#hyoma

“I-I don’t know, ‘n I don’t care.”

“hm, your pussy definitely cares. he’s big, you know? is that what you want? some stupid jock to split you open on his big cock?”

“n-nuh’uh!”

“yeah, he’s bigger, but you love how pretty I am, don’t you?”

“mm-mhm! you’re perfect, hyo, I love you, I love your cock — !!” he thrusts particularly deep just to watch your reaction. aw, there’s my girl, he thinks, watching how your brows draw together, how your mouth drops open before you bite your lip to swallow the noise, how your lashes flutter open and your beautiful, glistening eyes are lidded and directly focused on him.

“sweet girl, no wonder he couldn’t keep his eyes off of you. always know exactly what to say, and so fucking pretty .. too pretty for your own good, fuck, for my own good.”

he runs a hand through his silky, strawberry locks, taking a second to tie it into a bun. if you’re pretty, that makes him a god.

“fuck, just look at you ..” he’s in awe, pulling all the way out again so he can spit on your cute cunt, just to further claim what’s his. you sob out a sweet moan and he smacks your pussy just once before slipping back in. you jolt, clinging to him when he fucks you again, mumbling incoherently into his shoulder, listening to his soft grunts and the lewd smack! of his hips against the backs of your thighs.

“m’yours, always, I love you.” you cry, already feeling your orgasm approaching.

“shhhh,” he shushes you even though you’re saying exactly what he wants to hear. chigiri’s hands find the junction of your knees, folding them up into your chest. he puts all of his weight behind his thrusts, groaning into your mouth, feeling you absolutely drench his cock as the smack! starts turning into a lurid squelch! he knows just the way to angle his hips, just the right amount of pressure to get you off as quickly and as many times as he wants. luckily, or unluckily, for you, it’ll be a long night.

you’re already dripping all over yourself, all the way down your thighs and onto the sheets.

“that’s it, you’re so close f’me, mama. you think that you deserve it?”

“yes! m’always so good for you, hyo!”

“it’s okay, baby, you can touch yourself. play with that perfect little clit while I fuck you, yeah? I want you to cum for me.”

you nod, looking up at him before his head drops to your collarbone so he can watch himself fuck into you. “that’s it, squeeze me just like that.” he groans, and your fingers rub in quick little circles, so, so fucking close. “this perfect pussy is gonna squirt all over me, yeah? make a fucking mess, only for me?”

“mmhmm!” you reassure him, “I’m cumming for you, hyo!” but you don’t have to tell him because he feels it, how your warm, squishy walls grip down on his big cock, how he has to push harder to fuck you through it, how you’re moaning his name like a fucking prayer.

“good girl, baby, fuck …” he gasps, and he’s unable to hold back with how gorgeous you look underneath of him right now, how fucking good everything feels, how much he loves you. he pushes as deeply inside of you as he can, whimpering as he cums, filling you with a thick, milky load of hot cream. you feel him shiver in your hold, he’s breathless, trying to compose himself, and he’s beautiful.

he dotes on you before standing to help clean up, but he’s nowhere near finished for the evening. he’s loving and careful in how he touches you, but he still has that precarious look glinting in his cerise eyes.

uh-oh.

“put your clothes on, love. I’m gonna text kuni and see if he still wants to come over for drinks.” his voice is sweet and he’s humming, but you know that it’s more than just drinks .. and the worst part is, is that you’re absolutely into it, even despite all of your words.

and chigiri is hoping that by the end of tonight, his best friend is gonna watch him cum inside of you, on your stomach, on your chest, and on your pretty face. and, if kunigami is good, maybe he’ll get to fuck you, too.

[ @slutsenpai × @sidesenpai × my masterlist × event masterlist ]

prompt 06 / 15 for my 2k follower event !! ଘ(੭ˊᵕˋ)੭

Before your brain could properly register it, a powerful gust of wind rushed past your shoulder. You startled so violently your foot caught against the edge of the pavement.

"What the—" The words barely left your mouth.

The blur had already disappeared halfway down the track. For a moment you simply stood there, staring. Then the figure slowed. One lap farther ahead, he gradually came to a stop near the bend. Hands braced against his hips. Chest rising and falling steadily. Even from a distance, he didn't look exhausted. Just warming up.

The setting sun caught against his hair first. Long strands of reddish-pink swayed behind him, escaping from a loose tie. The colour looked almost unreal beneath the evening light, vibrant enough to stand out against the muted tones of the track. Then he turned. And you forgot entirely about nearly getting flattened. Because the guy was unfairly attractive. Sharp enough to catch your attention. Soft enough to keep it. Long lashes framed striking pink eyes. His features were delicate in a way that should have made him look gentle, yet there was something undeniably athletic about him. Every movement carried confidence. Like he belonged exactly where he was. Like running that fast was the most natural thing in the world.

You realized you were staring. Unfortunately, so did he. His gaze met yours across the track. Then, to your horror, he pointed directly at you.

"You looked terrified."

You blinked. "What?"

He laughed. The sound carried surprisingly well across the distance.

"You." He gestured again. "You looked terrified."

You scoffed. "I thought a sports car just passed me."

The corner of his mouth twitched. Then his smile widened. And that smile—That smile changed everything. The intimidating athlete vanished. In his place was someone mischievous. Someone entirely too aware of his own charm. "Oh?" he said, walking closer. "Then my training must be paying off."

You stared at him. He stared right back. Neither of you looked away. Up close, he was even worse. Beautiful, really. The kind of beautiful that felt rude. You hated that your first thought was wow.

"You're insane."

His grin only widened. "I get that a lot."

"I almost died."

"You did not."

"You appeared out of nowhere."

"I've been running laps for twenty minutes."

"Well excuse me for not expecting a human bullet."

That earned another laugh. One that seemed genuine. Easy. Like laughing came naturally to him. For some reason, that surprised you more than his speed.

The conversation should have ended there. Normally it would have. A stranger. A few jokes. Then both of you move on with your lives. Instead, you found yourself standing there talking. About running. About the track. About why anyone would willingly sprint for fun. He informed you that your opinion on athletics was offensive. You informed him that willingly suffering wasn't a hobby. He informed you that sitting around reading books wasn't exactly thrilling either. You demanded to know how he knew you read books. He pointed at the novel sticking out of your bag. You called him annoying. He looked entirely too pleased by that.

Eventually your phone buzzed. Reality returned. You had somewhere to be. He had training to finish. The conversation ended as abruptly as it had started. You learned his name. Hyoma. Just Hyoma. He learned yours. And somehow that felt sufficient. No more information exchanged. No promises to meet again. Just a casual wave before he jogged back toward the track. You genuinely assumed that was the end of it.

Then the next evening, he was there again. This time he spotted you first.

"There you are." As if he had been expecting you. As if seeing each other again was the most natural thing in the world. You ended up talking for ten minutes. The evening after that became twenty. Then thirty.

You would cut through the athletics grounds. Hyoma would be finishing training. One of you would start a conversation. The other would stay.

The track became familiar. The smell of rubber and fresh-cut grass. The rhythmic pounding of runners' feet. The orange glow of sunset spilling across empty lanes. You learned that Hyoma was competitive about everything. You learned he was sarcastic. That he rolled his eyes constantly. That he could go from completely relaxed to intensely focused in a heartbeat. That despite appearing effortless, he worked harder than anyone you'd ever met.

One evening you found yourselves sitting on the bleachers after practice. A convenience-store bag rested between you. You had bought drinks. He had bought snacks.

Without discussion, everything became communal. The sky overhead glowed with streaks of gold and pink. The track below sat mostly empty now. The world felt quieter. Smaller. Comfortable.

Hyoma leaned back against the metal bench, long legs stretched out in front of him. You stole one of his snacks. He complained. Then immediately stole yours. The argument lasted all of thirty seconds.

When it ended, neither of you could stop smiling. The next—

"I'm leaving at the end of the month."

You nearly choked on your drink. "What?"

Hyoma didn't even look up from where he was unwrapping a piece of candy. "I'm only here temporarily." His tone remained maddeningly calm. Matter-of-fact. As though he'd just informed you that tomorrow's weather forecast predicted rain.

You stared. The words took a moment to settle. Leaving? The end of the month? That was only a few weeks away. For some reason, you hadn't considered that possibility. You didn't know much about Hyoma, if you were being honest. Not really. But somehow, despite knowing so little, you'd unconsciously started assuming he'd simply... continue being there. Apparently not.

Hyoma stretched his legs out in front of him, leaning back against the metal bench. "I've got overseas training after this."

The breeze shifted, stirring loose strands of reddish-pink hair around his shoulders. The setting sun caught against them, turning them almost copper. You hated how unfairly pretty he looked while casually dropping this information.

"Overseas?" you repeated.

"Mm."

"And you're just saying this now?"

"I am."

You stared harder. He stared right back. Completely unbothered. Honestly, it was impressive.

"Do you tell everyone this immediately?"

One corner of his mouth lifted.

"No."

"Then why tell me?"

His gaze shifted toward the track for a moment. Runners moved below, their footsteps echoing faintly through the cooling evening air. Then he looked back.

"Because I plan on spending time with you."

Your heart immediately betrayed you. A single stupid flutter. You hated it. You hated it even more because he wasn't flirting. Hyoma wasn't the type to play games. Everything about him was painfully straightforward. If he wanted something, he said it. If he thought something, he said that too.

You quickly looked away. Trying—and failing—to ignore the warmth suddenly spreading across your face.

"That's a weird thing to say."

"It isn't."

"It kind of is."

"It isn't."

"You sound very confident about that."

"I am."

Of course he was. You rolled your eyes dramatically.

"You're impossible."

"I've heard that before."

"I'm serious."

"So am I."

You glanced over. Unfortunately, Hyoma looked completely sincere. Not teasing. Not smirking. Just watching you with that calm certainty that seemed to define everything he did. The same certainty that probably let him sprint toward impossible goals without questioning whether he'd succeed. The same certainty that made him look at a future overseas and simply accept it. Like there was never another option. You looked away first. Again.

"Well," you said, trying for casual and failing miserably, "what if I decide you're annoying and stop hanging out with you next week?"

A laugh escaped him. Soft. Amused. Hyoma shook his head. "You won't."

You immediately frowned. "The confidence is unbelievable."

"It isn't confidence."

"Then what is it?"

His smile appeared slowly. "I know you."

The answer landed somewhere directly beneath your ribs. Because somehow, despite only knowing him for a bit more than a week... He kind of did. And the worst part? The absolutely infuriating part? You knew he was right. Next week would come. And you'd still take the shortcut through the athletics grounds. You'd still glance toward the track. You'd still look for a flash of pink hair racing around the bend.

Because somewhere between almost getting run over and sharing convenience-store snacks beneath sunset skies, Hyoma Chigiri had quietly become someone you looked forward to seeing.

The agreement formed naturally. A quiet understanding. A month. That's all this was. A handful of sunsets. Then Hyoma would leave. And life would continue. Simple. Reasonable. Safe. No promises. No expectations. No plans for what came after. You wouldn't ask him to stay. He wouldn't ask you to wait. The finish line already existed.

Maybe that's why neither of you were afraid to keep showing up. Because there was an expiration date attached to everything.

At first it felt harmless. Maybe because neither of you were treating it like something important. Just two people with time to kill. The city became your playground.

One day it was street food stalls tucked between crowded alleyways, both of you arguing over which vendor made the best skewers. Another day it was wandering through night markets lit by strings of warm lights, weaving through crowds while Hyoma somehow managed to attract attention everywhere he went without trying. Or maybe he was trying. You never could figured that out.

There were bookstores. Tiny cafés. A second-hand record shop neither of you knew anything about. You spent nearly forty minutes inside anyway. Hyoma picked up random albums and judged them entirely based on cover art. You informed him that wasn't how music worked. He informed you that if people didn't want to be judged by the cover, they should have made a better cover. You left before the store owner could kick him out.

Slowly, you learned things about him. Little things. The important things. Like how he loved novels and always carried one in his bag. How he got strangely passionate during arguments. How he could be incredibly laid-back right until competition entered the picture. Then all common sense disappeared.

One evening, while wandering through an arcade, you challenged him to a game of air hockey. Mostly because you thought it would be funny. It was. Just not for the reason you expected. You won. Barely. The puck slipped past his defense during the final seconds. The machine flashed your victory. You cheered. Hyoma stared at the scoreboard. Silent. Motionless. Then he pointed at the table. "Again."

You laughed. "No way."

"Again."

"You lost."

"It was luck."

"It was skill."

"It was luck."

"It was skill."

His eyes narrowed. "Again." So you played again. And won. Again. This time by two points. Hyoma looked so offended.

The third game somehow went even worse. You beat him again. By then he was standing with his sleeves pushed up and the intensity of someone preparing for a championship match.

Across the table, children were winning stuffed animals and couples were taking photos in photobooths. Meanwhile Hyoma looked ready to declare war.

"One more."

"You said that last time."

"This one counts."

"They all counted."

"They clearly didn't."

You laughed so hard you nearly missed the opening shot. By the fourth game, Hyoma was glaring at the table itself. As if the machine had betrayed him.

"You are taking this way too seriously."

"I'm taking it exactly seriously enough."

"It's air hockey."

"It's competition."

The response came so quickly you almost choked. You doubled over laughing. The kind that made your stomach hurt. The kind that made tears gather in your eyes. Across from you, Hyoma looked deeply unimpressed. Which only made it worse.

"You've lost four times."

"Three."

"Four."

"The fourth game isn't over."

"You're losing by six."

His jaw tightened. "It can recover."

You laughed harder. A nearby kid laughed too. Hyoma looked genuinely wounded.

For the next ten minutes he attempted to recover what remained of his dignity. Unfortunately, every time he tried to explain why the losses didn't count, he somehow made himself sound worse. And for the first time since you'd met him, the unbeatable athlete who could outrun almost anyone looked completely, hilariously defeated. You would never let him forget it.

About eight days later.

The rooftop bar sat high above the city, tucked between office buildings and apartment towers. Music drifted softly from hidden speakers. Glasses clinked. People laughed at nearby tables. Far below, headlights flowed through the streets like rivers of light. The entire city glittered beneath the summer night.You should have been paying attention to the view.

Instead, you were watching Hyoma. Again. Across from you, he was halfway through explaining something about football. Something important. You assumed. His hands moved as he spoke. His eyes were bright. Animated. Every now and then a smile would appear when he talked about a goal he'd achieved or something he still wanted to accomplish. And that was the problem. You'd always known he was attractive. Anyone with functioning eyesight knew that. But this was different. Because it wasn't his face that had your attention.

It was the way he lit up when he talked about his future. The way his entire posture changed. The certainty in his voice. The ambition. The absolute conviction that he was going to become something extraordinary. You couldn't stop watching. At some point you completely lost track of whatever he was saying. Words became background noise. You were too busy staring. Unfortunately, Hyoma was observant. Mid-sentence, he stopped. "What?"

You blinked. "What?"

His eyes narrowed. "You've been staring at me."

"No, I haven't."

"You absolutely have."

You took a sip of your drink. A terrible attempt at distraction.

"I was listening."

"Liar."

"I was."

"What did I just say?"

"..."

His eyebrow lifted.

You sighed. "I don't know."

"I know." A grin tugged at his mouth.

"You haven't heard a single word I've said for the last five minutes."

"That's not true."

"It is."

"It might be a little true."

"A little?"

You laughed. He shook his head. And suddenly something shifted. The music seemed quieter. The city lights softer. The conversation fading around the edges.

Neither of you looked away. For a moment, nobody spoke. His gaze lingered. Then his eyes flicked briefly to your mouth. Back to your eyes. A tiny movement. Your heart stumbled. The corner of his mouth twitched. Slowly, Hyoma leaned forward. An invitation. A question. His movements were careful. Giving you every opportunity to stop him. Every opportunity to pull away. You didn't.

The distance disappeared. The kiss was soft. Unexpectedly so. No urgency. Just curiosity. Warmth. The simple realization of oh. So that's what this is. The world seemed to pause for a second. Or maybe that was just your imagination. Either way, when he pulled back, neither of you spoke. The city returned gradually. You stared at each other. Breathing. Processing. Trying and failing to look unaffected.

Hyoma was the first to break. "Well."

You laughed immediately. A nervous little sound. "Well."

He rubbed the back of his neck. Something you had noticed he did whenever he felt awkward. Which wasn't often.

"We probably should've expected that."

The seriousness of his tone made it infinitely worse. You burst out laughing. Actually laughing. Head dropping forward. Across from you, Hyoma stared for exactly three seconds before he started laughing too.

The two of you sat there beneath the city lights, laughing over the most predictable first kiss in human history. Neither of you mentioned that it had only taken eight days. Neither of you mentioned that it probably should have happened sooner.

After that, everything accelerated. Like both of you had spent the past week pretending not to notice what was happening between you. And now there was no reason to pretend anymore. The affection that had been hiding beneath every conversation suddenly had somewhere to go.

There were late-night walks through streets glowing with neon signs and streetlamps. The kind where conversations drifted from serious to ridiculous without warning. One minute discussing dreams. The next arguing over whether cereal counted as soup. Your shoulders brushed. Then stayed touching.

Eventually, his hand found yours. As though it had always belonged there. Neither of you made a big deal out of it. Hyoma simply intertwined your fingers with his and kept walking. You never let go.

There were movie nights that barely qualified as movie nights. Entire films passed without either of you remembering the plot. Hyoma would make sarcastic comments throughout the first twenty minutes. You'd tell him to be quiet. He'd tell you the movie was bad anyway. Then somehow you'd both end up talking instead. By the time the credits rolled, neither of you knew what had happened on screen. Not that either of you cared.

There were mornings spent in cafés before training. Coffee warming your hands while Hyoma complained about his schedule.

"You chose this."

"I know."

"So stop acting surprised."

"I'm not surprised."

"You've been complaining for ten minutes."

"I'm expressing frustration."

"You're complaining."

"They're different."

"They're literally the same thing."

Hyoma glared into his coffee. You laughed. He stole one of your pastries in retaliation. There were afternoons where he dragged you to training facilities because apparently your hobbies weren't active enough.

"You spend too much time inside."

"I go outside."

"Walking to bookstores doesn't count."

"It counts."

"No."

"Why not?"

"Because you immediately go back inside another building."

"That's still outside."

"It isn't."

"It literally is."

Hyoma shook his head. The expression on his face suggested he was losing faith in humanity.

"You're impossible."

"Yet here you are."

He couldn't even argue with that. The teasing never stopped. If anything, it became worse. Every conversation somehow turned into an argument. Just the kind that made both of you laugh.

"You are unbelievably dramatic."

"I'm not dramatic."

"You just spent ten minutes explaining why a football formation personally offended you."

"Because it was stupid."

"That sounds dramatic."

"It's not dramatic if I'm right."

"That's not how that works."

"It's exactly how it works."

You snorted. Across the table, Hyoma pointed at you. "You're dramatic."

"That doesn't even make sense."

"It makes enough sense."

"No, it doesn't."

"It does to me."

"That's concerning."

He smiled. That slow, satisfied smile that always appeared when he knew he was winning. Even when he absolutely wasn't. And somewhere in the middle of all of it, you stopped counting the days.

At least for a while. Because it was easy to forget. Easy to get caught up in stolen kisses, shared coffee, and endless conversations. Easy to pretend there wasn't a deadline waiting at the end of all this. Easy to look at Hyoma sitting beside you and think only about the present.

Until every now and then, you'd catch sight of a plane crossing the sky. Or hear him mention overseas training. And the reality would return. The clock was still ticking. Neither of you talked about it. But both of you heard it.

Sometimes the attraction deepened into something quieter. More private. There were evenings that ended with neither of you wanting to say goodnight. One movie becoming another. One kiss becoming several. The clock creeping past midnight unnoticed.

Eventually, one of you would glance at the time and realize neither of you had any intention of leaving. There were hotel rooms after long days exploring the city. His apartment, where football boots were somehow always in the way. Your apartment, where he constantly complained that your blankets were too small despite stealing most of them.

Doors locked. Phones ignored. The rest of the world left outside for a few precious hours. Neither of you talked much during those moments. You didn't need to. The attraction between you had stopped being something either of you could joke away. It lived in lingering touches. In the way his hand settled automatically at your waist. In the way he looked at you when he thought you weren't paying attention. In the way every goodbye seemed to take longer than the one before. But afterward was always your favorite part. The rare moments when Hyoma stopped moving. Stopped chasing.

Tonight, he was sprawled across the bed beside you, one arm tucked beneath his head. The sheets were tangled. The room was dark except for the city lights filtering through the curtains. His hair was a complete mess. Long reddish strands scattered across the pillow. You knew he would complain about it later. He was annoyingly particular about his hair. For now, though, he was too comfortable to care. His eyes were half-closed. His breathing slow. Sleep tugging at the edges of him.

And somehow, in moments like this, he always looked younger. Softer. Less like the athlete everyone admired. Less like the person chasing impossible dreams across countries and continents. Just a twenty-something year old who was exhausted and pretending he wasn't. You traced absent-minded circles along his forearm. His skin warmed beneath your fingertips.

For a while neither of you spoke. The silence felt comfortable. Familiar. His hand found yours beneath the blankets. Fingers intertwining lazily. The city glowed outside the window. The clock continued ticking toward the end of the month. But in that moment, with Hyoma warm beside you and his hand tangled with yours, it was easy to pretend time wasn't moving at all.

You went dancing once. Calling it dancing was generous. Neither of you knew what you were doing. Hyoma had rhythm. You had enthusiasm. Together, it somehow balanced out.

The music was loud enough to rattle your ribs, lights flashing across crowded bodies packed shoulder to shoulder. At some point, both of you gave up trying to look cool. Which was exactly when it became fun. You laughed. He laughed. You stepped on his foot. He accused you of attempted murder. You informed him that athletes healed faster. He spent the rest of the night dramatically limping whenever you looked at him.

You went to bars. Tiny places tucked down side streets. Rooftop places overlooking the city. Places neither of you remembered the names of afterward.

You shared drinks. Stole sips from each other's glasses. Talked until staff started stacking chairs around you. Conversations drifted endlessly. Books. Music. Childhood stories. Dreams. Fears. The kind of things people usually took months to share. Maybe because you both knew time was limited. Maybe because pretending felt pointless.

Some nights ended with no destination at all. Just walking. Wandering. Following whatever street looked interesting. Eventually, watching the sunrise became a habit. The city looked different before dawn. Like the world hadn't fully woken up yet.

One morning, after being awake for far too long, you somehow ended up sitting on a nearly empty beach. Neither of you could remember how. There had been a convenience store somewhere. Bad decisions. Terrible sandwiches. And now you were here. The sky glowed pale gold at the horizon. Waves rolled lazily onto shore. A cool breeze carried the scent of salt through the air.

Beside you, Hyoma sat with his knees drawn up slightly, one arm draped across them. His hair danced wildly in the wind. The rising sun painted faint gold through the reddish strands. For once, he wasn't talking. He looked exhausted. You watched him for a moment. Then nudged his shoulder. "What are you thinking about?"

For a while, he didn't answer. The silence stretched. Waves breaking against the shore. Seagulls calling somewhere overhead. The distant hum of a city beginning to wake. Then—

"I think I'm scared."

You turned immediately. That answer surprised you. "Of what?"

His eyes remained fixed on the ocean. The horizon. Something far beyond it. "Not making it."

The words were quiet. Barely louder than the waves. You looked at him. Really looked at him. At the uncertainty hidden beneath years of confidence. At the pressure he carried every day. The impossible standard he held himself to. The dream he had built his entire life around. It would've been easy to reassure him. Easy to tell him he'd succeed. That he was talented. That he'd be fine. Most people probably would have. But Hyoma didn't need empty comfort.

So instead you said: "Then be scared."

His head turned. "What?"

"Be scared."

He frowned. Clearly not following. You nudged his shoulder again. Gentler this time. "People who care about something are always scared." His expression softened slightly. You continued.

"If you weren't scared, it would mean you didn't care whether you succeeded." The breeze swept between you. "You want this." You looked out at the ocean too. "So of course you're terrified."

Silence settled again. Long. Comfortable. The kind that didn't need filling. Eventually, Hyoma let out a small breath. Almost a laugh. Almost not. Then he smiled. Not the teasing grin. The kind of smile that appeared when his guard slipped.

His hand found yours in the sand. Warm fingers threading through yours. Then he squeezed. Once. A silent thank you.

The sun finally broke over the horizon. Golden light spilled across the water.

By the third week, the countdown had stopped feeling theoretical. Because somewhere along the way, the arrangement stopped feeling temporary. The rules hadn't changed. Neither of you had broken the agreement. A month. No promises. No future. No expectations. But feelings didn't care about rules. They slipped through cracks.

Until suddenly they were everywhere. You noticed it first in crowds. You'd enter a room and immediately look for him. The moment you found him, something inside you relaxed. That realization terrified you.

You started noticing other things too. How easily his laugh could improve your mood. How often you reached for your phone to tell him something stupid. How every funny story became something you wanted to share with him first. And perhaps worst of all—How quiet everything felt when he wasn't there. Just... off. Like a song missing part of its melody. Like a sentence ending too early.

Sometimes you'd catch him looking at you. His expression unreadable. Thoughtful. Like he was trying to solve something. Like he was standing at the edge of a thought he didn't quite want to have. Whenever you noticed, he'd immediately look away. Or start talking about something else. Or make a sarcastic comment. Anything to redirect attention.

The days continued shrinking. Three weeks became two. Two became one. Suddenly there weren't endless tomorrows anymore. There were numbers.

Three days left. You found yourself counting without meaning to.

Two days. You woke up with the thought already sitting heavy in your chest.

One. One day. One last sunset. One last breakfast. One last walk. The countdown attached itself to everything. Every laugh. Every touch. Every kiss. Neither of you talked about it. You both pretended things were normal.

A tension lived beneath everything now. Like holding water in your hands and knowing it was slipping through your fingers. One moment there had been a month ahead of you. The next, there was barely any time left at all.

So you did what people often do when faced with an ending they don't want. You ignored it. You laughed harder. Held each other longer. Pretended tomorrow wasn't coming.

The night before he left felt unreal. Outside the window, the city shimmered beneath the darkness. Streetlights glowed. Cars drifted through distant roads like rivers of gold. Somewhere beyond the apartment building, music floated faintly through the warm night air. The world continued moving. People continued living. Yet everything beyond those walls felt impossibly far away. Like the rest of the city had stepped back and left the two of you alone.

Neither of you mentioned tomorrow. Neither of you acknowledged the suitcase sitting by the front door. Instead, you talked. For hours. About everything. About nothing.

Hyoma admitted he still believed he'd become one of the best players in the world. The certainty in his voice hadn't changed since the day you'd met him. You smiled. "I'd be disappointed if you believed anything less."

That earned a laugh. One of those softer laughs. The kind that only appeared when he was tired. The kind reserved for quiet moments and lowered defenses. The kind very few people got to hear.

Hours passed unnoticed. The clock continued moving. Neither of you looked at it. Neither of you wanted to know what time it was. Because every glance would only confirm the same thing. There wasn't enough of it left. Eventually, words became unnecessary.

The conversation slowed. Then faded. Until silence settled comfortably between you. You sat together on the couch. Close enough that there was no space left between your bodies. Foreheads resting together. Eyes closed. Breathing the same air. Neither of you asleep. Neither of you speaking. Holding onto something that had never belonged to either of you in the first place. The closeness felt different that night.

Because what hurt wasn't that the night was ending. What hurt was knowing there would be a tomorrow. And tomorrow would take him away anyway.

For a long moment, neither of you moved. Then Hyoma tilted his head slightly. His nose brushed yours. A small thing. Barely noticeable. Yet your chest tightened instantly.

You opened your eyes. He was already looking at you. The city lights reflected faintly in deep pink irises. For once, there was no teasing. No sarcasm. No attempt to lighten the mood. Just him. Looking at you like he was trying to memorize every detail. Then he kissed you. Slowly. Not rushed. A continuation of every moment that had come before it.

One kiss became another. The conversation disappeared somewhere between them. Words becoming touches. Touches becoming something softer. Something more intimate. Neither of you said stay. Neither of you said don't go. But there were other ways people held on to each other. Other ways people tried to make a moment last. Other ways people said goodbye.

Hours later, the apartment had gone completely quiet. The city lights painted pale gold across the ceiling. The blankets were tangled. A discarded shirt lay abandoned somewhere near the foot of the bed. Neither of you had bothered to pick it up. For a long time, you simply lay there together. The air carried the lingering warmth of shared skin. The kind of warmth that only existed after hours spent wrapped around another person.

Outside, the city continued breathing. Inside, everything felt still.

You rested against him, listening to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat beneath your ear. One of his arms was draped loosely around your waist. His fingers traced absent patterns against your side. Neither of you spoke. There was nothing left to say.

Eventually, you felt him shift slightly. A hand rose to your face. Your eyes opened. He was already watching you. His hair was a mess now. Long pink strands falling across his forehead and into his eyes. The carefully composed athlete had disappeared somewhere during the night.

His fingers slipped through a loose strand of your hair before tucking it carefully behind your ear. The gesture was so small. So simple. Yet it nearly broke your heart. Because it felt deliberate. Like he was trying to memorize you. Every detail. Something to carry with him when you became a memory instead of a person. Your chest tightened painfully.

For one dangerous moment, the words sat right there.

Balanced on the tip of your tongue.

Stay.

It would've been easy.

One word.

One request.

One selfish attempt to hold onto something slipping away.

You almost said it. Almost. But you didn't. Because you knew what his dream meant to him. You knew how hard he had worked for it. You knew asking him to stay would never be fair. And perhaps most importantly— You knew some things were beautiful precisely because they couldn't last. Some moments existed only for a season. Some people entered your life for a chapter instead of the whole story. And trying to force them to remain often destroyed the very thing you loved about them.

So instead, you reached for his hand beneath the blankets. His fingers immediately intertwined with yours.

The next morning came anyway. Cruel thing. Morning always does. The sunlight arrived first. Slipping through the curtains. Turning everything gold. Making the apartment look painfully ordinary. As if it hadn't just held one of the most important months of your life.

For a few moments, neither of you moved. Eventually, reality won. It always did. The morning passed too quickly after that. Coffee. Quiet conversation. Long pauses. The strange awareness that every mundane thing was becoming a last. The last cup of coffee. The last joke. The last time hearing his laugh from across the room. Then suddenly there were no more things left to delay.

Only goodbye.

Outside the apartment building, the city was already awake. People hurried down sidewalks. Cars rolled through intersections. Life continued as if nothing important was happening.

For a moment, neither of you spoke. The words felt too small. Too inadequate for everything the month had become.

Then Hyoma stepped forward. And wrapped his arms around you. You immediately held him back. Tightly. The hug lasted longer than either of you intended. Long enough that letting go started feeling impossible. You could feel his heartbeat. Feel the steady rise and fall of his breathing. Feel how reluctant he was to pull away. Just like you.

Eventually, though, he did. Slowly. Reluctantly. The space between you returned. And suddenly it felt enormous.

Hyoma looked at you for a moment. Really looked. As if committing you to memory one final time. Then he smiled. The smile from the track. The one that had appeared after he'd nearly run you over. The smile that had started everything. The smile that made him look impossible. Your chest tightened.

"Take care." His voice was steady.

Yours almost wasn't. "You too."

For a second, neither of you moved. Then Hyoma nodded once. A small gesture. Simple. Final.

And before either of you could change your minds, he turned. And walked away. No looking back. Just forward. The way he'd always done everything. Toward the next goal.

You stood there watching. Watching the familiar pink hair disappear farther into the crowd. Watching the distance grow. Watching until he became another stranger among strangers. Until eventually the city swallowed him whole. And there was nothing left to see.

Silence settled around you. For a moment, the ache arrived. Sharp. Heavy. The kind that sat directly behind your ribs. The kind that made breathing feel different. You let yourself feel it. Just for a moment. Then something unexpected happened.

You smiled. Small. Bittersweet. Because despite everything... You couldn't regret it. Not a single second. Not the track. Not the rooftop bar. Not the sunrises. Not the arguments. Not the late-night conversations. Not him.

For one impossible month, life had felt different. Brighter. Larger. Like the universe had briefly decided to be kind. And maybe that was enough. Maybe some people weren't meant to stay forever. Maybe some stories weren't meant to become lifelong romances. Maybe some chapters existed simply because they were beautiful while they lasted. A fairy tale didn't stop being magical because it ended. It became a memory. And memories, sometimes, lasted longer than anything else.

So you took one final look at the crowd. At the place where Hyoma Chigiri had disappeared. Then you turned. And walked forward too. Carrying an impossible month with you.

About six weeks later, you threw up in the parking lot of a grocery store. At first, you blamed the coffee. Then stress. Then the fact that you'd barely been sleeping properly lately.

Life had returned to normal after Hyoma left. Or at least, it had pretended to. Back to routines. Back to ordinary days.

But grief had a strange way of lingering. It settled into quiet moments. Into empty evenings. Into the instinctive urge to send someone a message before remembering they were halfway across the world.

So when the exhaustion started, you blamed grief. When your appetite changed, you blamed grief. When you started feeling nauseous in the mornings, you blamed grief. Apparently, grief wasn't the problem.

The positive test sat on the bathroom counter. Unmoving. Silent. Life-altering. You stared at it. Then stared some more. Certain it would somehow change if you looked long enough. It didn't. The small room suddenly felt too warm. Too quiet.

You sat down heavily on the edge of the bathtub. One hand covering your mouth. The other gripping the pregnancy test so tightly your knuckles hurt. Pregnant. The word echoed strangely inside your head. Pregnant. Not possible. Except apparently very possible.

A nervous laugh escaped you. Then another. Halfway to tears. Halfway to disbelief. Because this hadn't been part of the plan. None of this had been part of the plan. A month-long romance wasn't supposed to end like this.

You and Hyoma had existed inside a beautiful, temporary chapter. And somehow that chapter had left something behind. Your hand drifted unconsciously toward your stomach. Nothing had changed yet. But suddenly everything felt different.

A hundred thoughts crashed into each other. Fear. Shock. Confusion. Practical concerns. Questions. So many questions.

You sat there for almost an hour. Thinking. Crying a little. Laughing once because the entire situation felt absurd.

And somewhere during that hour, one thing became clear. You weren't upset. Overwhelmed? Absolutely. Terrified? A little. Maybe a lot. But upset? No.

Because Hyoma hadn't abandoned you. He hadn't lied. Hadn't made promises he couldn't keep. From the very beginning, he'd been honest. A month. Then he'd leave. That had always been the deal. And now?

Now he was chasing the dream he'd talked about every single day. The dream that lit up his entire face whenever he spoke about it. The dream he'd sacrificed years of his life for.

You could still picture it. That certainty. That determination. The absolute conviction that football was where he belonged. And you couldn't bring yourself to interrupt that. Not when he was finally living the future he'd worked so hard to reach.

Slowly, your gaze lowered to the test again. Then to your stomach. Your chest tightened unexpectedly. Not with fear this time. Something else. Something softer. A small smile appeared before you even realized it. Trembling. Uncertain. Because despite the shock...

Despite how impossible this was...

Despite everything...

A tiny piece of him was still here.

The month had ended. The fairy tale had ended. Hyoma had walked away and disappeared into a crowd. Yet somehow, a part of him remained. Not as a memory. Not as a photograph. Not as a message saved on your phone. Something real. Something alive.

Your smile widened slightly as tears gathered in your eyes. "Hi," you whispered quietly to the empty bathroom. Or maybe not to the empty bathroom. Your hand rested gently against your stomach.

And for the first time since he'd left, the ache in your chest felt a little different. A little less like loss. A little more like hope. You still missed him. You suspected you always would. But sitting there on the bathroom floor, staring at two pink lines that would change everything, you realized something unexpected. The fairy tale hadn't disappeared completely. It had simply left you with its most precious souvenir.

He walked into your apartment with your favourite drink and pasty from your favourite cafe, a small bouquet of flowers, and a present wrapped with a bow in hand. Chigiri knew you’d just finished writing a big final you spent weeks studying for, he wanted to celebrate you finally being free. But when he let himself into your apartment, he didn’t find you finally watching T.V, or cuddled up with a book after weeks of exhausting studying. Chigiri found you laying in bed staring up at the ceiling.

“Hey gorgeous. Are you okay?” He gently asked, placing the drink, pastry, bouquet, and gift on your nightstand.

“Hmm?” You blinked out of a daze and turned to look at him, “Oh. Hi. What’re you doing here Hyo?” You asked quietly.

“I wanted to come see you after you finished your finals.” He replied, sitting on the edge of the bed beside you, reaching to stroke your hair gently.

You flinched away just slightly, insecure about your hair being greasy even though you washed it last night. Chigiri looked at you with concerned eyes, so you melted into his touch just to not worry him. He worried a lot, about you specifically.

“How did your final go?” He asked, his hand gently caressing your scalp.

“I don’t think I did good,” You admitted. “I got my results for the one I wrote last week and I only got a 55%” Your voice wavered. You worked so hard, just for a stupid 55, you’ve never done that bad before in school, what could you have possibly done wrong? It was all beyond you.

Chigiri sat you up and pulled you into his arms, “One bad test doesn’t mean you’re a bad student. It doesn’t erase all the work you’ve over the years or all your other 80’s, 90’s, and 100’s. Just because that one was bad, doesn’t mean the next will be. You work so, so hard, love, I promise it’ll pay off. Losing one game doesn’t make someone a bad player” He caressed your back gently as you hid your head in the crook of his neck, his lucious hair tickling your face.

It felt so stupid to be upset over this. Everyone knows school is hard. But still, you couldn’t help but let a tear slip onto his shirt. You were good, really good, you used to paint, do sports, and now all you have left is this, and you can’t even do good in this. Your one tear turned into silent sobs, your hands clutching Chigiri’s shirt as you silently wept for your museum of failures.

He didn’t say anything, he just held you and stroked your back until you calmed down, cooing in your hair.

When you eventually stopped crying you hid your face in his chest in embarrassment, it was just some stupid grades, there’s people dying out there. But still, it still hurt that the one thing you had left, the one place you were sure of yourself, was just like all your other failures.

Chigiri reached towards the nightstand with one hand and grabbed the present he got for you. He silently nudged you back to make space between your bodies and placed it in your lap. He didn’t say anything, he just looked at you expectedly and wiped your tears with his thumb.

“What’s this?” You asked quietly, sniffling while taking the package in your shaking hands.

“Open it” He said softly, eyes never leaving your face.

“You didn’t hav-“

“Shh, just open it,” He said, cutting off your protests.

With shaking hands you carefully unwrapped the package. You turned it towards you and it was…a paint set?

“I want you to paint for me, or we can paint together,” Chigiri said shyly once he noticed your furrowed brows.

“Hyo, I-I’m no good, I-“

“Yes you are. I’ve seen your work stashed in the storage closet. Please, just once, for me?”

You looked up at him and didn’t even bother trying to stop the tears from falling. Your gorgeous boyfriend. Your thoughtful, gorgeous boyfriend with luscious hair and extraordinary football skills, what did you do to deserve him?

Chigiri pulled you close and kissed you gently. He let your tears disappear into the kiss as they fell down your face.

Hyoma Chigiri knew better than anyone what it was like to doubt oneself, and he would do anything he could to make sure the one he loves never feels that way when he’s around.

Chigiri my goat, I need your hair routine

Ok but seriously I fr need to be held by a tall strong man, this has to be some divine punishment for a crime committed in a past life

I need to start making my posts look prettier but it’s just sm work 😔