cutting through the air. "everyone knows. everyone in the physics department, everyone who follows particle physics, everyone at conferences. I can't go anywhere without people wanting to talk about it or asking me questions or treating me like I'm—"

his voice rises slightly, gets tighter. he's breathing faster now, working himself up.

"—like I'm some kind of genius or prodigy or—or like I'm not a person. like I'm just this thing that made a discovery. this achievement. not satoru who likes bad coffee and can't give presentations without wanting to die and who's read the same mary oliver poem seventeen times because it makes him feel less—"

he cuts himself off. bites his lip hard.

"and when I met you, you didn't know." his voice drops back down, goes quiet. "you just thought I was some weird physics student who hung out in the library too late. you looked at me like I was normal. like I was just... a person. a regular person who happened to know physics."

he finally looks at you. his eyes are bright, maybe with unshed tears, definitely with emotion you can't quite name.

"I liked it. I liked that you didn't know. that you weren't impressed or intimidated or weird about it. you were just—you were just talking to me. not the person who synthesized 119. not gojo satoru, the youngest person to create a superheavy element. just... me. just satoru."

the silence that follows is heavy. you can hear everything. the buzz of his laptop. someone's music three doors down. your own heartbeat. his breathing, still uneven.

"I read your notes," you say quietly. "about me."

if possible, he goes even paler. "that's—those were private. I wasn't—" he's spiraling now, you can see it happening, panic taking over. "I know it's weird. I know I'm weird. I just—I wanted to remember things about you and I have a terrible memory for anything that's not physics so I write things down and I didn't mean for it to be creepy I just—"

he's talking faster now, words tumbling over each other.

"—you're always on my mind. you're always—god, all the time. when I'm in the lab I think 'she would find this interesting' or 'I should explain this to her' or 'I wonder what she's doing right now.' when I read something I think about how you'd analyze it, what connections you'd make. when I'm trying to fall asleep I replay our conversations, every single one, and think about all the things I should have said differently or better or—"

he's pacing now, three steps one way, three steps back, gesturing wildly.

"—and tuesday when you held my hand I thought I was going to combust. literally. spontaneous human combustion. I couldn't breathe properly for the rest of the night. I've been thinking about it nonstop for two days. four minutes and twenty-three seconds. I timed it because of course I did because I time everything because I'm obsessive and weird and I—"

he stops. puts his hands over his face.

"I know I'm too much. I know I get too intense about things. my advisor says I need to learn to be normal about stuff, to have boundaries, to not throw myself completely into everything but I don't know how to be normal about anything, I never have been. especially not—"

his voice drops, muffled behind his hands.

"—especially not you. you're—you're the first person in years who's wanted to spend time with me for me and not because of what I can do or what I've discovered or because they want something from me. you just—you just wanted to pass physics. and then you kept coming back. you kept choosing to be there. and I—"

he lowers his hands. his eyes are definitely wet now.

"I'm in love with you. I think. I don't know. I've never—I don't have a reference point for this but I think about you constantly and when you're not around everything feels wrong and when you smile at me I forget how to think and I—"

his voice cracks.

"—I'm sorry. I'm sorry, I know that's too much too fast but I don't know how to be anything other than too much and I don't know how to pretend I'm not—that I don't—"

you cross the room in three strides and kiss him.

he makes a shocked sound against your mouth—high and surprised, almost a squeak—and freezes. his hands hover in the air beside your shoulders, not touching you, like he doesn't know what to do with them. like he's afraid to touch you. like he thinks you might disappear if he does.

his lips are slightly chapped. he tastes like coffee—the cheap lab coffee, bitter and burnt—and something mint, maybe gum. he's completely still, not kissing back, apparently short-circuiting.

you pull back just enough to speak, your lips still brushing his. "you should've told me sooner."

"what?" his eyes are unfocused, dazed. his pupils are blown wide, making his eyes look almost black. "I—what?"

"about the element. about the lecture." you're smiling now, you can't help it. your hands are on his chest and you can feel his heart racing, hammering against his ribs like it's trying to escape. "I always thought you were brilliant. finding out you literally synthesized a new element doesn't change that. if anything it just—"

you laugh softly.

"—it makes sense. of course you did. of course you're the person who did that. you explain physics like.... it's poetry. you see patterns in everything. you think about the heat death of the universe the way other people think about what to have for dinner."

you reach up and push his hair back from his forehead. he leans into the touch like a cat, eyes fluttering closed for a second.

"of course you created something new. something that never existed before. that's just—that's you."

"you're not—" his voice is barely functional. "you're not mad?"

"why would I be mad?"

"because I didn't tell you. because I let you write an assignment about me without saying anything. because I—" he gestures helplessly at the laptop, still open, still showing his notes about you. "because I keep notes about you like a creep."

"satoru." you put your hand on his cheek. he leans into it, turning his face to press his lips against your palm—just for a second, quick and unconscious. "I wore a specific sweater because you once mentioned liking the color green. I look up your schedule so I know where you might be between classes. I change my coffee shop route on tuesdays and thursdays because there's a chance I might run into you."

you meet his eyes.

"I started coming to the library at 11pm even on nights when I don't have physics homework because I know you'll be there. I think about you when I'm supposed to be paying attention in class. I read philosophy papers and imagine what you'd say about them. we're both a little creepy."

he laughs—shaky and breathless and slightly hysterical. "yeah?"

"yeah." you lean up and kiss him again, soft and quick. his hands finally move, coming up to grip your waist like you're the only solid thing in his universe. "and for the record? I always thought you were adorable."

"adorable," he repeats weakly, like the word doesn't compute.

"adorable. even when—especially when—you got all flustered during that lecture. I wrote in my paper that it was humanizing. that it made this incredible discovery feel real because the person behind it was so—"

you search for the word.

"—so genuine. so awkward and brilliant and human. you couldn't get through your presentation without stumbling over your words but you'd just done something incredible. something that expanded human knowledge. and you were just—you were just a person. nervous and brilliant and real."

his hands are trembling where they grip your waist. "I've wanted to kiss you for six weeks."

"then why did you not act on it?"

he kisses you again, and this time he kisses back. his hands slide from your waist to your back, pulling you closer. one hand moves up to cup the back of your head, fingers tangling in your hair. he kisses you like he does everything else—intensely, thoroughly, like he's trying to memorize every detail. like he's been thinking about this for weeks and now that it's happening he wants to get it exactly right.

you make a soft sound and feel him shiver. his grip tightens. when you finally break apart you're both breathing hard. his forehead rests against yours. his eyes are closed. he looks almost pained.

"tell me about it," you say.

"about what?" his voice is rough.

"the element. 119. how did you make it?" you press your lips to the corner of his mouth. "I want to know."

"now?" he sounds strangled. "you want to know about particle physics now?"

"I always want to know about particle physics when you're the one explaining it." you explore his jaw. feel the muscle jump under your lips. "tell me."

"I—" he tries to gather his thoughts. difficult, apparently, when you're kissing along his jawline. "we used hot fusion. titanium-50 beam and berkelium-249 target."

"what's hot fusion?" you kiss just below his ear and he makes a soft sound, a sound close to a whimper.

"it's—fusion of—" he has to stop. breathe. "fusion of a lighter beam nucleus with a heavier target. as opposed to cold fusion which uses similar masses. hot fusion produces more neutron-rich isotopes which—which are more stable—"

you pull back to look at him. "keep going."

his eyes are half-lidded. he's looking at your mouth. "the titanium beam is accelerated to about 5 MeV per nucleon and—and fired at the berkelium target—"

you kiss him again, slow and deep. he makes a desperate sound in the back of his throat.

"and then?" you prompt against his lips.

"and then—if the energy is right—the nuclei fuse. create element 119 for—for approximately 0.9 milliseconds before it undergoes alpha decay—"

his hands are moving restlessly on your back, like he can't quite figure out where to put them, settling for pulling you impossibly closer.

"—we detect it through the decay chain. element 119 decays to 115 which decays to 111 which—which—"

you're kissing his neck now. he's completely lost his train of thought.

"which what?" you murmur against his skin.

"I—I don't—what was I saying?"

you laugh softly and he shivers. "decay chain."

"right. right. decay chain. each—each alpha decay releases a specific amount of energy. we measure that. it's like a fingerprint. tells us what element we created."

his voice is getting progressively less steady.

"the tricky part is the half-life. less than a second. so we need incredibly sensitive detectors and—and—"

you bite gently at his pulse point and he gasps.

"—and fast data acquisition. which is why—why we use—"

he gives up. cups your face in both hands and kisses you desperately like he's got something to prove.

"you're evil," he says when you finally break apart. "you're trying to kill me."

"I'm trying to learn about superheavy elements."

"you're trying to make me lose my mind."

"can't I do both?"

he laughs—breathless and genuine—and kisses you again. softer this time. sweeter.

"four minutes and twenty-three seconds," you say when you pull back.

he groans. "you're never going to let me live that down."

"you timed how long we held hands."

"I have a very accurate internal clock."

"you're such a nerd."

"you like it." he's smiling now—that full, unguarded smile that transforms his whole face.

"I do," you admit. your hands are fisted in his lab coat. "I really, really do."

"I need to—" he glances at his laptop, then at you, clearly torn. "I need to bring data to my advisor. he's waiting. we need to analyze the results from tonight's run."

"alright." you respond in a whiny tone — like a child slowly brewing up a tantrum.

"but after—" he pauses. his hands are still on your face, thumbs stroking your cheekbones. "do you want to come back? we could—we don't have to do physics. we could just—"

"talk?" you offer. "like normal people?"

"I don't know how to be normal."

"good." you kiss him once more, quick and sweet. he chases your mouth when you pull away. "I don't want normal anyway."

he makes a soft sound—want and frustration and something that might be relief.

"go," you say. "do your science thing. I'll wait."

"you'll wait?" like he can't quite believe it.

"I'll wait."

his smile could power the entire campus. could probably power the particle accelerator. could possibly be visible from space.

"okay. okay. I'll be fast. twenty minutes. maybe thirty. definitely less than an hour—" he's already moving to his laptop, saving documents with shaking hands, ejecting a USB drive from the port.

"satoru."

"right. going. I'm going." he shoves the USB in his lab coat pocket, grabs a notebook from the desk. pauses at the door. turns back. "you're really—you're not mad about the notes?"

"I'm keeping a mental catalog of every time you do that thing where you push your hair back when you're thinking," you tell him. "I think we're even."

he laughs—bright and genuine and surprised, like the sound was pulled out of him. it fills something in your chest you didn't know was empty.

"twenty minutes," he promises. "thirty tops. I'll—don't leave. please don't leave."

"I'm not going anywhere."

he kisses you one more time—quick and clumsy and perfect—and then he's gone, the door closing behind him with a soft click.

you sink onto his desk chair, surrounded by his papers and research and the evidence of his brilliant, chaotic mind. the room still smells like him—eucalyptus and coffee and something clean. his bed is right there, neatly made. his books are within arm's reach. his laptop is open in front of you showing his notes, his observations, his confession.

'I'm in love with her.'

element 119, you think. he synthesized element 119 and was too nervous to tell you. he created something that never existed before in the universe—expanded the periodic table, pushed the boundaries of human knowledge—and what scared him was admitting he liked you.

you're smiling so hard your cheeks hurt.

you touch your lips where you can still feel the ghost of his mouth. remember the way he kissed you like you were precious. like you were the real discovery.

· · ─ ·ʚɞ· ─ · ·

date session one

it's thursday and everything is different.

you arrive at 11pm—exactly on time, not early, because you spent fifteen minutes in the bathroom of the science building giving yourself a pep talk in the mirror like a lunatic. your reflection had stared back at you, slightly wild-eyed, while you'd whispered "it's fine. it's the same as always. except you're dating now. except you've kissed him. except he told you he's in love with you and you kissed him again and—"

okay. it's not the same as always.

your hands are sweating. you wipe them on your jeans as you climb the stairs to the third floor. the stairwell smells like old books and floor wax and someone's leftover chinese food. your footsteps echo. your heart is hammering so hard you can feel it in your throat.

you're being ridiculous. this is satoru. this is the person you've been spending almost every night with for three months. nothing has changed.

everything has changed.

the library is quiet, nearly empty. third floor is completely deserted except—there. your usual table by the window, the one where the fluorescent light flickers every forty-seven seconds. and there he is.

satoru looks up when you approach and his whole face does that thing—that transformation you've memorized in excruciating detail, the way his expression shifts from focused (eyebrows slightly drawn, mouth in a concentrated line) to soft (eyes widening, mouth parting slightly) to incandescent (full smile, the one that crinkles the corners of his eyes and shows that slightly crooked canine) in the space of a heartbeat.

but now there's something else there too. nervousness. uncertainty. his hands are fidgeting on the table, fingers drumming that familiar rhythm. tap-tap-tap-pause-tap. like he's also been giving himself a pep talk. like he's also terrified.

"hey," he says. his voice cracks slightly on the single syllable. the word breaks in the middle, goes higher than intended. you watch his face flush, color spreading across his cheekbones and down his neck.

"hey." you set your bag down with a soft thud that echoes in the quiet space. there are two coffee cups on the table already, still steaming. you can see the heat waves rising from them, smell the bitter-sharp scent of your coffee and the tooth-achingly sweet caramel of his. yours and his. the familiar ritual. "you're here early."

"I'm always here early." he's fidgeting with his pen, clicking it open and closed. click-click-click. the sound is too loud in the silence. his thumb is pressing the button compulsively, a nervous tic you've never seen before. "I just—I wanted to make sure—"

he stops. you're both just standing there, on opposite sides of the table, like there's a force field between you. like you've forgotten how to be normal around each other. his laptop is open, screen glowing blue-white with some physics paper covered in equations. there's a stack of books next to it—three library books about quantum mechanics and one collection of poetry by mary oliver that definitely isn't for his research. his coffee cup has a ring of condensation around it. his hair is slightly damp, like he showered recently. you can smell his shampoo from here, that clean eucalyptus scent mixing with the coffee and old books.

this is excruciating.

"so," you say. your voice sounds strange. too high.

"so," he echoes. he sets the pen down. picks it up again. sets it down. his knee is bouncing under the table, making his whole body vibrate slightly.

"are we going to be weird about this?"

"I don't know. maybe?" he runs a hand through his hair, leaving it standing up in messy white spikes. "I don't know how to—I've never—"

"me neither."

"oh. good. okay." he takes a breath. you watch his chest expand, watch him hold it for three seconds, release slowly. a calming technique. "so we're both being weird."

"extremely weird."

"great. perfect. that makes me feel better." he's smiling now, small and tentative, just the corner of his mouth quirking up. "do you want to sit down? or we could keep standing here awkwardly. both options are valid. equally valid. I'm fine with either. whatever you want."

he's rambling. you've never heard him ramble quite like this before.

you laugh—relieved and genuine, the sound bursting out of you—and the tension breaks slightly. like a string that was pulled too tight suddenly loosening. you move to your chair, the wobbly one with the cracked vinyl, and sit. the seat is cold through your jeans. he sits too. you're in your usual positions—him on one side of the table, you on the other—except now you're hyperaware of the distance between you. eighteen inches. maybe twenty. you could measure it in the length of the physics textbook lying closed on the table. too far.

you both reach for your coffee at the same time. your hands move in sync, close around the cups (yours still warm, heat seeping through the cardboard sleeve, his probably already cooling). both lift to your mouths. both take a sip. the coffee is perfect—exactly the right temperature, bitter and strong. both set the cups down in the exact same moment. the slight thud of cardboard on wood, perfectly synchronized.

you catch each other's eyes and laugh—nervous, slightly hysterical.

"I have physics homework," you say, desperate for something normal. something that feels like before.

"of course you do." there's affection in his voice now. warmth. the kind of warmth that settles in your chest like sunlight. "what chapter?"

"ten. rotation and angular momentum. again. I don't think I actually understood it the first time."

"you understood it fine. you just don't trust yourself." he's pulling his laptop closer, but slowly. his movements are careful, deliberate. his eyes keep darting to you and then away, like he can't decide whether to look or not look. "same problem as always."

"maybe I just like having you explain things."

the words hang between you. that's—that's flirting. you're flirting. you've flirted before, danced around the edges of it for weeks, but now it means something different. now you're allowed to mean it. now it's not subtext, it's just text.

his ears go pink. bright pink, the color spreading down to where they disappear into his hair. "yeah?"

"yeah."

the smile that breaks across his face is devastating. it's unguarded in a way you've rarely seen—no careful control, no attempt to play it cool. just pure, undiluted happiness. his eyes crinkle at the corners. his whole face lights up. "okay. good. I—okay." he opens his laptop fully, the screen casting pale light on his face. pulls up the textbook pdf with slightly shaking hands—you can see the tremor in his fingers as they move across the trackpad. "come here then."

the words send a jolt through you. come here. not stay there. come here.

you stand up. the chair scrapes against the floor, too loud. walk around the table, your footsteps muffled by the old carpet. he pushes his chair back slightly—the wheels squeak—and you hesitate for just a second before sitting down. not in your own chair, but on the edge of the desk right next to him. close enough that your leg is pressed against his arm. you can feel the warmth of him through two layers of fabric, feel the solid presence of his shoulder against your thigh.

he goes still. like he's afraid to move, afraid to breathe. you can feel the tension in him, every muscle locked. the way his breathing changes—shallower, faster. his hand on the trackpad freezes mid-movement.

"is this okay?" you ask quietly.

"yes." his voice is rough, scraped raw. "very okay. extremely okay." he swallows hard and you watch his throat work, watch the bob of his adam's apple. "you can—you're welcome to sit closer. anytime. always."

you lean over to look at his screen and your hair falls forward, brushing his shoulder. the strands whisper across his shirt—he's wearing that blue one again, the new one—and you hear his breath catch. actually hear it, a sharp inhale that he tries to cover with a cough.

"so," he says, slightly strangled. his voice has gone up half an octave. "angular momentum. L equals I times omega." he points at the equation on the screen but his hand is trembling slightly.

"I remember." you're not really looking at the screen. you're watching him, cataloging every reaction. the way his throat works when he swallows. the way his fingers are gripping his pen too tight, knuckles white. the way a muscle jumps in his jaw. the faint flush spreading down from his ears to his neck. "moment of inertia times angular velocity."

"right. and—and if there's no external torque, angular momentum is conserved, which—"

he loses his train of thought completely when you lean closer. your shoulder pressed against his now, your arm brushing his. you can feel his heartbeat, impossibly—or maybe that's your own heartbeat, you can't tell anymore. the heat of him seeps through your clothes. you can smell his shampoo stronger now, eucalyptus and something else. mint maybe. clean and sharp and distinctly him.

"which means what?" you prompt. your voice comes out softer than intended, almost a whisper.

"which means—I don't remember. what was the question?" he turns his head to look at you and suddenly your faces are very close. three inches. maybe less. you can see the individual shades of blue in his eyes, pale near the pupil darkening to something almost cobalt at the edges. can see the faint freckles across his nose that you never noticed before. can count his eyelashes if you wanted to. "what were we talking about?"

you laugh softly and he makes a pained sound, something between a groan and a whimper.

"you're doing this on purpose," he accuses, but there's no heat in it. his eyes are dark, pupils blown wide.

"doing what?"

"being distracting. sitting this close. smelling good. existing." he turns his head to look at you properly and suddenly your faces are very close. close enough that you can feel his breath on your lips, warm and coffee-scented. "it's cruel. you're being cruel to me."

"I can move—" you start to pull back.

"don't you dare." his hand comes up, fingers catching your wrist gently. his touch is warm, careful, like you're something fragile. his thumb finds your pulse point, presses there lightly. you wonder if he can feel how fast your heart is racing. "I'm just—I'm trying to figure out if I'm allowed to—if we're—"

"satoru."

"yeah?" he's staring at your mouth now, not even trying to hide it.

"you can kiss me if you want to."

"we're in the library," he says weakly, but his eyes have already dropped back to your mouth. his tongue darts out to wet his lips—nervous habit.

"we're on the third floor at 11pm on a thursday. there's literally no one here." you can hear how empty it is, just the hum of fluorescent lights and the distant sound of the heating system and both of your slightly-too-fast breathing.

"what about the physics homework—"

you cup his face and kiss him.

he makes that sound again—soft and surprised and pleased, high in his throat—and then he's kissing you back. his hand comes up to tangle in your hair, careful, gentle, fingers threading through the strands like he's trying to memorize the texture. like you're something precious. the kiss is soft. sweet. chaste, almost. nothing like the desperate kissing in his dorm room two days ago. this is—tender. exploratory. like you have all the time in the world. his lips are soft, slightly chapped. he tastes like that terrible sweet coffee and mint gum. his hand in your hair is trembling.

when you pull back his eyes are still closed. his lips are slightly parted, kiss-swollen. his cheeks are flushed pink. he looks dazed, slightly drunk in love and moonstruck. his hand is still in your hair, fingers tangled in the strands like he forgot to let go.

"hi," you whisper.

his eyes flutter open slowly. they're darker than usual, pupils blown wide. "hi."

"better?"

"so much better. can we—can we do that again?"

you kiss him again. and again. soft, brief touches that make your stomach flip every time. his hand is warm on your jaw, thumb stroking your cheekbone in that way that makes you shiver. he kisses like he's savoring it, like he wants to memorize every detail. each kiss is slightly different—this one a bit longer, this one with his bottom lip caught gently between yours, this one with your noses bumping and both of you smiling.

"okay," he says when you finally pull back for real. his voice is wrecked, rough like he's been using it for hours. "okay, we need to—physics. we should do physics."

"should we?"

"yes. definitely. you have a homework assignment due monday and I promised to help and I'm not going to be the reason you fail physics because I can't stop kissing you." but even as he says it, he's leaning in again, pressing a kiss to the corner of your mouth. then your cheek. then your jaw.

"pretty sure the kissing was mutual."

"extremely mutual. dangerously mutual." but he's grinning now, looking younger and happier than you've ever seen him. "but seriously. homework. I'm going to be responsible about this. I'm going to be the most responsible—"

you give him a chaste kiss and he makes a defeated sound.

"you're not making this easy," he complains against your mouth.

"you're such a nerd."

"you like it."

"I really do."

you slide off the desk—reluctantly, muscles protesting, you realize you were tensed up without meaning to be—but instead of going back to your own chair, you pull it around to his side of the table. the wheels squeak and catch on the carpet. squeeze it in next to his so you're sitting shoulder to shoulder, thighs pressed together, both facing his laptop screen.

"this works too," he says quietly. his hand finds yours under the table, fingers lacing together. his palm is slightly sweaty but you don't care. "this is—yeah. this works."

it works better than works.

you spend the next hour actually working through the physics homework. he explains the problems with his usual careful patience—that way he has of breaking down complex concepts into manageable pieces, of finding the perfect metaphor or analogy to make things click—but now there are differences. his thumb traces circles on your palm while he talks, absent and constant. when you get an answer right, he kisses your temple—just a quick press of lips to skin but it makes you lose your train of thought every time. when you're stuck on a concept, he tilts your chin up to look at him while he explains it in a different way, and you get lost in his eyes instead of the physics.

"you're not listening," he says fondly.

"I am listening."

"you're staring at my mouth."

"I can do both."

"that's—" he laughs, breathless. "that's not how attention works."

"says who?"

"says neuroscience. you can't fully focus on two things at once. the brain doesn't multitask, it task-switches rapidly which—"

you kiss him and he forgets whatever he was saying.

the physics gets mixed up with soft touches and softer kisses. his hand on your knee, steady and warm. your fingers playing with the hair at the nape of his neck, making him shiver. at one point you end up in his lap somehow—you're not even sure how it happened, whose idea it was—his arms around your waist, both of you looking at the textbook propped on the table.

you can feel his heartbeat against your back. steady and strong. his chin is hooked over your shoulder, cheek pressed to yours. every breath he takes moves both of you.

"this is not efficient study methodology," he murmurs against your shoulder. his lips brush your skin through your shirt and you feel it everywhere.

"are you complaining?"

"absolutely not. just making an observation." his arms tighten around you, hands splaying across your stomach. "you're going to ace this homework though. you understand this better than you think."

"good teacher."

"biased student."

you turn in his lap to face him—careful, slow, giving him time to object. his eyes go wide, hands automatically moving to your waist to steady you. you're straddling him now in the library chair, face to face, and his breath hitches.

"hey," you say.

"hi.." his voice is barely there. his hands are trembling where they grip your waist.

"I have a question," you say.

"about physics?"

"about you."

"oh." his hands settle more firmly on your waist, uncertain. his thumbs stroke small circles there, probably unconscious. "okay."

"when did you know? that you—" you pause, suddenly shy. heat flooding your cheeks. "that you liked me?"

he's quiet for a moment. his eyes search your face like he's trying to memorize it, like he's cataloging every feature. you can see him thinking, see the exact moment he decides to be honest.

"the first night," he says finally. "when you asked me for help and you looked so frustrated and determined and you said 'I'm going to fail this class' like it was a personal offense to you. like physics had insulted you personally and you were going to fight it."

his voice goes softer, drops to almost a whisper.

"and then when I started explaining vectors you actually listened. really listened. you didn't just wait for me to give you the answer. you asked good questions. made connections I hadn't thought of. saw patterns. and I remember thinking—"

he pauses, swallows hard.

"—I remember thinking 'oh no. oh this is bad. I want to explain things to her forever.'"

his thumb strokes your waist, a nervous gesture.

"and then you came back. the next night and the night after that. you kept choosing to be here. with me. not because you had to, not because I was your only option, but because you—because you wanted to. and every night I'd show up early and get the coffee and tell myself this was probably the last time, you'd probably realize I was too weird or too much or just—too—"

his voice cracks.

"—but you kept coming back. and I think—I think I knew then. or started to know. that this was going to be a problem."

"a problem?"

"a good problem." he leans forward and rests his forehead against yours. his eyes flutter closed. "the best problem. you're—you're the first person in a long time who wanted to know me. not the person who discovered element 119. not gojo satoru the prodigy. not the guy who made physics weekly at twenty-three. just—satoru. the weird guy who likes physics too much and can't give presentations and drinks terrible coffee."

"your coffee is genuinely terrible."

"I know. I hate sweet coffee."

he says it casually but you pull back to stare at him.

"what?"

"I hate sweet coffee. always have. I take it black normally. black with two sugars if I'm being fancy but usually just black." he won't meet your eyes now, embarrassed, pink spreading across his cheeks and down his neck.

"but you've been ordering it sweet for—" you stop. do the math. "three months. you've been drinking coffee you hate for three months?"

"yeah."

"satoru, that's—" you don't have words. "why?"

"because you got it for me that way. the first time. you didn't know what I liked so you got me what you get, and you looked so—" he swallows hard. "you looked so nervous when you handed it to me. like you were worried I'd hate it. and I took a sip and it was too sweet, way too sweet, coating my teeth. but you were watching me with these big hopeful eyes and I just—"

he shrugs helplessly.

"—I said it was perfect. and then it became our thing. our ritual. you'd bring me sweet coffee and I'd drink it and I couldn't change it without explaining why and I didn't want to—" his voice drops. "I didn't want to ruin it. I liked that we had a thing. I would have drunk battery acid if it meant—if it meant—"

he stops. you can see him struggling with the words.

"—if it meant you kept coming back."

you kiss him. hard. desperate. pouring three months of feeling into it. he makes a surprised sound—high and breathless—and then melts into it, hands coming up to cup your face. his fingers are trembling. you can feel wetness on his cheeks and you're not sure if it's from him or you.

"you're ridiculous," you say against his mouth when you finally need air.

"I'm aware."

"three months of terrible coffee."

"worth it." he kisses you again, softer. "so worth it. I'd do three years. three decades. I'd—"

"satoru."

"yeah?"

"next time, just tell me." you scold him with a sigh.

"noted." but he's smiling, wide and genuine. "filed away for future reference. communication is important. I'm learning."

you kiss him again because you can. because you're allowed to now. his hands slide from your face to your waist, pulling you impossibly closer. one hand moves up to tangle in your hair, fingers gentle. he kisses you like he's been starving for it, like every kiss before this was just practice.

you're thoroughly distracted—lost in the taste of him, the feeling of his hands on you, the small sounds he makes when you bite his bottom lip gently—when someone clears their throat. loud. pointed. deliberately awkward.

you both jerk apart like you've been electrocuted. satoru's hands fly off you. you nearly fall off his lap and he catches you, steadies you, both of you breathing hard.

there's a security guard standing at the end of the aisle—older guy, maybe sixty, with grey hair and a tired expression. he looks like he's seen this exact scenario about a thousand times and is deeply, profoundly unimpressed with both of you.

"library closes at 2am," he says flatly. his voice is gravelly, bored. "it's 1:47. start packing up."

"yes sir," satoru says. his voice is slightly strangled, higher than normal. "sorry. we were just—studying."

"uh huh." the guard's expression says he's heard that line before. probably tonight. probably from three other couples. "sure you were. thirteen minutes. don't make me come back."

he walks away, his footsteps heavy on the carpet, his radio crackling with static.

you and satoru look at each other. you're still in his lap. his hair is messed up from your fingers. his lips are red and swollen. you probably look the same.

"oh my god," you say.

"that was—"

"mortifying."

"so mortifying." but he's grinning. his eyes are bright with laughter. "worth it though."

"absolutely worth it."

"do you think he knew we weren't actually studying?"

"satoru, I was literally in your lap."

"right. yes. that's—that's pretty damning evidence." he's still grinning. "in my defense, you got there."

"you didn't object."

"I would never object. you can sit in my lap anytime. all the time. it's encouraged. I'm making it a standing offer—" you kiss him to shut him up. he makes a pleased sound.

you climb off his lap—reluctantly, legs slightly numb from sitting weird—and start packing up your stuff. he does the same, but slowly, like he's trying to stretch out the time. every movement deliberate. he closes his laptop with careful precision. winds the charger cord methodically. stacks his books just so. you watch him watching you, stealing glances every few seconds.

when you're both ready, bags packed, coffee cups thrown away (yours empty, his still half-full of coffee he hates), you just stand there. neither wanting to be the first to leave. the security guard walks by again, pointed, and you both start moving.

the library is emptying out. you can hear other people packing up, heading for the exits. voices and footsteps and the beep of the security gates.

"so," satoru says when you reach the stairwell.

"so."

"I'll walk you back."

"it's not on your way."

"it's never been on my way. I think we both know that at this point." he holds out his hand, palm up, offering. "worth it though."

you take his hand. his fingers lace through yours perfectly, like they were designed to fit together. like you've been holding hands for years instead of days.

the walk back is different from every other time. you're holding hands the whole way, fingers intertwined, swinging slightly between you. he walks closer than before, your shoulders bumping with every few steps. you can feel the warmth of him all down your left side. every few steps he looks over at you like he's checking that you're still there, still real. like he's afraid he'll blink and you'll disappear.

it's colder tonight. properly cold. you can see your breath in white clouds, can feel the bite of wind against your exposed skin. the campus is mostly empty—just a few people hurrying between buildings, hunched against the cold. the streetlights cast everything in orange and shadow.

"can I ask you something?" he finally speaks when you're halfway to your dorm, past the science building, past the student center.

"always."

"do you—" he pauses. starts again. "are you okay with this? with us? I know I can be—a lot. intense. and if it's too much or too fast you can tell me. I won't—I don't want to mess this up by pushing too hard."

you stop walking. turn to face him fully. he looks nervous in the orange streetlight, vulnerable in a way that makes your chest ache.

"satoru," you say carefully. "I kept coming back. every night for three months. I could have studied anywhere. could have gotten a different tutor. could have given up on physics entirely."

you squeeze his hand.

"I came back because I wanted to be there. with you. and that hasn't changed just because we're—" you gesture between you. "whatever we are now."

"boyfr—" he starts, then stops. clears his throat. "are we—is that—can I—"

"yes," you say, saving him from the question. "if you want to be."

the smile that breaks across his face is incandescent. "I want to be. very much. extremely. I've never—I've never been anyone's boyfriend before but I want to be yours."

your heart does something complicated in your chest. "then you are," you say simply.

he kisses you right there on the sidewalk, in the middle of campus with the cold wind biting at your faces and the orange streetlights casting long shadows. his hands come up to cup your face, fingers cold against your skin but gentle, so gentle. the kiss is soft and sweet and full of promise—unhurried, like you have all the time in the world. like he's savoring it. his lips are slightly chapped from the cold, moving against yours with a tenderness that makes your chest ache.

when he pulls back—just far enough to see you, foreheads still touching—his eyes are bright. definitely bright, catching the streetlight, reflecting it back like they're glowing from within. maybe with tears—you can see the shine of moisture gathering at the corners, making his lashes clump together—definitely with emotion. his breath comes out shaky, visible in white clouds between you. his thumbs stroke your cheekbones, a repetitive soothing motion like he's trying to convince himself you're real.

"you have me," he says. fierce and certain, voice rough. "for—for as long as you want. I'm—I'm all in. I'm terrible at doing anything halfway and this—"

he gestures between you with his hand holding yours tight, the other still creating soft circles on your cheek.

"—this I want to do all the way. completely. no half-measures. no holding back. if that's—if that's okay. if that's not too much too fast I just—I need you to know that I'm—I'm serious about this. about you. about us."

"that's okay." you reach up with your free hand and push his hair back from his forehead. it's cold and slightly damp from the night air. "that's more than okay."

he kisses you again under the streetlight. slow and sweet and perfect. his lips move against yours with careful attention, like he's memorizing this. you can feel him smiling against your mouth—actually feel the curve of his lips pressing differently against yours. can't help smiling back, until you're both just pressing grins together, breath huffing out in small laughs.

his free hand comes up to cup your face, palm warm despite the cold. his thumb strokes your cheek in that gentle repetitive motion that makes you feel precious. the kiss tastes like bad coffee and possibility—the lingering sweetness of caramel mixing with bitter espresso and something that's just him.

when you pull apart you're both grinning like idiots. can't stop, even when you try to school your expression into something less ridiculous. his eyes are crinkled at the corners, those small lines you've memorized appearing, making him look younger somehow despite being markers of his smile. his cheeks are pink—from cold or emotion or both, you can't tell. the color spreads down his neck, disappearing under his collar, and you can see where his ears have gone red too. he's breathing hard, white clouds puffing between you, and he can't seem to stop looking at your mouth.

at your dorm, you linger in the doorway. neither of you wants the night to end. you can feel it, the weight of goodbye even though it's just for a few hours.

"same time next week?" he asks. then catches himself. "wait, no—"

"next week?" you interrupt, mock-offended. "what about tomorrow?"

his face does something complicated. hope and disbelief and joy all at once, flickering across his features in rapid succession. "tomorrow?"

"I have a philosophy paper to work on. you could—you could read while I write? if you want. we don't have to do physics. we could just—"

"be together," he finishes. his voice has gone soft, barely above a whisper. vulnerable. like the words themselves are fragile things he's afraid to speak too loudly in case they shatter.

"yeah." you agree. the word comes out quieter than intended, but weighted with meaning. with promise.

"I would—" his voice cracks. he clears his throat, tries again. "yes. tomorrow. definitely tomorrow. and the day after that. and—and as many days as you'll let me. I'll—I'll bring better coffee. actual good coffee. coffee I don't hate. we can—we can figure out what I actually like."

"it's a date."

"a date," he repeats, testing the word. his smile is incandescent. "yes. a date. tomorrow at 11?"

"or earlier. if you want."

"earlier. definitely earlier. I'll—how about 10? 9? I can do 9. I'll bring dinner. or—or snacks. do you like snacks? what am I saying, everyone likes snacks. I'll bring options—"

"satoru."

"yeah?"

you kiss him just one last time. slow and lingering. "goodnight."

"goodnight," he breathes. he's still holding your hand, like he can't quite make himself let go.

"you have to actually leave for it to be goodnight."

"right. yes. leaving." but he doesn't move. just stands there, looking at you, fingers tangled with yours. his thumb is doing that absent tracing thing on your palm again. his eyes are soft and slightly dazed, like he's forgotten what leaving means. like the concept of walking away from you has become fundamentally impossible.

"satoru," you prompt, but there's no real urgency in it.

"mhm." still not moving. his lips are still slightly parted, kiss-swollen. you can see him swallow.

"you have to let go of my hand first."

"do I though?" but his fingers loosen slightly, reluctant.

you squeeze his hand once—firm and grounding—shake your head with a smile you can't quite suppress, a quiet giggle escaping despite your best efforts. the sound makes his whole face do something soft and wondering. you slip inside, the warm air of the lobby hitting you after the cold outside.

you take the stairs up to the third floor—faster than usual, slightly breathless. your roommate is asleep, room dark except for the green glow of her alarm clock. you drop your bag and go straight to the window.

he's still there. standing under the streetlight where you left him, looking up. the light turns his hair silver-bright, makes him look ethereal. unreal. like something out of a dream.

he stands there for a long moment—thirty seconds, a minute—just looking up at your window. even from three floors up you can see his expression. soft and amazed, like he still can't quite believe this is real. like he's trying to memorize the sight of your building, your window, this moment.

then, slowly, he starts walking. not toward his dorm immediately, but in a small circle, like he has too much energy to contain. you see him stop, run his hands through his hair, look back at your building one more time. he's smiling—you can tell even from here, can see it in the way he holds himself.

finally, he turns and starts walking. the right direction this time—toward his dorm, the route you'd looked up weeks ago when you first started noticing. but he only makes it ten steps before he stops, turns around, looks back up at your window one more time.

he sees you there—you're not even trying to hide now—and his whole face lights up. he waves—enthusiastic, almost goofy, his whole arm moving. not the small casual wave from before. this is unguarded. happy. real.

you wave back, pressing your palm against the cold glass.

he stands there for another moment, just looking up at you, and even from three floors up you can see his expression. joy and wonder and disbelief all mixed together. like you're something impossible. something he can't quite believe he gets to have.

finally—reluctantly—he turns and walks away for real this time. you watch his figure get smaller, watch him pass under streetlight after streetlight. at each one he looks back. every single time.

when he finally disappears around the corner by the physics building, you sink onto your bed, heart still racing.

men seem to gravitate towards you and your magnetic energy. you flirt, hang out, you hook up, sometimes it turns into a few weeks, sometimes it’s a bathroom at a party or a spare room upstairs.

choso keeps talking about finals, he’s clocked the low neckline of your top and the enticing glitter on your eyelids. he loved your look.

you yap on about some dumb all nighter you'd pulled with maki last finals when movement to your left steals all of your attention away.

someone falls onto the couch beside you.

you glance over without thinking and then your brain just… stops.

she’s closer than you’ve ever seen her. she's not across a packed room on some far away couch you can't really see. she's not out the back smoking a cigarette by herself.

she's here, right here, next to you.

shoko.

she’s wearing black, of course, but it’s not gross and try hard. she's got on a wellspring fitting cami with some jeans and nice shoes.

god, pretty isn’t even the right word to describe this woman. up close she's ethereal.

you realise you’ve never actually looked at her so near. she's normally laughing low with yuki or utahime in a different world than you in the background. now she’s close enough you can see her long lashes, her clear skin, that pretty beauty mark below her eye.

jeez, was she a model?

choso follows your line of sight and lifts his hand. “yo, shoko.”

she gives him a small wave without perking up. “hey.”

that’s it. no effort or over the top conversation starters. she was nonchalant from what you could tell.

choso turns back to you like the interaction never happened.

“anyway,” he says, leaning in again. “if i survive finals, you should come over. i’ll cook. i’m actually so goated at cooking.”

right. you nod automatically, but you’re not hearing him. your focus keeps faling sideways. you’re hyper aware of shoko. you were like a puppy in that sense, whenever you saw a pretty girl you had a sort of urge to be her friend.

only this time, the feeling felt.. off? was that the right word? like you wanted so badly to talk to her like you did with everyone else, but the thought of actually doing it was making you queazy.

why is this making you weird?

you try to ground yourself. this is nothing. she’s just a girl. a pretty girl, sure, but that shouldn’t matter. you’ve been around pretty girls your whole life!

choso’s ringed hand finds your plush thigh and squeezes it tightly. it makes you shiver and suddenly? not in a good way.

“hey,” you say desperately trying to deflect, forcing a grin. “you see gojo?”

he squints past you. gojo is strewn out on the frats expensive rug, laughing and gagging while geto tries his best to keep him upright.

“oh shit,” choso sighs. “he’s gonna puke.”

“yeah,” you say. “might wanna save the carpet.”

choso stop, then sighs. “damn it. i’ll be back.”

he’s up and gone in seconds calling gojo’s name.

you sit there with your cup in your hands, and you're suddenly very, very aware of yourself. your posture, your smile, the fact that you don’t know what to do with your face. when did this ever happen?

shoko moves to pull a cigarette from her pocket. she taps it against the pack, then lights it. the flame lights up her cheekbone for a second and your eyes snag on it.

you let out a laugh that comes out a little off. “uh. wow.”

she looks at you with the smokiest, seductive eyes, raising her eyebrow.

“sorry,” you say quickly. “girls don’t usually smoke. well. around me, i mean.” oh no. was that rude?..

you suppose not since she's now giving you a soft, delicate smile.

“yeah,” she says. “i get that.”

okay. she has a nice voice too. great.

you turn toward her fully, pulling out your biggest smile, the one that always charms people. “hey. my name’s [name]. it’s nice to meet you. i’ve seen you around here before, right?” god, i sound like a high schooler!

she looks you very slowly, playing with the cigarette in her hand. your stomach flips and you don’t know why.

“yeah,” she says. “i know who you are.”

... was that a good thing?

“oh!” you laugh. “all good things, i hope.”

“mostly,” she says, lips pulling up.

yikes, so no..

she leans back again with the cigarette balanced between her fingers, and something about all of this feels so unfair. like she’s not trying, like at all, and still winning.

you clear your throat and try to talk to her the way you do with every other girl, ask her some questions!

“so,” you say, tilting your head. “you looking to hookup with any cute guys tonight?”

she actually laughs. right in your face.

“hm,” she says. “definitely not my thing.”

your smile drops for half a second before you recover. “yeah? that's fair. not everyone’s into that.”

“no,” she says, eyes steady on yours. “not everyone.”

you nod like that makes sense. maybe she’s just above it? maybe she’s one of those girls who hates hookup culture, that was fine! you'll talk about something else. you’re already lining up your next question to ask this beautiful women when hands grab your arms from behind.

“there you are.”

before you can react, you’re being lifted up, laughing as well as awkwardly protesting as a group of your friends haul you off the couch.

“wait, what-”

“come on, come on,” one of them says. “we gotta go.”

you twist around with your heels barely touching the floor. “hey, i’ll catch you next time,” you call out to shoko.

she lifts her hand again, cigarette still between her fingers. “sure,” she says.

and you're pulled off for good.

they reel you out to the back porch as you free your arms and whip your head around to scowl at your overly confident friends.

“what the hell was that?”

one of the girls scoffs. “we were saving you.”

“from what,” you say. “a new friend?”

they exchange looks and then burst out laughing.

“from looking like a fucking lesbian,” one of them says.

the word spikes you through your already pumping heart.

“w-what do you mean,” you ask, becoming more and more oblivious.

they roll their eyes. “that’s shoko. she’s like, the token lesbian. always high off her face talking to her other lesbo friends. you really wanna be seen all over her?”

“yeah,” another adds. “people will talk. you’ve got a rep.”

your face feels hot, not with embarrassment but with a rising feeling of anger. “so what? i was just being nice.”

“sure,” she says. “but people don’t read it that way. we didn’t want you embarrassing yourself over some gay loser.”

your mind jumps back to shoko’s smile. 'not my thing.'

oh.

“that’s what she meant,” you mumble.

“what.”

“nothing.”

you open your mouth to spit something back, to say something equally as rude to these insensitive jerks, but the porch door swings open and they’ve already gone back inside, mean laughter following behind them.

you’ve been left standing there with a pounding heart and an extremely confused brain.

not her thing, huh?

~

gojo’s room stunk of dior sauvage and pineapple vape vapour. why anyone would choose pineapple over something like grape or watermelon still baffles you, but whatever. still, it wasn't necessarily a horrible smell, he had the window cracked open, so there's that.

the white haired man pulls out of you with a long groan, then pushes himself up on one elbow and grins down at your naked body, his hairs a mess, his eyes are happy as if he didn’t just wreck the bed. “wow,” he coos. “you're always such a good lay, babe.”

you snort, reaching for your discarded bra. “you’re so welcome.”

he laughs and rolls onto his back, stretching out like a cat. you’ve known him too long for this to be awkward, sleeping with gojo has always been easy. you’re both hot, popular, both bored enough to circle back to each other whenever the timing lines up.

friends first and benefits second. it works out.

he pulls himself up to sit on his elbows again. “seriously though. ten out of ten, would recommend.”

“what a charmer,” you say, smiling.

“what can i say.”

you swing your legs over the side of the bed, and grab your underwear.

would now be a good time to pick this guys brain about the girl who's been haunting your dreams ? probly not, but fuck it we ball.

you move around like you need to say something or it'll make your head explode into a bajillion tiny pieces.

gojo notices. “you good?”

you sigh, then pull up your underwear.

“hey,” you say. “can i ask you something?”

he blinks. “uh. sure? kind of late to get shy now.”

you roll your eyes. “not that.”

he waits, still naked, completely oblivious of the brain spiral you’re about to drag him into.

“what do you know about shoko?” you ask.

okay, it's out in the open. nothing you can do now.

gojo’s smile flickers, confusion flashing across his face. “uhm, shoko?”

“yeah,” you nod. "like. what’s she like? and uh. if she has a… partner.”

you almost say girlfriend but that word feels so weird in your gob.

gojo lets out an awkward laugh. “damn, talk about whiplash. you ask that now?”

your cheeks warm up. “urgh, just answer.”

“okay, okay,” he says, hands up. “relax.”

he scratches the back of his neck, thinking. “she’s been friends with me and suguru since highschool. she’s cool. kind of quiet but she’s funny if you like katie b kinda humour. smokes a lot, drinks a lot. yeah, that's pretty much it."

hm, that lines up well with the vision in your mind.

“and,” he adds, “no. she doesn’t have a girlfriend.”

you exhale with your shoulders dropping. relief?

no. not relieved. that’s not the word, you don’t care, obviously. it’s just curiosity.

gojo squints at you. “why do you look like that?”

“like what,” you throw back.

“like you just found out finals got cancelled.”

you scoff. “shut up.”

he studies you for a sec, then shrugs. “whatever. you’re weird.”

he doesn’t pry because why why would he?

the thought of you being anything but the girl you are doesn’t even cross his mind.

you force a smile and stand up. “hmm. this has been fun, but i gotta run.”

“already,” he says, pouting like a baby. “come on. stay! we can talk, or cuddle, or something!"

you grab your jeans, shaking your head. “maybe next time.”

he reaches for you, fingers brushing your wrist. “please?”

you laugh and gently pull away. “you’re so needy.”

“you love it.”

"mm, debatable."

you grab the rest of your shit and head for the door. you did feel bad, but let's be honest, if you stayed and 'talked' you'd just circle the conversation back to shoko, and you didn't particularly want to face the strange feeling in your stomach when it came to her name.

gojo sits up, catching you before you leave. "hey! there’s a party tomorrow night. you should be my plus one.”

you pause at the door. “sorry, satoru. i’m already invited.”

“yeah, but.. still. you should find me.”

you grit your teeth into something that looks like a smile. “if i see you.”

he opens his mouth to say more, but you’re already pulling the door open.

“later, gojo.”

“later,” he calls, mock offended. “text me.”

you don’t answer. you shut the door before he can keep whining.

you step out and oh. you forgot where you were, their frat.

perfect.

you slip your shoes on trying to be as quiet as possible, hoping not to run into anyone else. half the guys here have seen you naked. the other half have tried. the last thing you need right now is a comment or a look.

you turn a corner and nearly crash into toji who's shirtless, a towel resting over his shoulder.

he raises a brow. “leaving so soon?”

“god." you say. “don’t start.”

he smirks. “didn’t plan on it.”

you pass choso in the stairwell, who gives you a small nod like he wasn't tryna get it on last week. you return it.

thank the lord, you're finally out of that maze.

a week. it’s been a whole week and she’s still there poking around in your head. you just had like... a friend crush on her, right? you just wanted to be her friend. that's it. just really, really badly..

after all, finals are coming, functions are becoming few and far between. your brain just needs something else to latch onto.

that’s it.

you head down the porch steps with your bag in your hand, trying not to think about tomorrow night, where you know she'll be.

~

the frat looks... unrecognisably good (?) for once.

tinsel is wrapped from top to bottom around every single railing, pretty fake snow is sprayed all over the windows, inflatable candy canes are shoved into corners to hide the cracking dry wall.

definitely nanamis handy work.

mariah carey is bumping over the jbl's as people sing their hearts out to her music.

is christmas technically over ? maybe. but college kids don't give a fuck, its festive!

you’re sat up on one of those really high tables that overlook the lounge room and makeshift dance floor, with your stocking covers legs crossed over one another, and the heel of your shoe caught on the steel rung.

the fluffy santa dress you're rocking is very fitting, very much mean girls jingle bell rock coded. its short enough to be sexy yet fluffy enough to stay in the... post, christmas spirit. (if you don't celebrate christmas plz scrap all of this and say it's a regular party.)

now, you usually liked this table because it gave you such a good view of everything, but right now both your left, and right peripheral was obstructed by two hunks of meat. toji and sukuna, squished in on either side of you, talking obnoxiously loud about baseball. urgh. when did you ever give a fuck about baseball? go play a real sport.

“i’m telling you,” sukuna says, knocking his knee into the table leg, “my home runs were perfect last semester.”

toji snorts. “nah, you got lucky.”

“jealous ass. skill isn't luck.”

you hum noncommittally, they were talking at you, not with you, after all. occasionally you'd nod at the right moments, with your pretty eyes wondering and unfocused. you don’t care. not even a little.

how could you care about these idiots when your mind was focused on such a perfect thing.

shoko.

she was sitting on a far away couch on the other other side of the room, right infront of you.

you sat there staring straight at her with wide, intuitive eyes. head propped up on your palm like you were being caught day dreaming in class.

shes wearing that same black cami with jean shorts this time, and a very large santa hat sitting atop her beautiful head of hair. a cigarette licks smoke into the air from between her fingers. she'd been smoking every time you'd seen her, that had to be bad for her lungs...

you feel it again, that magnetic pull. that annoying, persistent urge to go talk to her, to finish that dumb conversation you'd wanted to have so bad.

it’s been a week and it hasn’t gone away.

“you listening?” toji asks, elbowing your side.

“yeah,” you lie. “totally.”

sukuna squints at you. “you’re staring.”

“am i not allowed?” you say, not breaking eye contact with the couch.

they follow your gaze.

oh.

toji snorts. “seriously?”

“what?” you ask, innocent.

“you’re looking at shoko,” sukuna says flatly.

“what do you guys know about her?.”

fuck it, if you could pick gojos brain about her then these two were next up.

he rolls his eyes. “dunno. i don’t fuck with those lesbian chicks.”

you blink. “good thing no one asked that.”

toji shrugs. “she’s cool. kind of a shame though.”

“a shame?" you echo.

“yeah,” he says. “she’s pretty. too bad she likes girls.”

your heart blips and you don’t know why. god. did everyone know this girl but you?

“does she have many friends?" you ask next.

sukuna thinks for a second. “not really. yuki and utahime hang around her sometimes."

toji nods. “she keeps to herself.”

“how does she even get invited?" you ask.

“her and shiu go way back, so.” sukuna explains.

you peer back at her as she silently smokes to herself.

“well,” you say, hopping down from the stool. “i’m gonna change that.”

both of them look kinda annoyed you're leaving so soon.

“where are you going?" toji asks.

“to talk,” you say, stepping away.

sukuna scoffs. “have fun.”

you weave through the dance floor, some more drunken people smash into you, hands brush your waist, someone yells your name. buy you ignore it all you're too focused on one thing.

you stop in front of the couch and take a deep breath, you can do this. then slide into the open space beside her.

shoko startles for a second, with her eyes fanning over to you. you want to cry at the was her brows furrow together.

“…oh,” she says. “you.”

“hi,” you say, a little breathless.

she looks you over, then smirks. “i thought your friends would’ve scared you off with all the dike allegations.”

the word hits so, so wrong..

your shoulders go all stiff and tense. “hey, don’t say that.”

she tilts her head. “hm?"

“that word,” you say quickly. "you're not... that. don't say such horrible words about yourself.”

her pretty face somehow get prettier with the way her eyes go all soft on you “yeah. fair.”

you swallow. “they didn’t scare me off. i just wanted to talk to you.”

“why,” she asks bluntly.

you panic. “because i think you’re cool. and i wanted to be… friendly.”

you almost say friends, but that feels like a little too much right now. i mean, you've only talked to her twice now, and the first one was nothing to write home about.

she looks over your fave for a minute then smiles and holds out her hand. “yeah? well, i’m shoko. nice to meet you. for the second time.”

your face ignores as you take her hand, her soft, delicate hand. wow, she felt like fluffy slime.

“i’m [name]. yeah. nice to meet you." you stop. "for the second time.” she laughs and lets go of your hand.

you desperately search for the next conversation starter and gesture at her head. “good effort.” you pause. “oh shit. that sounded rude.”

you slap a hand over your mouth. “i meant it’s cute. it looks cute!" good save.

she laughs again. “relax. its fine. not really a good effort anyways since it’s shiu's. i didn’t even wanna dress up.” yeah, that tracks. she glances down at you, eyes lingering. “your outfit’s cute tho, what is it... like, sexy mrs. claus?” you stutter. “th-thank you! and yeah, i guess that's what i was aiming for.”

she gives you that beautifully bored smirk and you suddenly forget ever social skill you'd ever learnt from being pretty and popular.

she seems to clock that and decides to save you. “so,” she starts soft. “are you here to hook up with any cute guys tonight?” she even tilts her head a little when she says it, clearly quoting you, asshole. affectionate though.

your brain immediately blue screens.

oh god. this is bad. this is really bad. normally, this question would be nothing. you’d laugh, or maybe deflect, or say something flirty and vague, maybe even name drop someone if you were feeling extra spicy. you’re good at this, hell, you’re built for this.

except right now you’re painfully aware of how you’re sitting. how your legs are crossed. how your hands are folded in your lap like you’re waiting for a fucking job interview. what if you say yes and she thinks you’re a slut?. what if you say no and she thinks you’re a boring loser. what if she thinks you’re lying! what if she thinks literally anything at all?!

your silence reeeeally stretches. shoko’s smile turns into empathetic confusion. "…hey,” she says. “are you okay? are you high or something?” oh my god. you choke on a laugh. “what? no. god. do i look high?”

“a little,” she says honestly.

your face feels hotter and hotter. “oh, wow. that’s not good.” she laughs, then reaches out. her fingers wrap around your hand. the contact sends your thoughts scattering even worse.

“seriously,” she says. “you’re acting like you’re about to bolt.” you swallow and then, for some reason, the truth just spills on out. “i’m usually really good at talking to people,” you blurt. “like, really good. and i’ve wanted to talk to you properly since the last time we spoke, but i just can’t seem to say the right thing around you and now i feel insane and weird and probably unlikable and i’m so sorry if this is uncomfortable for you i just-”

“hey,” she cuts in gently. your rambling grinds to a stop. she’s smiling, again. that damn smirk. “everything’s fine,” she says. “you’re not weird. and you’re definitely not unlikable.”

you blink at her. “really?”

“realy,” she echos. “i actually like that you came over.” something starts pumping harder in your chest so fast it almost makes you dizzy.

“i’d love to be friends,” she adds. “and we should totally talk more.”

oh! that heavy, awful pressure you didn’t even realise you were harbouring just disappears. poof. you let out a laugh that sounds like relief than anything. “thank gosh.”

she chuckles. “that bad, huh?”

“you have no idea,” you say, squeezing her hand once before realising you’re doing it and quickly letting go. “nthank you. seriously.” you start to open your mouth again, ready to actually talk this time, when a dumb mop of white hair in your peripheral vision catches your eye.

he's drunkly slurring your name as he stumbles towards you. gojo. he’s clearly off his face. like, aggressively so. sunglasses indoors drunk.

“y/n,” he calls, voice carrying way too far. “there you are!”

shit. you remember telling him you’d talk to him if you saw him. you also remember how badly you don’t want to leave this couch.

so, what more logically sound thing could you possibly do in a situation like this?

you grab shoko’s wrist and stand up. “come on.”

she laughs, surprised. “what? hey-"

you tug her after you, squeezing through the crowd again, your hearts racing but this time it feels exciting. behind you, gojo shouts something that sounds like “rude!” but he’s laughing too hard to understand.

by the time you push through the back door and onto the porch, you’re both giggling.

you collapse onto the outdoor couch, shoulders brushing one anotherw.

“wow,” shoko says, still smiling. “kidnapped.”

“he would not of left me alone,” you say. “i’m so sorry.”

“don’t be,” she says. “that was kind of fun.”

"right?" you smile.

she reaches into her pocket, then sighs. “shit. i lost my cigarette.”

you make a noise of sympathy. “tragic.”

she snorts and pulls out another, lighting it with her long, slender fingers. the flame pirouettes over her face for a second and you find yourself staring once again. big surprise. she catches you this time.

“so, do you smoke?” she asks.

“no,” you say quickly. “never.”

“yeah,” she says, amused. “i figured from last time. looked at me like i'd committed a crime.”

“oh shoosh.”

“hey, i'm just observant.” she takes a puff, then glances at you sideways. “you wanna try?” your heart jumps. “me?”

“yeah.” smirks. you shudder, but nod nonetheless. “o-okay. sure.” she laughs softly, then brings the cigarette to your lips instead of handing it over. her eyes stay on yours as you lean in, lips closing around the filter.

it feels so intimate. way more than it should.

you inhale. and you immediately regret it. you cough, bending forward, wheezing like your lungs are on fire. “oh my god! why- how do people do this-” shoko bursts out laughing and wraps an arm around your shoulders steadying you. “easy, easy.”

you finally catch your breath, face burning, and then you start laughing too. uncontrollable. embarrassed. alive.

“hmm,” she hums. “probably not for beginners.”

"oh wow, that was bad,” you wheeze.

“you're okay. i promise." you lean back against the couch with your shoulders still touching. shoko glances at you in the dark. her face adorns a soft and contemplative look. “you know,” she says, “i think you’re really cool.” you turn toward her, very surprised.

“mhm,” she continues. “i’m glad you still wanted to talk to me. even after whatever your friends probably said.”

your throat constricts a little. “they just don’t get you.” she smiles at that. “you’re probably the coolest person i’ve ever met, by the way. like ever,” you say, very open and earnest. “and i’ve met a lot of people.”

she laughs although it's adorably shy this time. “i’m glad.”

the half assed christmas lights pulse softly around you as the party hums on inside.

right now the moment feels so perfect. you don't think you've ever had this much fun at a party before, just sitting out the back with this mysterious girl you'd only really properly met tonight. it was likely boring to others, but you'd never felt so content than with her, talking all night about absolutely nothing yet everything, all at once.

~

11am, monday.

phone number? secured.

snapchat? pinned.

her instagram? holy shit. she was the nichest most amazing girl probably ever. you wanted to cry.

all her posts had that grainy digi cam look to them, taken in graffitied spots in the city or long abandoned stair ways. she was cool, but like, on an intergalactic level. you were scrolling her page for what felt like the millionth time in your social studies lecture when choso slides into the seat next to you.

"whatcha doing?"

you jump in surprise and slam your phone face down onto the table, causing the rest of the room to stare as you slap a hand over your mouth. "my bad guys..." a few people laugh before turning their attention back to the front.

"what, you got some guys dick pics on there? promise i'm not jealous." he smiles, snaking a hand around your shoulder.

you shiver at the contact. it's so much different to shokos, her arm was delicate and soft. it was warm and comforting in a way no meaty muscular bicep could ever be. you stand up in your seat and grab your lap top.

"sorry, cho. gotta go to the... to the bathroom! yeah, gotta pee. see yah." you wave at him and rush out of the hall down to the bathrooms. when the hell did you think about someone as much as you were shoko... not even your ex could occupy this much space in your running-a-mile-a-minute brain.

you don’t even realise you’ve slowed down until you hit the end of the hallway and nearly walk straight into them.

your friends. a whole cluster of them blocking the path like a poorly coordinated intervention.

“oh my god,” one of them says as soon as she sees you. “there you are.”

another chimes in. “okay but hello? you look hot today.” you laugh the fakest thing you can muster. "you too!" you'd hoped that'd be it. you could go freak out in the bathroom now. but, ofcourse not. "we missed you at the party,” someone else adds. “you disappeared. like, vanished.”

“yeah,” another chimes in. “we didn’t see you all night.” your stomach drops just a little. you already know where this is going.

you try to keep it light. “i was.. around.”

they exchange looks and their smiles turn slightly sour. a quieter girl at the back, someone you barely talk to, clears her throat. “i mean… i saw you.”

your eyes move to her. “yeah?”

she murmurs. “with shoko. out on the back patio.” there it is. the somewhat tame energy flips instantly.

one of them, a blonde girl, scoffs. “are you serious?”

“we literally warned you,” another says. “told you that was bad for you.”

“yeah,” someone laughs. “lowering yourself for some fucking dyke is crazy.”

that word.

“don’t say that,” you snap, way harsher than you mean to. they stare at you surprised. “what,” one says. “it’s true.”

“you’re better than that,” another adds. “we’re just looking out for you, fuck.”

“yeah,” someone else says. “don’t get dragged into that shit.” it’s one of you against ten of them. all you want to do it scream at them for being so insensitive and rude, but you can feel it. the way they close ranks without moving, the way their voices scoff from teasing to patronising.

your hands shake around your laptop strap.

“i’ve gotta go,” you say, forcing your voice. “i’m gonna be late.”

“don’t forget what we said,” someone calls after you. you give them a half hearted nod, wave once like you didn’t just get sucker punched emotionally, then turn and walk fast toward the bathrooms. once you’re inside, you push through the door and lean against the sink, staring at your reflection like it might explain something to you.

what the hell was that? you tell yourself you’re upset because they were rude. because anyone would be, right? because no one likes hearing someone they care about get talked about like that.

that’s it.

this weird tight feeling has nothing to do with shoko herself. obviously.

then, as you're half way through your crisis, the stall door creaks open behind you.

“rough day?”

you look behind you through the mirror.

and who other than yuki tsukumo steps out, washing her hands without a care in the world.

you plaster on your best smile and shake your head, the one that usually worked on anyone. you'd known yuki in passing but never personally, she was sort of just part of another group.

she laughs immediately. “nope. not that one.”

you drop it. “what?”

“you’re like, hardcore crashing out,” she says, drying her hands. “it’s very obvious.”

“yeah? well it’s none of your business.”

she grins. “what? guy trouble?”

you scoff. “no.”

“always no,” she says. “always lying.”

you roll your eyes and turn back to the mirror. “can you not.”

she leans against the counter beside you. “relax. i just said that because shoko said you were a little boy crazy.” you spin around, and like world vomit pouring out of your mouth really loudly, you boarder line scream. “shoko said that!?” you slap a hand over your mouth immediately.

yuki stares at you. “wow.”

“forget i said that,” you rush. “please.” she tilts her head. “why are you so jumpy.”

“i’m not.”

“oh you absolutely are.” you exhale, defeated. “just forget it.” she shrugs. “okay. but you brought her up.” you hesitate. “no, you did." you glare, then sigh like being mad wasn't worth it. "what else did she say about me?.." you ask quietly.

yuki’s brows lift. “oh?”

“just tell me,” you say quickly.

she hums, thinking. “she said you’re her new friend.”

“and that you’re a little ditzy,” yuki adds, quickly. your expression falls to that of a kicked puppy, one so sad even yuki feel a little bad, so she quickly recovers with, "she didn't mean it in a bad way! just that you were charming." you stare at the sink. “oh.”

yuki watches you with a smile. a big, teasing, horrid smile. then, she drops the million dollar question. "what? do you like her or something?”

your mouth counters before you can stop it.

“no,” you bark, stepping closer, getting up in her face. “and if you go around telling anyone that, i’ll fucking ruin you.”

yuki freezes and her eyes go wide. you instantly regret it.

“okay,” she says slowly. “wow.”

you grab your bag, heart racing, and bolt for the door. “forget this conversation.”

you don’t slow down until you’re back in the hallway with your head spinning.

what the hell was that?

you don’t yell at people, especially not people you barely know. you don’t threaten girls in bathrooms over hypothetical questions. this is not you.

all of this over one night. one conversation that turned into a few hours. one girl who sits quietly on couches and smokes too much. you grip the strap of your bag tighter.

friendship is not supposed to feel like this.

~

tuesday, 2pm.

shoko sits on the floor with her back against her couch, knees pulled in, and an ashtray balanced between her feet. her entire apartment smells like old incense and fresh smoke, which is a surprisingly pleasant smell. her windows cracked menough to let the fresh air leak in.

yuki is sunken into the couch behind her with one leg hanging over the arm and a cigarette between her fingers. she’s been quiet for a few minutes, which usually means she’s lining something up. shoko takes a drag and waits.

“so,” yuki says eventually. “you know that chick you were telling me about?”

shoko makes a vague noise, eyes on the smoke drifting toward the ceiling.

“the flashy one,” yuki adds. “your new little friend.” shoko doesn’t turn around but answers. “what about her?"

yuki laughs under her breath. “she went full berserk at me in the bathrooms yesterday.”

that gets shoko to look back. one eyebrow lifts. “berserk how?"

“like,” the blonde says, sitting up a little, “i make one joke and suddenly she’s in my face threatening my life.”

shoko sighs once. “you’re exaggerating.”

“i swear i’m not,” yuki says. “it was very intense.” shoko leans her head back against the couch, staring at the ceiling. “what did you say to her.”

yuki scoffs. “nothing crazy. i asked if she was having guy trouble. she said no. i joked that you said she was boy crazy.”

shoko groans quietly. “yuki?.”

“what,” yuki says. “that’s what you said.”

shoko pinches the bridge of her nose. “i didn’t mean it like that.”

“i know,” yuki says. “i thought it was harmless. but the second i mentioned your name she got all weird.”

shoko goes quiet, rolling that over. yuki watches her. “then, i made an off hand joke. asked her if she liked you or something, and she got really defensive. like, scary defensive.” shoko stubs out her cigarette and lights another. “she probably felt threatened .”

“threatened by what?"

“everything,” shoko says. “her whole life is different to ours.”

yuki tilts her head. “explain.”

shoko shrugs. “she lives in a loud world. everything’s about perception. who she’s seen with. what it looks like.”

“and you’re a some big gay display?,” yuki asks.

shoko snorts. “something like that.” yuki studies her more carefully. “so you think she freaked out because she thought i thought she liked you?" shoko nods. “yeah.”

“not because she actually does?”

shoko doesn’t answer immediately. she takes a drag then lets it out slowly. “she’s under a lot of pressure just being around me at all. i get that.”

yuki raises a brow with a smile. “you’re being very generous.”

“i’m being realistic,” shoko says. “still,” yuki says. “people don’t usually threaten me over misunderstandings.”

the brunette smiles faintly. “she’s just dramatic.”

“true,” yuki admits. “but dramatic doesn’t usually come with that much panic.”

shoko shrugs again. “she was probably stressed.”

yuki goes quiet, then asks, softer, “so you don’t think she liked you. not even a little?"

the quieter woman shakes her head. “no.”

“really?"

“really.”

yuki squints. “even if she was gay?"

“she’s not,” shoko says easily. “and even if she was, i’m not her type.”

yuki laughs. “what’s that supposed to mean.”

“look at her,” shoko says. “then look at me.”

“i am looking at you.”

“exactly.”

yuki shakes her head, she's obviously unconvinced. “i don’t know. she was pretty goo goo eyes at that christmas party."

shoko stiffens slightly. “fuck, you saw that?." she sighs. "she doesn’t look at me any way.”

“she does,” yuki says. “like she’s trying to solve a math problem she really hates.” shoko huffs. “that means nothing.”

“sure.” silence settles between them, broken by a car horn outside. shoko flicks ash into the tray, movements slow. yuki shifts on the couch. “can i ask you something.”

shoko already knows. “you’re going to anyway.” yuki smiles. “do you like her?"

hm.

the question sits there as shokos lips stay sealed. she's not silently confessing but it doesn't seem like she's outright ruling it out either. yuki waits. “shoko.”

she stares at the wall. a crack runs from the corner down toward the baseboard, something she’s been meaning to fix.

“that wasn’t the question,” yuki says gently.

shoko closes her eyes for a second, then opens them. “i don’t know.”

yuki lets out a breath. “that’s not a no.”

shoko doesn’t argue. “you said she wasn’t your type,” yuki presses.

shoko shrugs. “no. i said she wouldn’t like someone like me. that’s different.” yuki glances back at her. “is it? you’re in trouble,”

shoko scoffs. “don’t start.”

“i’m serious,” yuki says. “this is how it starts.”

“nothing is starting.”

“sure.” shoko disregards the conversation and pulls her attention back to the window. behind her, yuki lights another cigarette and lets the conversation drop.

for now.

~

from then on, a day or two pass by of you avoiding your friends in the hallways, and dogging them at functions.

you were now snuggled up in your apartment, you’re curled on your side in bed, wrapped in stupidly pretty pajamas that cost too much for something you only wear to sleep. hair fanned out on the pillow. lashes resting against your cheeks.

you look peaceful, you are not.

your subconscious brain fills your mind with a dream that feels like it'll be nice, calm, but that escalates very quickly.

you're sitting on a couch, is it yours? you can't tell. what you can tell is, shoko's sitting right next to you, with one of her legs thrown across your lap and her hand's digging into your hair. her voice is seductive and so, so close to your ear.

"i know you want me, y/n."

her hand slides up your thigh.

"just let me take control."

jesus this feels wrong and right all at the same time. she smiles, then kisses you. so deep it alludes every sense you have.

the dreams blurs and morphs together, one second she's between your thighs making work of your clit with her tongue, flicking back and forth over the bud as she stares you dead in the eye.

next she's got ghat same tongue down your throat as her fingers work you from the inside, pulling the sweetest noises from your mouth.

you're gasping, moaning, whining under her expert touch, everything feels like pure bliss, pure uninterrupted bliss.

she's pinching at your breasts, running her lips over the nipples kissing them softly.

your own hands start to wonder, hesitantly cupping her own, playing with the plush flesh that seemed to up your horny stat by a million. just as you're about to be bold, to finally let yourself go and touch her where you know she wants it, you wake up all at once.

you gasp and sit up straight like you'd been possessed, huffing and puffing as your sweat slick body heaves.

oh my god.

your body is still reacting and you hate that. hate how real it felt. you hate how easily your brain went there.

with her.

“fuck,” you whisper.

you swing your legs over the side of the bed and stand up, pacing once, twice, maybe movement will make it all better. you grab your phone off the nightstand with shaky fingers and don’t even think before you hit maki’s name.

she answers on the third ring, her harsh voice coiled with sleep. “you better be fucking dying.”

“i need you,” you say. there’s a pause. then fabric rustling. “okay. that’s not normal. what happened.” you fall down onto the edge of your bed, elbows on your knees. “i just woke up from the worst dream of my life.”

“worst like scary or worst like you’re being dramatic.”

“worst like i might not be straight anymore.”

that wakes her up.

“…oh,” maki says. “okay. yeah. i’m sitting up.” you laugh weakly. “great.”

maki has always been the one girl you feel like you can turn to. she's your friend who's not like those other girls, she's funny as hell, knows how to read a room, and most importantly, not judgey.

your real best friend.

“start talking,” she says. “slowly, though.”

so you do. you tell her about that first night you met shoko and how badly you wanted to be her friend after that, how much worse it got when you saw her for the second time.

you spew on and on about the hours long conversation you had with her about school, life, friends, all on the patio of that dumb frat.

you tell her about yuki and about the bathroom, about how she mentioned you liking shoko and you losing your temper so bad it made your hair stand on end just thinking about it.

still have to apologise for that...

“that tracks,” maki mutters. “you hate not being in control.” you wince. “okay, just clock me i guess.”

you tell her that you thought you just wanted to be her... best friend? well, you were friends now and you still yearned for more, so that had to be it. right?

“and now,” you say quietly, “i just had a wet dream about this girl. what the fuck?.”

maki laughs then asks, “are we talking full on?” you groan and flop back onto the bed. “sopping wet. i hate myself.”

she laughs again, not mean. “wow. okay.”

“don’t laugh.”

“i’m laughing because this is huge for you,” she says. “and also because you sound like you’re about to combust.”

you stare up at the ceiling. “i don’t know what’s wrong with me. i don’t even think i like girls.”

“mm,” maki hums. “yet you just had your subconscious write a fanfiction on some yuri shit.”

“can you die?.”

she ignores that. “listen. you don’t have to slap a label on this. you don’t have to announce anything. you met one girl who made your brain go a little crazy, that's it."

“that’s not normal.”

“it is if you’re discovering yourself,” she says. “late bloomer kinda thing. very chic.”

you rub your face with both hands. “but i’m not gay.” maki doesn’t miss a beat. “everyone’s a little gay.”

you snort despite yourself. “that’s not helpful.”

“it is actually,” she says. “because it means you’re not some weirdo. you’re just human.”

you roll onto your side, clutching a pillow to your chest. “i’m scared i’m gonna mess this up. i don’t want to make her uncomfortable. or make myself look like a poser trying to covertly bully her, she's told me she gets picked on a lot.”

“you already look like a poser,” maki says. “affectionately. just means you're a pretty fem.” you smile. “what, so girly girls can't be gay?.”

“i thought you weren't gay?,” you're real quiet at that. she continues. “look, from what you’ve told me, she likes you. at least as a person. you’re not imagining that.”

“but what if i am.”

“then nothing happens,” maki says. “and you survive. but if you freak out and overthink and self sabotage, you’re gonna regret that way more.”

you sigh. “so what do i do?"

“don’t be weird,” she says simply.

“…that’s it?"

“be yourself,” maki adds. “the version of you she already likes. let it play out. if it stays friends, cool. if it turns into something else, also cool.”

you stare at your ceiling again, at least your chest felt a lil lighter than it did five minutes ago.

“you’re so annoyingly right,” you say.

“i know,” she replies. “it’s my thing.”

you glance at the clock. too early and too late. “thank you for answering.”

“always,” maki says. “text me if you crash out again.”

“i will.”

you hang up and set your phone back on the nightstand. the room is quiet again. your body is finally calming down. the dream keeps poking through at the edges of your brain, but you sweep them off.

you curl back under the covers, staring at the dark.

don’t be weird.

easy for maki to say.

you close your eyes anyway, shoko’s smile flashing behind them, and let the night settle around you.

~

having that conversation about your feelings had really put things into a somewhat comfortable perspective. you were confused, that's all. very confused.

pretending you didn't have a sex dream about your new friend was surprisingly easy. it was around a week or two later and you'd successfully made sneaking off with shoko upstairs under the excuse of, 'accompanying her while she destroys her lungs.' a very regular thing.

you'd been to around three functions from that very messy crash in the bathrooms and the dream. and to be honest, you'd never been happier just existing with one person at a place meant for mingling with tens or hundreds others.

you'd both sit on either shiu's or geto's bed with the window open as she smoked two or three cigarettes. you'd talk, and she'd listen to everything you had to say, and visa versa. you'd learnt that she's a med student, she loves the smiths and mazzy star, and that her favourite time of day was dusk.

she was hands down the nicest girl you'd ever met, just so calm and down to earth.

although, the topic of sexuality was something the two of you really never touched on. it was like an electric topic you were staying away from. you didn't know if she was doing that so you felt comfortable and shoko didn't know if you were doing that because you felt uncomfortable, either way, the both of you looked silly dancing around it. tonight was no different, you'd both scurried upstairs away from the horny men and judgey women, crashing getos room and slipping onto his bed.

"god, didn't think we'd make it out of there. ino and gojo were really talking your ear off, huh?" shoko teases, leaning back onto the wall with her legs splayed out on the mattress. you laugh, sipping at the vodka cruiser in your hand as you fall back on geto's pillow.

"yeah well, gojos always talky. even in bed."

you watch as her eye brow twitches.

it's almost nothing, but you catch it.

shit.

eyes that were usually fluttering around carelessly were now pin pointed on you. scary.

“always?” she asks, voice even. you swallow around your sip. “i mean. i guess.”

she nods.

“so,” she says, casual again. “do you sleep with him regularly, or was that like.. a one night thing?"

oh.

now you were nervously peeling at the sticker on your bottle like a kid and biting the inside of your cheek. you don’t want her to think badly of you. you’ve never cared what people thought about this before. never once felt the need to explain yourself.

lying feels worse though, lying to her feels so wrong.

“yeah,” you say slowly. “i mean. yeah. sometimes. we hook up from time to time.” you risk a glance at her face. and its it’s subtle. so subtle you almost miss it. it's the way her mouth drops for half a second and her eyes dip down, then away.

something in your chest drops.

fuck.

you rush to fill the silence. “it’s not like. serious or anything. just fun. you know how it is.” you laugh nervous and she nods once. “yeah.”

you hate how flat it sounds. your brain scrambles, desperate to smooth it over, to level the ground between you again. “what about you?” you blurt. “so.. are you involved with anyone ? with any… girls?”

holy fuck. god, strike me down.

you clap a hand over your mouth. “oh my god. i’m so sorry. that came out so wrong. i didn’t mean it like that at all. i just meant like. romantically. or casually. or whatever. i swear i’m not trying to be weird or ignorant or gross. i just don’t always know how to ask things and i panic and then my mouth just keeps going and that sounds so ignorant i-”

“hey.” shoko’s delicate finger presses its pad gently against your lips, hushing you.

“don’t worry,” she says softly. “i know you didn’t mean it like that.”

your shoulders drop. as she lowers her hand and you definitely internally mourn the loss.

she smiles. “last girl i hooked up with was a couple months ago.”

“oh.”

“i’ve been taking a break.”

you nod. “that’s. cool.”

she studies you. “you don’t have to sound relieved."

you laugh nervously. “i’m not. i’m just. glad you told me.”

her pretty eyes soften as she looks you up and down, ever so slowly, and blurts out, "i’d tell you anything.”

the way she said that...

“hmm?,” you mumble. “i might take you up on that.” she sighs a laugh. “i’m serious.” you turn back. “yeah?”

“yeah.” everything's radiating that nice feeling

you get when you're with someone you really admire, every way you look the room seems to fit this vibe perfectly.

just you, and her.

you and this beautiful woman you'd been dreaming of, talking to guys about post hookup, calling maki over for the past week freaking out if you're secretly in some queer coming of age movie reincarnate.

just you, and her.

shoko shifts closer and her thigh brushes yours. not accidental. definitely not accidental.

“can i ask you something?,” she says. you nod way too fast. “yes.”

she tilts her head. “do you like... only swing one way?" your brain shuts off. your mouth opens. closes. opens again.

“i,” you start, then laugh nervously. “i think so. i mean. i’ve always thought so. i’ve only ever been with guys. and i’ve never really questioned it until recently. which is probably normal. or not? i don’t know. college makes everyone question everything. and i still like men. obviously. i’m not saying i don’t. but lately, ever since ive met you, i’ve been feeling weird. not bad weird. just different weird. and i don’t know if that means anything or if i’m just overthinking because i can't figure this out or-"

shoko’s hand cups your cheek and your voice cuts out.

her thumb moves slowly, smoothing down along your jaw like she’s pulling you back down to earth again. her deep brown eyes don’t leave yours for a second.

“you don’t have to explain,” she says. “i get it.”

you swallow. “you do?." she nods. “yeah.” your heart feels like it’s trying to climb out of your chest. you don’t pull away. you don’t lean in either. you’re suspended in this strange, terrifying middle space.

“want me to help you figure it out?" she asks. your breath leaves you in one long huff. “yes... please.”

when did your dreams become reality? (literally)

shoko doesn’t hesitate. she leans in and presses her soft lips to yours.

it’s so delicate you almost assume she's not even kissing you. it's so astronomically different to the rough, deep kisses you're used to from the men you see. she feels so much warmer. your eyes stay open for a moment, stunned. her face is so close. those cute freckles, her long lashes, the smell of smoke and mint.

then you close them, deciding to not look like a freak virgin and actually contribute.

your hand slips gently around her waist, she responds by pulling you closer, her other hand settling at your hip. the kiss deepens, and your head spins. this feels so different! you've thought it a thousand times in a second but it's just so otherworldly. it's not hurried and pushy, no. it's sweet and simple.

your thoughts race. you think about guys like gojo’s hands. the way he grabs. the way everything with men feels like a performance you know by heart, god, this is nothing like that.

this is quiet. this is terrifyingly peaceful.

shoko leans in more, her forehead brushing yours, lips still moving against yours in a lovely serenade. your grip tightens on her shirt, you want more and less at the same time.

you start to overthink.

your mind floods with questions, with fear, with guilt, with excitement.

with panic.

it’s too much.

this is too much.

or is it? you can't think straight! (haha, get it.)

you pull back suddenly, hands pushing against her shoulders.

“stop."

shoko stops instantly. no frustration and no confusion. just concern.

“hey,” she says. “what’s wrong?"

you shake your head, “i can’t. i mean, i want to. i just- i don’t know what this means.”

she nods slowly. “okay.”

you sit there, chest tight, heart racing, staring at her like she might disappear if you look away.

“i’m sorry,” you whisper. shoko doesn’t look hurt, just thoughtful. “it’s okay,” she says. “we can stop.” you nod, still spinning. “yeah.”

the space that was non existent just a few seconds ago now felt like hundred miles long.

.

before the moment can marinate any longer, geto, like some drunk super hero, comes bashing into the room with a pretty girl you swore gojo was dating just a few months ago when he ghosted you for a while. did he cheat on her? was that the story? wow, geto was a show off.

"get out."

wow, real classy.

you see the girl knock him in the side as to say 'cut it out,' and you and shoko share a fleeting glance before scurrying off.

when you hear the door shut down the hallway, you slow down. shokos infront and she turns to you, the lighting dark and you can barely see her eyes, but you can tell she's got that questioning look.

it was making your stomach flutter and churn with nervous nausea at the same time.

"look, y/n, i just want to let you know that this is normal for a girl like you, okay? you just-"

"i'm not gay." you spit. it's so much colder than you mean, but your brain is in fight mode. you're a little drunk, confused. not a good mix.

"hm?"

"i'm not gay. and you helped me figure that out." you tell her, even though you know that's a lie. you just don’t know how to put your feelings into perspective.

"i see."

"look i just-"

"no, i get it. don't worry, kay?" she cuts you off, with that calm smile. "we can talk more outside, yeah?"

"yes... please."

.

it’s awkward. not necessarily bad awkward. just new. the kind that makes you hyperaware of where your hands are. how loud your breathing sounds. the fact that you said something you can’t take back.

shoko breaks it first.

“hey,” she says gently. “i’m not offended.”

you peer at her with guilt stricken eyes, “you’re not?” you ask.

she shakes her head. “no. not at all.”

you let out a small laugh that doesn’t quite land. “i'm still so sorry... i kind of snapped.”

“you were overwhelmed,” she says. “that happens.”

you rub your thumb along the hem of your top. “the truth is, i don't know what i am. it just felt like everything was happening at once and i didn’t know what to do with it.”

she nods. “that’s normal. especially for girls who haven’t had that kind of intimacy with another girl before.”

you glance at her. “you really think so?"

“yeah,” she says easily. “i’ve seen it before. i’ve felt it before.” that makes you pause, perhaps with either sorrow or jealousy, your brain is too scattered to hone in on which one.

“i’m not trying to freak out,” you say. “my head just feels like a mess right now. i want to talk about it. i just don’t know how.”

shoko turns her body toward you a little.

“you can tell me anything,” she says.

there it is again. that sincerity that makes you feel like you've known her for years.

breathing in deeply, you muster up a response.

“okay,” you say. “so. at first. when i met you. i just really wanted to be your friend.”

she smiles faintly. “that tracks.”

you huff. “yeah. it was like this overwhelming urge to be near you. to talk to you. to understand you. i’ve never had that with someone i hadn't even spoken to yet.”

she listens and doesn’t interrupt.

“and i kept telling myself that was it,” you continue. “that i just admired you. thought you were cool. wanted you in my life. i didn’t question it.” you swallow. “but then,” you say quietly, “that feeling sort of changed. or maybe it didn’t change?. maybe it was always more than i thought and i just didn’t have the language for it.” you sigh “i don’t know when wanting to be your friend turned into wanting to understand you on a deeper level,” you say. “or if it was ever just friendship at all.”

you laugh under your breath. “i’ve never experienced this before. not like this. with guys it’s so easy. this feels like i'm tryna read a book in a language i don’t know.” she nods slowly. “that makes sense.”

“my 'friends' don’t help,” you add. “they made jokes, they'd call you horrible names. they turned me wanting to hang out with you into some ugly thing.”

her mouth tightens for a second. not angry, but protective. "i don't want to be their friend anymore. i don't care about close minded losers like that."

she smiles before replying. “you’re completely valid in thinking all of that,” shoko says. “none of it makes you stupid or naive or wrong.”

your shoulders ease up without you even realising they were tense.

“thank you,” you murmur.

“... i want you to know something too.”

you look at her. your stomach flips but you ignore it.

“i value you,” she says. “as a friend. genuinely. and i’m going to try my best to support you through this. thick and thin. no matter what you decide.” your throat tightens. “even if i decide i can’t handle this?"

“especially then,” she says. “but i also want to be honest with you.” you brace yourself.“i’ve had a abit of a thing for you.. ever since the night we locked eyes at that party,” she admits. “i tried to keep it light. give you space. follow your lead.”

you blink. “you have.”

she smiles softly. “yeah.”

“i’m not asking you for anything,” shoko continues. “if you want to stay friends, we stay friends. if you want space, i get it. if you want to stop talking to me, i’ll respect that too.” your chest hurts.

“and if,” she adds carefully, “you want to try and see where things go, i’d be more than happy to take it slow. guide you through it. at your pace.” you stare at her. this woman who somehow makes room for every version of you without asking you to be anything smaller.

“i don’t deserve how kind you’re being,” you say. she laughs quietly. “i’d do anything to make you feel as comfortable as you’ve made me feel.” the concept of you making her feel comfortable really improved your mood.

you feel like you have to show her how grateful you are for her maturity in all of this, and your appreciation for her ability to take this so well. you move closer and gently wrap your arms around her shoulders, giving her room to pull off if she wanted to.

she gets choked up for a second, but then relaxes into it with her arms coming around you with the same care. her chin rests lightly near your shoulder.

its soft and feminine in the sweetest way.

you pull back after a moment, smiling despite yourself. “thank you.”

she squeezes your hand once before letting go. you feel so much better after this.

“so,” you say, clearing your throat. “um. would you maybe want to come over to my place this weekend? maybe watch a movie.”

her answer is so quick. “yes,” shoko says, smiling wide and egar.

you grin back. “cool.”

really cool.

~

your apartment looks stupidly nice and you hate that you care this much about this dat- hang out...

the lights are warm but not too warm. the couch cushions are lined up again after you sat on them twice and fluffed them for no reason. the coffee table is clear except for the bowl of chips you definitely did not need to put in an actual bowl. you glance at the clock for the fifth time.

still ten minutes.

your phone is pressed between your shoulder and ear while you tug at a throw blanket until it looks straight, and maki’s voice crackles through the speaker.

“okay so what’s the plan?” she asks. “walk me through it.”

“there is no plan,” you say. “that’s the point. i’m just going to be normal.”

maki snorts. “you? normal?”

“rude,” you mutter. “i mean it. we’re watching a movie, maybe talking, maybe drinking a bit. nothing crazy, just chilling out like friends do.”

“friends who want to kiss,” maki adds.

you roll your eyes. “stop.”

“i’m serious,” she says. “are you gonna ask if she’s std free if you guys fuck?”

you choke. “i’m not doing that!"

“why notttt?” maki says. “it’s good to be safe.”

“we are not fucking,” you hiss, glancing toward the door like it might hear you. “this is just a hangout.”

“everyone says that before they fuck,” maki says. “i’m just saying.”

“please don’t say fuck again,” you say. “i’m already on edge. i don't know how to do it with a chick anyway...”

"i'm sure she could teach you."

"shut up!"

maki's laugh cackles in your ear for a while before she sighs and calms. “you like her.”

you sigh, you know she's right but,

“i’m just going to see how things go,” you say. “i’m not making it weird.”

“you already made it weird,” maki replies gently. “but that’s okay. that’s how figuring things out works.” you smile despite yourself. “you’re annoying.”

“i know,” she says. “text me if she kisses youuu!.”

“i’m hanging up.”

“ask if she's clean!,” maki sings.

you end the call mid word and toss your phone onto the couch, cheeks pink.

you take a breath. steady. you glance at the door again.

a knock sounds.

you jump.

“shit,” you mutter. “she’s early.”

you smooth your top over, pulling at the fabric so your cleavage looks good, then cross the room. your hand is already on the knob when you pull the door open with a pretty smile ready for her.

but it drops immediately.

because it’s not shoko.

gojo stands there instead, leaning in like it's his own place. his hair is messy in that on purposeful way. his eyes are drowsy. his cheeks are pink like he’s been drinking or thinking about you, or both.

definitely both.

“hey,” he says softly. “there you are.”

“gojo,” you say, flat. “what are you doing here?"

he steps inside without waiting, his fingers wrap around your wrist gently. “I needed you,” he says, voice low. “i’ve been thinking about you all day.” he leans in and kisses you before you can stop him. it’s familiar, sure, it's nice and his mouth knows where to go, but you're all but over this.

you pull away.

“stop,” you say. “now is a really, really bad time.”

he stares at you, bewildered from the alcohol. “what?"

“shoko is coming over,” you say. “you can’t be here.” his brows knit together. “then cancel?”

“no,” you say. “gojo. you need to leave.” he laughs like you’re joking. “why would you cancel me for her?.."

“because i made plans,” you say. “with her.”

“yeah,” he says. “and i need you.” you shake your head. “that’s not how this works.”

he steps closer again, confused. “we’ve been doing this for three years. we're friends, good friends."

“I know,” you say. “that doesn’t mean you get to show up whenever you want.”

he looks genuinely lost now. “are you mad at me?."

“oh my god, no,” you say. “i just- i need you to go.”

“why are you picking some girl you just met over me?,” he asks. “over us.”

“there is no us,” you say, sharper than you mean. his mouth gets pouty. “wow.” you exhale. “gojo. please.” he scoffs. “she doesn’t need you like i do.”

“you don’t get to decide that,” you say.

he reaches for you again and you step back.

you're about to drop the bomb, about to tell him that 'i think i have a crush on her and this hangout is going to determine my mood for the rest of the week, so can you fuck off?'

but you're cut of by the door that opens behind him.

shoko, in all her beauty, stands there with a puzzled look on her face.

“oh,” she says. “sorry. i uhm.. i didn’t realise you had another guest.” your heart drops.

“no,” you say quickly. “it’s not like that. he was just leaving.”

in shokos head, she's distraught. why would you have some guy you were sleeping with over at your place when you and her were supposed to be hanging out? especially after she was so excited for it... she felt a little sad.

she tries to push it down and announces, "that’s fine. i can come back another time.”

“no,” you say. “shoko please stay.” but gojo talks over you. “thanks sho, catch up later yeah?.”

shoko hesitates, then gives you a small smile that doesn’t quite reach her deep brown eyes. “text me.”

then she leaves.

the door closes, and the silence is loud. you turn on gojo slowly, heat and anger flooding your face.

“what the fuck is wrong with you?!” you snap.

he frowns. “what did i do?"

“you just ruined everything!" you worry. “get out.”

“you’re overreacting,” he says. “she’s just some girl.”

“she’s not just some girl! she's all i can think about lately and i was so excited to see her today!” you say. “and you don’t get to decide who matters to me, i think i really like her!" the second the words leave your mouth, the room goes still.

gojo just stares at you, blinking like his brain short circuits halfway through processing it.

“you like,” he repeats, slower. “… her.”

you squeeze your eyes shut and take a deep breath. “i don’t know if it’s love-like. but it feels big. bigger than anything i’ve felt before. and tonight was supposed to be a break from the fuck ups in our track history. we were supposed to just watch a movie and talk and not freak out and now it’s all fucked because you walked in like this was still some open door situation.”

gojo stays quiet because yikes, he messed up.

you keep going because stopping feels so impossible right now.

“everything with you has always been easy,” you say. “easy and fun and predictable. and with her.. i don’t know anything, and that’s scary and exciting and i hate that i care this much but i do.” gojo rubs the back of his neck. “i didn’t know.”

“I know,” you sigh, then soften immediately. “i know you didn’t. but you don’t get to act like she’s nothing just because she’s new.”

he winces. “yeah. that was shitty.”

you drag a hand down your face. “i just wanted tonight to go right."

he rubs his neck bashfully and steps towards you slowly, he pulls you into a hug before you can talk yourself out of it.

“I’m sorry,” he says into your hair. “i really am. i don’t know much about… any of this. but i didn’t mean to mess things up for you.”

your throat tightens. “i know.. i know.”

"i'm sorry,” he says quietly. “i won’t again.”

you look up at him and he looks genuinely gutted on your behalf.

“i’ll stop,” he says. “no more showing up. no more trying to get with you, hell, i'll even tell the other guys to lay off if you want. if you think you found something good, i’m not gonna touch it.” your whole face is wiped of the stern expression you wore, replaced with one of appreciation. “thank you.”

he nods, then forces a small smile. “you should go after her.”

you nod, then grab your jacket, shove past him, and bolt out the door.

then, like some really bad angsty romace movie, it starts pouring down with soaking rain.

your hair sticks to your face. your shoes soak through, and your heart feels like it’s trying to outrun you. you scan the street, breath coming fast, panic creeping in.

then you see her down the block with her hood up, standing near the bus stop about to hop on the cory express. she’s halfway up the step when you shout her name.

“shoko!”

she turns just as you reach her, your hand catching her arm before she can get on.

“wait,” you gasp. “please.”

she lets you pull her back down onto the sidewalk. the rain darkens her shirt, and her expression's conflicted, her hurt shining through no matter how hard she tries to hide it.

“you didn’t have to do this,” she says.

“no... i did,” you huff. “i really did.” she looks away. “but it’s fine. i get it.”

“no,” you say, shaking your head. “you don’t. and i don’t want you filling in blanks that aren’t real.”

she watches you carefully now. “okay?.."

“gojo didn’t know,” you say. “about us. about tonight meaning something to me. he thought he could just show up like always, and that’s on me for not shutting it down sooner.”

she sighs. “you don’t owe me an explanation.”

“i owe you honesty,” you say. “especially after the other night.”

her shoulders drop a little. “... i was excited to see you.” she admits, hugging her body.

oh wow.. your heart drops. “me too.”

rain dripples down your nose and forehead, you're awe struck at the way droplets fall into her lashes and catch on the ends.

“I didn’t want you thinking i chose him,” you say. “because i didn’t. i would have chosen you. every time.” her eyes soften. “i believe you.” you laugh weakly. “thank god.” she steps closer and wraps her arms around you. you hug her back without thinking, rain soaking both of you.

“shit, it’s freezing,” she laughs with melancholy. you huff a laugh. “come back to my place. please.” she nods. “duh. i just missed my bus cuz of you.”

you laugh, embarrassed, and pull her up the pathway, and by the time you get back, you’re both dripping wet. gojo’s mercedes is gone, and relief floods over you. thank fuck.

you step inside and the chill from the air con made both of you shiver. you smile guide her gently toward the bathroom. “you should have a shower. now. before you freeze and die.” she laughs at you as you wish off to grab her a towel and some clothes.

as you shut the door you try your best to not think about her being naked in your bathroom, occupying yourself with whatever you can. you change into comfy, drier clothes, dry your hair, hands still a little shaky.

just as you finish up she comes out dressed in your clothes, with her hair damn and her cheeks flushed pink.

you both pause, then laugh at the same time.

“you look good,” you say, smiling.

“you too,” she replies.

you point to the couch. “c'mon, pick a movie. i’ll order food.”

she settles in, scrolling, glancing at you from under her lashes. you catch her looking at your short pyjama shorts but you pretend not to notice how her cheeks flush a darker colour, and she pretends you didn’t catch her.

“i can’t choose,” she says eventually.

“that’s fine,” you say, sitting down. “we can just talk.” she smiles and scoots closer, turning to face you fully, you set your phone down.

“hi,” she says.

“hi,” you echo, laughing softly.

you’re both so goo goo eyed it’s embarrassing.

rain taps faintly against the window, but you barely register it. all you can really focus on is how close she is, how her knee keeps brushing your thigh every time she moves around, like she’s checking if you’ll pull away.. you, ofcourse, don’t.

shoko glances down, then back up at you. “i was a little sad earlier,” she admits.

your stomach tightens. “about gojo?”

she nods. “yeah. not because of him, really. just because i didn’t know where i stood.”

you swallow. “i hated that you saw that.”

“i know,” she says. “but i’m glad you ran after me.”

“i needed you to know i wasn’t choosing him.” she takes a once over of your face. “and?”

“and i’m not involved with anyone anymore,” you say. “not him. not anyone. except…” you trail off, then look at her. “except you. if you want.” her lips curve into a slow smile. “i do.”

it’s such a simple answer it almost knocks you flat. “i’m only interested in you too,” she adds, like she’s letting you in on a secret.

something loosens in your chest. you laugh, a quiet little sound. “that makes me feel insane amounts of better.”

“good,” she says. “that was the goal.”

you both smile, and then there’s this weird feeling of change, the way you're looking at her and visa versa is like neither of you is pretending this is just friendly anymore.

your eyes fall, against your will, down to the shirt you gave her, it's low cut and shows off her cleavage on the most beautiful way. you definitely chose that shirt on purpose, consciously or subconsciously was the real question.

your eyes flick down one more and you immediately regret it, already bracing for embarrassment because she notices.

and instead of calling you out, she adjusts the shirt, pulling it down, leaning back just enough to make it worse.

there goes the innocent act you were tryna uphold. she catches your reaction and smiles, amused. “you okay?”

“yeah,” you say quickly. “totally. fine.”

she hums. “you’re staring.”

you clear your throat because you were really hoping she wouldn't say anything, then, bashfully you counter with, “you are too.”

she doesn’t deny it. her eyes drop down to your shorts, the way your legs fold under you. “they’re very short.”

“i know,” you say, then wince. “i mean- i didn’t think about it like that, that wasn't like the plan or anything i-”

“mm,” she says. “sure.” she shifts closer. now your knees are touching fully, not just brushing. you take a breath. “can i ask you something?” she nods. “anything.”

oh god what were you doing?

your courage spikes and you spew what had been on your mind for the past twenty minutes. “do you wanna... try that kiss again?” wow, so much for being normal tonight.

her smile turns softer, warmer. “i thought you’d never ask.” she leans in this time without hesitating. your lips meet hers gently, and you’re more present now, less caught in your head. you kiss her slowly, deliberately, like you’re learning her technique. she responds quickly with her hand sliding to your waist, only, as she pulls herself closer to you you can't help the whine that falls from your lips as her tits press firmly against yours, moulding together so she can slip her tongue inside.

they feel so plush, so warm against your chest. like some psychic, she grabs one of your hands and places it against her right boob, letting you explore.

you're breathing heavy at the overwhelming appeal dripping from this exchange, squeezing gently making her gasp into your mouth.

she pulls back for just a second, looking you with lust in her caramel eyes. “can i go a little further?” you nod so fast it’s pathetic. “please.” she smiles and kisses you again, this time with more passion. she's not shy with where she's grabbing, her hands finding your butt and squeezing with a satisfied hum.

hm, so she was an ass girl. good to know.

she then lifts herself up and slips easily into your lap, sitting down on your bare thighs.

"is this okay, baby?" wow you almost moan at the name. from a man's mouth that pet name felt cringe, from hers? you think you cold listen to her say it a million times over.

"this is more than okay." you smile, and she gives you an open mouth kiss in appreciation. she takes your hand and presses it gently against her chest again, your breath stutters and you squeeze lightly. she makes this quiet whine that goes straight to your clit.

you moan softly into the kiss, startled by yourself. her hand mirrors yours, resting over your chest, squeezing just enough to make you melt into her. she’s in control, but she’s watching you closely, checking in without words. it makes you feel safe and secure in a way no man has ever done.

when the kiss finally breaks, you’re both lost for breath and touching foreheads, “wow.”

she smiles against your skin. “yeah.”

just as you're about to go at it after catching your breath, the door bell rings.

"fuck, that's the food..." you mumble. and she laughs as you push off the couch and towards the door. while you're gone, she's trying desperately to fix herself up and hide the mess between her legs, sitting on her knees so you couldn't see the dampness she's sure is there.

she's praying to god she didn't leave anything on your clothes as well..

.

the rest of the night eases into something soft without trying to be. food shows up, it's warm and fragrant, and you eat cross legged on the couch with mean girls playing in the background.

shoko cheekily smiles while stealing your fries and you laugh and take sips of her drink in return. the normalcy of it all feels unreal after how intense everything was an hour ago. you both have a few drinks you'd kept in your fridge, nothing hangover worthy but just enough to slow your brain down.

by now she seems more comfortable as she leans her head against your shoulder and leans into you when she laughs, you grin like a school girl and go with the flow.

halfway through the movie you realise you’re not paying any attention. you’re more focused on the way her fingers are scratching lightly up and down on your thigh, every now and then she glances up at you to gauge your reaction.

you smile and kiss your teeth in reply.

when the credits finally roll, it’s really late. the rain has softened to a quiet patter outside, the city sounding distant and tired.

you clear your throat. “hey.” she hums, looking at you. “yeah?”

“do you wanna… stay the night?” it comes out cautious, like you’re bracing for rejection even though everything in her body language says otherwise. she smiles quickly. “i was hoping you’d ask.”

relief hits you so hard you almost laugh. “okay sweet!” you hop up too fast, nerves kicking back in. “you can take my bed. i’ll grab blankets for the couch.”

she blinks at you. “why?”

“because i invited you over,” you say. “and because i don’t want you to be uncomfortable.” she watches you for a second, then shakes her head. “that won’t be necessary.” you pause. “hmm?”

“just sleep in the bed with me,” she says simply. “if that’s okay.”

your face heats instantly. “oh. i mean. yeah. i just thought-” she steps closer and takes your hand before you can wack out. “we don’t have to do anything. i promise.”

you nod, embarrassed. “i wasn’t assuming.”

she smiles, gentle. “i know. i just want you to feel safe.” that word again. safe, she felt like it's definition at this point.

you take her to your room, showing her around the place abit before sitting on the edge, you watch as she settles beneath your covers and you take it as your sign to copy. your body's stiff and awkward until you lock eyes with her, she for your hand.

“you don’t have to be scared,” she laughs gently. you let your fingers lace with hers. “i’m not.” it’s not entirely true, and you think she could tell by the way she squeezes your hand.

“i don’t want sex tonight,” she adds softly. “i just want to be here with you.”

you didn't know if that was a good thing or a bad thing. “thank you.”

she shifts closer, just enough that your arms brush. it feels so intimate without being too overwhelming. you fall asleep like that, hand in hand, breathing in sync.

~

two weeks of that.

two weeks of hanging around eachothers places, making out on occasion, and watching shitty movies while cuddled up on the couch. la pretty sweet deal, if you did say so yourself.

you didn't have to be some performative pos infront of shoko because she was someone you felt comfortable with, you got to spend optimal time with one of the coolest people you knew, and said person had the same feelings for you as you did for her.

perfect.

well, almost.

the only thing wrong with this infatuating arrangement of swapping spit and touching up on each other, was the fact you hadn't put a label on any of this yet. usually, it would go something like this: you'd meet a guy, maybe screw around a bit, have him begging for your time for a date, go on said date, then you'd be asked out. (not that you'd ever said yes.)

obviously, with two chicks it was a different story. you knew you liked her. god, you liked shoko more than you'd ever liked anyone. with each passing day of just living in her presence, you've learnt that maybe you've been missing out your whole life on this whole gay thing. only thing is, how do you take this relationship to the next level?

do you have sex? is that the next thing? she'd been hinting at it lately but you weren't sure. do you ask her out first? maybe both? sex then a date? date then sex? this was all so confusing. your panicked thoughts came to fruition one night at a white lies party gojo's frat was hosting.

a theme that's been over-done to the max but was always a good laugh.

you'd texted shoko earlier that day to ask what she was up to and if she was coming, and she of course had already been invited by shiu. (who you've since found out is her plug, hence why she's always at the functions, she's lining his pockets as well as being his friend.)

smiling to yourself at the thought of retreating upstairs away from everyone else with shoko, you step into the house and smell that disgusting reek of spoiled alcohol.

a few weeks ago you'd be fluttering around greeting people, but as of late all you could muster is a quick wave as your beelined it to your pretty friend.

so, that's what you were doing. in your white shirt that spelt out "i'm coming" in messy handwriting, you're throwing small greetings to the people you recognise while making your way over the the couch shoko's always at.

you’re halfway across the living room when sukuna, this dumb meat head, spots you.

his eyes drag over you, then snag on your shirt. “no way,” he says, grinning. “is that true for me?” you stop because he steps directly into your path. for gods sake, you wished men you'd fucked months ago would stop thinking they were the centre of your universe. you force a very obviously fake smile and grit out, “it’s just a theme, sukuna.” he laughs, loud and annoyingly self assured. “so you’re saying there’s a chance?"

your gaze flicks past him, already searching for the couch. for her. you spot dark hair, her posture, long slender legs tucked up the way she always sits. relief and the sight of her unfathomable beauty almost makes your knees give out. you try to step around him but he moves again, blocking you off from your precious view. “come on. you telling me i can’t make that shirt honest tonight?”

oh you were so sick of this.

you don't know if it's the weeks of finally feeling content with your life without men like him running things or what, but you bark out a harsh, “move,” he raises a brow. “what?”

“i said move.” there’s no flirt in your voice like you'd usually put on, no. you're kind of over putting on such a facade for people you didn't really care about. the only person you wanted to impress with your charm and social skills right now was sitting on a couch you wished you were sitting at as well.

his grin falls. “damn, relax. i’m just talking.”

“god,” you say flatly. “can you just fuck off.”

a few heads turn. that alone is enough to shock him. you step forward and shove past his shoulder. he stares at your gobsmacked at your attitude. well, you're glad that was over. you were expecting some more yelling from him, so that was a plus.

you finish your journey and there she sits, wearing a white shirt with neat lettering that reads i’m not addicted to nic. you laugh under your breath as you drop down beside her. “liar,” you say.

she glances over, eyes lighting up. “takes one to know one.” you almost kiss her cheek infront of all of these people without thinking. the urge hits so fast it makes your head spin but you stop yourself at the last second, settling for leaning in close.

“hi,” you say instead.

“hi,” she replies softer.

wow, she looks good, it’s distracting.

her boobs looked really good in that shirt, you could faintly see the outline of her bra. you have to curl your fingers into your own thigh to keep from doing something reckless. she notices. her eyes dip then come back to your face, amused. “you okay?”

you swallow. “define okay.” her lips twitch into a smile. “you look… restless.” that’s one way to put it. she leans in close to whisper in your ear “we could go upstairs.” your breath leaves you in a slow exhale. “i’ve been waiting for you to say that.” you get the okay from geto beforehand, and he waves you two off. you'd bother assumed he was still under the impression you were strictly using his room for smoking, he said the smell went with his aura and that shoko could hot box it as much as she wanted. such a poser.

but, in reality, he had an ongoing bet with yuki about how long it would take for the two of you to go public. he knew.

the wooden door closes behind you, and it feels like a switch flips. like the noise and the eyes and the expectations all fall away.

shoko turns to you.

“can i kiss you?” she asks. you nod eagerly. “yes.” she doesn’t rush it. she steps into your space, gives you time to pull back if you want to, and you don’t.

your mouths meet, soft at first, then deeper as you relax into it. it’s so familiar now, but the way she's pushing up against you suggests she's feeling a little frisky.

you break the kiss just long enough to laugh. “why are you being so confident tonight?”

she smiles, forehead resting against yours. “i’ve just been thinking about you all day. can't get you out of my head.”

her voice.. holy shit, her voice. you kiss her again, your hands falling around her waist as hers grip your ass.

she really was being bold. and you loved it.

she now presses you back until your thighs hit the edge of suguru's bed. you sit without breaking the kiss, and she follows, sitting down in your lap.

"for the record, i never stop thinking about you, sho." you huff when the kiss breaks.

she smiles, small and mischievous. “i noticed.” her hands slide under your shirt, palms warm against your skin. your shoulders tense up but then relax when you realise you’re not nervous, you’re just keyed in.

she kisses down your neck, like she'd done a few times before, but now she was doing iit not only with passion, but with lust. she pulls at your shirt collar as she kisses down your collar. “shoko,” you whine, gosh, you never whined like that with men.

she hums against your skin, sultry and hungry. “mm?”

“don’t stop.” that’s all it takes. she nudges you further back onto the bed, guiding you until you’re lying down. she takes her time pushing your shirt up slowly, fingers dragging lightly over your stomach, watching your face the whole time. checking. always checking.

“tell me if you want me to stop,” she says.

you shake your head. “i will.”

“perfect.” she leans down again, looking you dead in your eyes as she drags her tounge from your belly button up to your bra, unhooking it at the back then pulling it off with her teeth.

wow, magic mike much? she's still giving you the fuck me eyes as she takes one of your hard nipples into her mouth, sucking gently pulling more pretty sounds from your throat.

you'd always thought this moment would feel wrong when you finally engaged. that maybe you'd freak out and stop her, but with the way she's murmuring praise and compliments into your skin while she sucks at your body paints a completely different picture.

"you're so beautiful, baby. prettiest tits i've ever seen." she smiles.

before you can thank her with an embarrassed flush, she bites down softly on your nipple and you moan ever so prettily, hooking your fingers into getos sheets.

was it bad you were doing this in your friends bed? probably.

didn't stop either if you though. as she continues kissing down your body, her hands slip into your shorts, thumbs hooking on the waistband. you lift your hips in instinct, helping her. the look she gives you at that is sexy and so approving.

“you're so eager,” she murmurs.

“shut up,” you say, embarrassed, but grinning. she slides your shorts down your legs, followed by your underwear, her movements are so fluid and feminine.

when she looks at you fully like this, open and bare under her gaze, your face heats. you almost cover yourself.

she catches your wrist gently before you can. “hey.” you meet her eyes. “you’re ethereal,” she says, like some simple fact.

and yeah, you knew you were pretty, a multitude of guys would line up to spout that in your ear. but having a beautiful girl like shoko say that meant so much more than all the men in the world combined.

she leans down, kisses your inner thigh, then the other. her mouth is warm, never quite where you want it yet. you squirm, letting out a soft sound you don’t recognise as yours. she smiles against your skin. “relax. i’ve got you.”

and she does.

her fingers part you slowly, like she’s learning how you'll react. she doesn’t rush, doesn’t push. just explores, touches, listens to the way your body responds. when she finally slips a finger inside you, it’s so gentle. you gasp, hands flying to her hair, gripping without meaning to.

she doesn’t tell you to let go.

she adds another finger once you relax around her, curling them just enough to make your thoughts scatter. your hips move on their own, chasing the high you so desperately wanted.

“shoko,” you breathe, a little wrecked already. she looks up at you, eyes focused. “yeah?”

“that feels… really good.” she chuckles softly. “i know.” she leans down again, mouth replacing her fingers for a moment, tongue slow and thorough. you go still, then melt, one hand covering your mouth to keep quiet. she pulls back just long enough to say, “you don’t have to be.

that’s permission you didn’t know you needed. her flat tongue spreads against your clit and you feel like fainting. she watches the way your face contorts in pleasure, and slowly licks through your folds with a hum of pleasure that vibrates through you. you've been eaten out before, but not like this.

not by another woman who knows exactly what to do to make you feel good.

she's lapping you up like a dog, her tongue flicking back and forth over your bud with her own pretty moans. the noises that rip from your throat are otherworldly, sounds you've never made.

"fuck, you taste so sweet, love." she smiles, her lips glistening with your own liquid.

you bite your lip at the sight and grind into the air, asking for more. "aww, so cute". and she dives back in. she alternates between her mouth and her fingers, never letting the building coil in your stomach drop, tightening it carefully. every time you get close, she eases off just enough to keep you right there.

“you’re doing so good,” she hums. "so good for me, baby." it’s almost too much. your body tightens, muscles drawing in, breath uneven. “i’m close,” you whine in between gasps.

she smiles and goes all in, her fingers plunge deep inside you as her mouth works and sucks at your clit, drawing more quips from your throat. shoko was intoxicated with you. your taste had her dripping and the way you were grinding into her mouth so desperately was driving her mad.

she could see why you had so much sex appeal, if this was a performance you were a damn good actor. she speeds up, solely focused on you finishing, hooking her fingers inside of you to reach that sponge spot she knew was making you dizzy. "c'mon, my sweet girl, give it to me."

that gets you, because in a mix of whining and gripping the fabric of the sheets, you come undone all over her fingers.

"atta girl."

after, she kisses your stomach, then curls up beside you, pulling you into her chest. your head fits there like it belongs.

you’re still catching your breath, staring at the ceiling, trying to come back into yourself.

“hey,” she murmurs. you hum in response, too relaxed to form words yet. “you okay?” she asks. you nod. “yeah. more than okay.”

“good,” she says, relief threading through her voice. “stay with me for a sec.”

she pushes off the bed to rummage through geto’s drawer, mumbling something under her breath about him being gross but prepared. when she comes back, she’s holding a packet of wipes she absolutely did not bring herself.

“god,” you laugh. “of course he has those.”

“right?” she says. she sits beside you again and gently helps clean you up, her delicate movements are careful and so, so respectful. she keeps checking your face, your reactions, making sure you’re still comfortable.

“tell me if anything feels weird,” she says quietly. “It doesn’t,” you reply. “it feels… nice.”

she sighs with a smirk that screams 'i'm infatuated with you,' then tosses the wipes aside and pulls you into her arms.

her fingers slide into your hair, combing through it slowly, you didn’t understand just how badly you needed this care until she so graciously gave it to you.

“there you go,” she murmurs. “just breathe.”

she gives your forehead a sweet kiss, then your nose, her hands are still moving against your scalp and you melt into her soft touch. “you did so good,” she says.

your face goes red. “i didn’t really do anything.”

“hmm, you trusted me,” she replies. “that counts.” you move up closer, curling into her.

“i kinda wish,” she adds after a moment, voice thoughtful, “that our first time doing… that… wasn’t in a frat house.”

you laugh softly. “yeah?"

“yeah,” she says. “like. your place. or mine. somewhere quieter. with real blankets. and a locked door.” you tilt your head back to look at her. “are you saying geto’s room isn’t romantic?”

she snorts. “i’m saying his vibes are deeply cursed.”

you laugh and squeeze her arm, "i guess it's kinda romantic since this is where we met,"

she nods and looks down at you with such love in her irises.

“i guess you're right. next time,” she says lightly.

next time. heck yeah, there was a next time.

“hey,” you say. “that was really amazing.” her expression softens. “yeah?”

“yeah,” you nod. “and for the record? you proved my shirt right.” she breaks, laughing, shoulders shaking as she hides her face in your neck. “oh my god.”

“i’m just saying,” you add. “very on theme.”

she lifts her head with her eyes bright. “good to know my reputation remains intact.” you grin, then grow quieter. “thank you. for taking care of me.”

she doesn’t joke this time. she cups your face gently, “always.” the way she looks at you makes your heart feel all gooey and soft, sure, you'd just had your first.. you don’t even know what to call it, with a girl, in a frat house, but it was the most intimacy you'd ever experienced.

she kisses you softly once more then tucks you back against her plush chest. her hand returns to your hair, slow and so soothingly repetitive, like she’s memorising the feel of you. you could fall asleep like this, you think. easily.

alas, “we should probably go back down eventually,” you mumble.

“eventually,” she agrees. “not yet.”

you smile, eyes closing. “okay.”

~

the plan was to go downstairs and go home, but apparently the universe had other plans for you and shoko. you're walking back down the stairs with shoko trailing behind you, when you look over the lounge room and dining area to see gojo.

he’s across the room, leaning against a pillar, his blue eyes already on you. the moment your eyes meet, his face falls. he looks so, so guilty. before you can tilt your head and scrunch your face up at him, he mouths a drunken, 'i'm sorry.' the fuck? sorry for what?

you barely have time to process it before you hear your name.

“oh my god, there she is.”

oh.

you turn, and there they are. the self centred butches you've grown to hate, but ones you’ve also known forever, or at least long enough to know exactly how shallow their look is right now. one of them laughs. “so that’s where you’ve been hiding.”

another tilts her head. “gojo spilled his guts, by the way. about you and this... girl.”

your stomach drops, but your spine stays straight.

“told you what?” you ask. they exchange looks, delighted. “that you’ve been blowing off parties because you’re obsessed with her,” she says, nodding at shoko. “kinda explains a lot.” behind you, you can feel shoko step back slightly, you can see in your peripheral how her shoulders curl into her body as she shys away from these girls nasty glares.

if you weren't pissed the fuck off before, you sure were now. shoko was confident in bed, but not when it came to judgey whores like this. “wow,” you say flatly. “you guys really rushed to conclusions fast.”

“don’t act like it’s not obvious,” one of them says. “you disappear for weeks and suddenly you’re glued to… this fag.”

the word hangs there, ugly even without being said properly. you watch shoko’s jaw tighten. you feel her hand twitch, like she’s deciding whether to leave or stay or disappear entirely.

and that’s it. you're not proud if the way you instantly get up in these girls faces like you were about to knock them in their teeth. “say that again.” you spit. they blink, completely thrown off.

you push the girl who said it back, and she stumbles like a pathetic feather. "don’t call her that." you bark. "insecure hoe's like you really piss me off." by now she's looking at you, then around the room like someone would give her a helping hand. "your life of sucking dick and getting trains ran through you really dumbs down your personality? huh? have to make others feel bad because you're just some pocket pussy?"

the onlookers are pissing themselves laughing and a handful of them are egging you on with the odd cheer. she literally starts crying. you half scoff and half laugh at how pathetic she was being.

maybe that wasn't exactly crystal for your shiny record, but the only thing you can think to care about right now was shoko, and they were making her feel shitty.

one of them scoffs. “you're fucking insane! we're just concerned.”

“no,” you say. “you’re bored.” you step back, placing yourself slightly in front of shoko without even thinking about it. not hiding her. just making it clear where you stand.

geto and yuki, who happened to be nearby, were taking this all in and nodding to themselves, clinking glasses. those two were never a good mix when it came to conspiracy, because their predictions always came to fruition.

“you’re all so wrapped up in your own little worlds that the second someone stops orbiting you, you get nasty,” you say. “and honestly? it’s embarrassing.” more people start looking. “you think you’re better than us now?” one of them snaps.

you shrug. “no. i just think i’m done pretending i like you.” that one stings. you see it hit.

“so what, you’re dating her now?” another says, sneering. “is that it?” you glance at shoko. she’s watching you closely, eyes searching your face, like she’s bracing for impact. you grab her hand.

“yeah,” you say. “maybe i am.”

their faces twist with both disgust and dissatisfaction, the girl you'd clocked was long gone, probably off crying somewhere.

you reach back and take shoko’s hand.

you don’t look away from them as you do it. “if you’ve got a problem with who i like,” you say, “that’s yours to deal with. not mine.”

they look so pathetically small now. mean in a way that isn’t powerful anymore. you turn away from them without another word and start toward the door, tugging shoko gently along with you. people part as you pass, some smiling ear to ear, some indifferent, most already losing interest.

college attention spans are short like that.

you guide her into the night and down the street a few paves. then shoko pulls you into a hug. it’s sudden and oh so tight. her arms wrap around you and her face presses into your shoulder like she needs to make sure you’re still there.

“thank you,” she says quietly. you hold her just as tight. “for what?”

“for that,” she says. “for not letting them talk like that. for… choosing me, i guess.”

you smile into her hair, and squeeze her arm twice. "for you i'd do that a million times over, sho." she pulls back just enough to look at you. her eyes are bright, a little wet, a lot warm.

“you know that was big, right?” she says gently. “for you.”

you nod. “yeah.”

“are you okay?” she asks. you think about it. about the way your chest feels lighter than it has in years. about how scared you were ten minutes ago and how steady you feel now. “yeah,” you say. “more than okay.”

she smiles, then her eyes change from bittersweet to playful.

“so,” she says, tilting her head. “we’re dating now, huh? that’s news to me.”

your face heats up instantly. “what? no, i just- i was proving a point-."

“mm,” she says. “sure.”

“oh gosh,” you blush. “i didn’t mean to, like, announce anything.” she steps closer, getting up in your space. “you don’t want to date me?”

you open your mouth and stumble. “that’s not- i didn’t say-”

she kisses you. her lips mould perfectly with yours. when she pulls back, she smiles. “i’d love to date you.” you stare at her for a good second, then you giggle. “yeah?”

“yeah,” she says. you lean in and kiss her again, grinning into it.

college is messy. people talk. parties get crashed. friendships crack and reform and fall apart.

but right now, with shoko's hand in yours and the night fanning open in front of you, none of that feels so scary anymore.

it feels like a beautiful beginning for you, and this beautiful, allusive girl you'd become infatuated with.

okay, yeah. maybe you were a little gay.

"i haven't seen you smoking lately, what's up with that?"

"i only smoke when i'm stressed. i use your tits as stress toys now, so there's no need."

"love it."

© 2025 sixxels. All work belongs to @sixxels Do NOT repost, modify, translate or plagiarize in any way on ANY platforms.

“Hiding out here too?”

I turned at the sound of his voice. He climbed the bleachers with two plastic cups in his hands, white hair catching the last traces of sunset. Satoru Gojo. My brother’s best friend. My almost, my maybe, my never-quite.

“I thought you’d be busy with your fan club,” I said as I took the cup he offered. He dropped down next to me, long legs stretched over the row in front of us, close enough that our shoulders almost touched but didn’t.

“They’ll survive without me for a few minutes.”

A lie. People orbit him the way moons orbit planets—helpless. And I was one of them, one moon in a crowded sky. But in twelve days that would change. He’d be gone, accepted early to some university three prefectures away, the kind that sends its offers on thick cream paper. Our town would shrink to the size of a matchbox in his rearview mirror, and I would stay behind and count the days until the matchbox burned.

I raised the cup and took a sip. It was overly sweet.

Fireflies drifted above the wide soccer field, blinking like tiny stars in the growing dark. Behind us the graduation party spilled noise across the open air, laughter that sounded too loud, too hopeful, too unsure, the nostalgia of people already turning this place into a story, happy to escape and secretly wishing the time back.

I didn’t want to hide out here. I thought I’ve overcome my cowardness years ago but looks like I didn’t. I slipped away from the party when the celebration began to weight heavy on my heart, when each congratulation directed at them felt like a small funeral for the version of me that believed nothing would ever change.

Sixteen is a stupid age. Old enough to know people leave, young enough to believe you might be the exception.

And I didn’t want to be so sad that day. I really tried. It was Satoru and Suguru’s graduation party, after all. A happy day. The last great hurrah before they left. But I couldn’t shake the thought that I would stay here, finish school alone, rooted to this small town like someone had pinned me down with no chance to catch up.

I probably should have stayed with my friends, let their chatter about summer trips and movie stars wash over me and pretend I care about the same things. I could have passed for normal. Instead I followed the same worn path, trailing after my brother and his best friend because that had always been what I do.

Saturday mornings in our school gyms with my textbooks open while they ran drills, or late-night convenience store trips where they bought me ice cream and ruffled my hair. Birthdays, holidays, ordinary afternoons that somehow turned special because the two of them filled every moment with a brightness I never learned to create on my own.

My adolescence shaped itself around them. Suguru’s little sister. Satoru’s friend’s kid sister. I answered to those roles more readily than to my own name some days.

And somewhere between my childhood and this humid summer night, I convinced myself that if I stayed tucked inside the pocket they made for me, it would never stop fitting. I let myself believe the story would hold steady forever.

But it wouldn’t. Everything would change. In two weeks the house would go quiet. And I would still be here, sixteen and small and so unbearably left behind. Still in love with someone who called me kid and probably didn’t know my favorite color.

Two years felt like forever at that age. Seven hundred thirty days. Seven hundred thirty nights of maybe texting, maybe not. Long enough for new cities to leave their marks on his skin, for inside jokes to form in languages I wouldn’t speak, for girls with longer legs and brighter smiles to learn the exact pressure of his hand at the small of their back.

By the time I’d be old enough to board a train without permission, I would be the footnote he mentioned when someone asked about home. Remember Suguru’s little sister? Yeah, she was always around.

I hated that thought.

“Nervous about Osaka?” I asked, mostly to fill the silence before my thoughts ate me alive.

“I guess I should be. New city, more competition, living on my own for the first time…” He drank from his cup. “It doesn’t feel real yet.”

“It will when you’re playing in front of thousands of people.”

“Maybe.” He fell quiet for a moment, then asked, “What about you? Nervous about next year?”

“A little. But also… excited? I want to do well. I need to do well if I want any chance of getting into Tokyo’s chemistry program. My grades have to be perfect.”

“Hey.” He bumped my shoulder gently. “You’ll be fine. You’re the smartest person I know.”

“You’re just saying that to be nice.”

“I’m serious. You dragged me and Suguru through every year of chemistry, even though we’re two years ahead of you. Remember all those Sundays in your kitchen when you explained stoichiometry to us like it’s the easiest thing ever? And I still couldn’t get it.”

“You weren’t that bad.”

“I absolutely was,” he said. “Suguru was only slightly less terrible. But you saved our asses every time. Point is, Tokyo would be idiots if they didn’t take you.”

“You really think so?”

He didn’t hesitate. “I know so. You’re going to get exactly where you want to go.”

I looked down and picked at the rim of my cup, hoping my heartbeat wasn’t as loud as it felt.

“You’re lucky,” he said after a moment.

“Why’s that?”

He smiled, small and fragile, the kind that used to make teachers forgive him for never doing his homework.

“You know what you want,” he said. “You’ve got everything lined up. You’re gonna be some famous chemist or something, probably discover a new element and win a Nobel Prize.”

“That’s absurd.”

“It’s not. You’re stupidly smart. It’s honestly terrifying.” He leaned back on his elbows, eyes drifting to the first stars poking through the sky. “Meanwhile I’m just following Suguru and hoping I don’t screw everything up.”

“You won’t screw it up.”

“I’m not so sure.”

“I know so,” I said, throwing his own words back at him. “You and Suguru are gonna be amazing. You’ll travel the world, play in big and famous arenas, maybe even the Olympics.”

“You really think that?”

“I do. I always have.”

“But what if it doesn’t work out? What if I get there and I’m not good enough? What if I fail and have to come back with nothing… I don’t know. I’m talking nonsense.”

“You won’t fail. You’re too good for that. And you know it.”

He gave another fragile smile. “Must be nice, having everything figured out already.”

“I don’t,” I said. “I mean, I know what I want to study, but everything else is just—” I swirled the last of the punch. The ice had melted into pink water. “A total mess.”

“Like what?”

I stared straight ahead, at the dark line where the field ended and the rest of the world began. 

“Like wondering if the people I care about will still be around when I graduate. If anything will be the same in two years. If I’ll still matter to them when they’re off chasing dreams somewhere far away.”

He was quiet so long I thought he hadn’t heard. I wanted to disappear into the bleachers.

“You’ll always matter,” he said at last.

I wanted to laugh at how small the promise sounded against the size of what I needed. I wanted to cry because it was the most he’d ever given me. I wanted to beg him to say it again, louder so the night could keep it forever. Instead I bit the inside of my cheek.

“Will I?” I asked, foolishly.

“Of course. You think I could forget you?”

“Even when you’re in Osaka? When you’re playing for one of the best teams in the country, with scouts probably circling you after every game?” I should have stopped there. “Or girls?”

“Is that what you think my life is gonna look like?”

“I don’t know. I don’t know anything about what you’ll do. I just know you’ll be too busy living your amazing new life to think about home.”

“You’re not just home,” he said. “You’re—”

“I’m what?” I hated it. I didn’t take it back.

“You’re important to me. You’ve always been.”

I could barely contain my little heart from exploding.

“Satoru,” I said, and it sounded like please and don’t and stay all at the same time.

His hand moved first. His fingertips brushed the back of mine where it rested on the warm metal. It was barely a touch. It should have been nothing. It felt like everything. I was so foolishly in love.

“I know I shouldn’t—”

His knuckles grazed my cheek. And for a heartbeat—one impossibly long, impossibly hopeful moment—I thought he might close the distance. I thought he might actually—

But something in him snapped shut. His hand fell. His gaze dropped to the ground.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

He stood and moved fast, long legs taking the bleacher steps two at a time. I have to go, he said and didn’t even look back as he took my stupid childhood dreams with him.

I don’t know how long I sat there. Long enough for the punch to go warm, for the music to loop twice, for the hollow in my chest to stretch into something too big for my small body to hold.

Eventually I walked home alone. I locked myself in my room, pressed my face into the pillow, and cried until my ribs hurt. When Mom knocked, I told her I was emotional about graduation. She believed me because mothers want to.

Two weeks later he left for Osaka without saying goodbye. Suguru hugged me in the driveway, ruffled my hair the way he always had, and promised he’d call every week. Satoru stood by the car with sunglasses on even though the sky was overcast, and lifted one hand in a wave that never became anything more.

The car pulled away. I watched until the taillights vanished, then went inside and closed the door on the rest of my childhood.

That was eight years ago.

Eight years of no contact. Eight years of pretending I was over it, that I was mature and unbothered, that time had made me sensible. Until now. Because there he was.

Across the mall.

In full view.

Dressed in a Santa costume that was both too tight and too short, with a fake beard hanging slightly askew. A glittery vinyl banner screamed SANTA’S VILLAGE! above his head, and a line of toddlers and parents stretched toward the plastic throne where he sat, all six-foot-three of him.

Startled, I stood behind the register of the bookstore where I worked over the holidays, arms full of orders and trying not to drop all of them as my brain forgot how to function.

I should’ve walked away. I should’ve pretended I was needed in the cookbook section, or called in sick, or quit on the spot, or fled the country—literally anything except stand there and stare. But, of course, I stared. Because of course I would.

And eventually Satoru Gojo—my brother’s best friend, my could-have-been, my nearly-was, the unfinished story I left back in high school—looked up, and his eyes caught mine.

Satoru blinked.

I blinked.

And in the middle of a crowded mall, surrounded by Mariah Carey promising she didn’t want a lot for Christmas, angry toddlers, and a mall cop eating his fifth donut of the day and not in the slightest doing his job… Satoru Gojo, the wound I never recovered from, whispered—

“…oh shit.”

Merry Christmas to me.

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

We stared at each other.

Not long—maybe three seconds, maybe an eternity—hard to tell when lungs suddenly forgot how to work and the world stretched so thin it felt like one wrong breath might tear straight through it.

His eyes, that winter-sky blue right before the first snow decides to fall, held mine across the cheap tinsel and screaming toddlers. Eight years should have dulled them, turned them ordinary. But they hadn’t. If anything, time had sharpened them, made them brighter, more unmistakably his.

“Excuse me?” a woman said beside him. She nudged a small child forward—a little girl with pink cheeks and wide eyes staring up at the giant red figure in front of her.

Satoru blinked.

I blinked.

And the moment shattered like ice.

The little girl took one look at him—this weary Santa with the slipping beard and faint panic rising in his eyes—and immediately burst into tears.

“Ho… ho…?” Satoru tried, but it came out more like a question. 

The child wailed louder.

My own heart wasn’t doing much better. It beat too fast, too hard, too uneven, like it wasn’t sure whether to sprint or stop entirely. Because Satoru Gojo was here. Here. After eight years of nothing but secondhand mentions from Suguru, a few blurry appearances in my brother’s stories, and a whole lot of distance.

He was here. In this mall. In my town.

It wasn’t even his job. It was Suguru’s stupid annual winter side hustle—the one he uses up for his gaming habit instead of buying needed textbooks. But he was nowhere in sight. Why hadn’t he mentioned anything?

A strange pressure built behind my ribs.

None of it made sense. Satoru lived somewhere far away now. He had med-school lectures to attend, clinical rotations to do, an entire life that had nothing to do with our nowhere town or me. He had no reason to be here. He shouldn’t be here. And he absolutely had no right to make me feel like I’d been hit by a train I’d spent years convincing myself had already left the station with one single glance. And yet—

He came back.

“Hey.”

I startled so violently the top three books slid off the stack and hit the carpet with a dull thud. Maki stood right beside me, one eyebrow arched like she’d caught me—which, I guess, she did.

“…Who.” She followed the line of my stare. “—are you staring at?”

“I—uh—no one.”

Maki’s gaze flicked back to the disaster across the mall. A too tall and too broad Santa with white hair poking out from under the hat, velvet pants that stopped far too high on his legs, and a fake beard held in place by a rubber band stretched thin enough to snap from a single sigh.

She looked at him.

She looked at me.

She looked at him again.

Her face didn’t move, but somehow she managed to deliver several very loud thoughts at once, including:

You absolute clown.