#jadefieldnotes

18+ | mdni

some people knock. some people don’t. and some people walk into satoru gojo’s apartment at the worst possible moment.

satoru’s place is immaculate. floor-to-ceiling windows. low lighting. expensive quiet. that stupidly comfortable couch he insists is “ergonomically superior” absolutely did not deserve what’s currently happening on it.

you’re on top of him.

very much on top of him.

very much unclothed.

this isn’t new. what’s new is that it doesn’t feel reckless anymore. it doesn’t feel hidden. it feels chosen. warm. yours.

his hands rest at your waist like he has nowhere else to be. patient. possessive. warm.

you lean down to kiss him, his voice comes low against your mouth. “god,” he murmurs, almost disbelieving, “look at you.”

you don’t answer. your hand drifts lower, you begin to stroke him, applying just the precise pressure to pull a sharp inhale from him. the sound he makes is unguarded— rough, honest— and it shoots heat straight through you.

you rise carefully, dragging the moment out, hips rolling in a controlled glide before settling back down. the shift draws a soft breathy moan from you, delicate but unmistakable.

you brace your palms against his chest, feeling the steady thud beneath your hands as you find your rhythm. up. down. up. down.

your breathing turns uneven, quiet sounds slipping free without permission. you don’t try to hide them. you don’t try to soften them.

his hand slides up, fingers spreading over to massage your breast, thumb tracing slow, firm circles that make your rhythm falter for half a second. the other hand drops lower, gripping your hip with more need than he intended to show. your hands slide higher to his shoulders, fingers curling into him as your head tilts back, body arching in a way that makes his jaw tighten hard.

his grip tightens at your hips, less control and more surrender. his head tips back, throat exposed, breath unsteady as he looks at you like he’s already done for. and he doesn’t even try to hide it.

it isn’t frantic. it’s building. heat coiling tighter with every deliberate rise and fall.

he watches you like he didn’t expect to lose control first.

“you’re unreal,” he exhales, words uneven. you move again. his head drops back and the sentence dissolves into a rough groan.

you don’t slow.

his restraint fractures in quiet increments.

your hands are around his neck now, fingers buried in his hair, your head tipped back as the rhythm turns less careful and more relentless. the small sounds leaving you are no longer shy— breathy, broken, completely unaware of how they undo him.

and it feels so good it almost makes you dizzy.

his grip tightens at your waist. the other hand drags up your spine, fingers pressing into skin like he needs something solid to hold onto.

you lean forward, lips grazing his jaw, then his ear, and the soft sound you make there— right against his skin— is the final crack in his composure.

“i can’t—” he starts, then laughs under it, wrecked. his head drops briefly to your shoulder, breath uneven. “you’re going to—” he starts, but the sentence dissolves into a low, unguarded sound that vibrates against your collarbone.

your pace doesn’t falter.

the couch shifts beneath you. the room feels tight. charged. seconds away from something catastrophic.

and then—

the door unlocks.

neither of you react in time.

the door opens.

“satoru, you left your—”

suguru steps in.

stops.

time collapses.

satoru freezes with you— hands still at your waist, head still tilted toward your throat, expression caught halfway between wrecked and reverent.

your silk and lace lingerie hangs over the high kitchen stool in full, unforgiving view— hem slipping over the edge, one strap dangling like evidence. his white shirt lies crumpled near the rug and his blindfold rests beside it. your scrubs are folded neatly on the counter. your trainers sit by the door next to your high heels, paired like you meant to stay.

suguru’s eyes move once— lingerie, floor, couch. you. on top of his best friend.

“…oh shit,” he breathes. then immediately, “oh shit i’m sorry.”

suguru turns around instantly.

you make a small, strangled sound and immediately scramble— hands bracing against satoru’s chest as you lift yourself off him in one graceless motion, nearly tangling in your own limbs in the process.

the sudden loss of contact leaves him blinking up at you, breath still uneven, expression caught somewhere between wrecked and wildly inconvenienced.

“oh my god,” you whisper.

satoru, to his credit, moves fast. one arm wraps around you, pulling you back down against him while his other hand grabs the throw blanket and drapes it over you both with smooth efficiency.

absolute gentleman.

terrible timing.

does suguru leave?

no.

he just stands there facing the wall. processing.

you attempt to slide off satoru and disappear into the couch cushions.

“privacy,” satoru says calmly, “is a dying concept.”

“i have a key!” suguru shoots back, still facing away.

“and no boundaries.”

you bury your face in satoru’s shoulder, mortified beyond human endurance. “why are you still here?” you ask, voice muffled, half horrified, half laughing because the situation has tipped fully into absurd.

“i walked in to discuss mission reports,” suguru replies tightly.

satoru, still holding you, still warm, still far too composed for someone who was seconds away from unraveling, tilts his head slightly. “wrong battlefield,” he says.

“satoru.”

“what?” he replies mildly. “we were busy.”

suguru groans into his palm.

“you could leave,” satoru suggests helpfully.

“yes”, you add quickly, exasperated. “please leave.”

“i’m trying!” suguru snaps, still staring determinedly at the far wall like it personally offended him.

and that’s when satoru looks down at you— flushed, flustered, buried under a blanket— and something shifts again.

the smugness returns.

suguru risks half a turn and immediately regrets it. his gaze flicks, disastrously, toward the kitchen stool.

“…why is that on display?”

“because,” satoru replies lazily, “it was removed.”

you smack his chest under the blanket. “can you not.”

suguru pinches the bridge of his nose. “i need you both to understand that i can never unsee this.”

“you walked in,” satoru reminds him calmly. “technically this is your fault.” then he adds with a smug, “this wasn’t even the impressive part.”

“satoru gojo you are not helping at all!” you finally peek out from under the blanket, face burning. “suguru, i am so sorry.”

suguru finally risks a glance at you and immediately softens. “you don’t need to apologise,” he says quickly. “i just— next time maybe—”

“knock?” satoru supplies.

“yes, that”

there’s a beat.

suguru exhales sharply. “i’m going to wait outside. five minutes. fully clothed conversation only.”

he pauses at the door. glances once at satoru. not teasing “…you’re smiling stupidly.”

satoru doesn’t deny it. “i finally got the girl.”

you groan. “do not phrase it like that. also guys, i’m right here.”

but suguru’s expression shifts. he’d seen satoru through flings, distractions, careless amusements. he knows the difference.

this isn’t that.

“…yeah,” suguru mutters quietly and smiles. “guess you did.”

and then he leaves.

the door shuts.

silence.

you’re still wrapped in the blanket, still flushed from head to toe, still trying to process the last sixty seconds of your life.

“you dismounted very quickly,” he observes mildly.

you smack his chest again. “oh don’t you start.

“i’m impressed.”

“i am never seeing suguru again.”

“you absolutely are.”

you’re still laughing when you try to glare at him.

he leans down and presses a soft kiss to your temple.

“we survived,” he murmurs.

you lift your head slowly. “i did not survive. i will be relocating.”

he presses a small kiss to your temple again, murmuring softly, “it’s fine.”

“it’s not fine at all.”

“it’s suguru.”

“that’s worse!”

he laughs quietly. his eyes flick down briefly— appreciative, slow, entirely unashamed— then back to yours. “let him see all that beauty i get to see.”

you just stare at him.

“and have,” he adds.

you groan into his shoulder.

he kisses your forehead, gentle and sure. then, he asks softly, “you okay?

and there it is. the crack in him. not lust, just care.

you nod. “mortified, but okay.”

he exhales, relief slipping through before he can mask it.

satoru brushes your hair back, thumb warm at your cheek. “you look cute when you’re scandalised.”

“i hate you.”

“i doubt that.” then suddenly remembering, “we do still have five minutes,” he says thoughtfully.

you narrow your eyes. “you cannot be serious.”

“but y/n, babe” he replies innocently. “we were interrupted, that’s hardly fair.” he tilts his head slightly, voice lowering just a fraction. “we could… finish.”

you try not to smile and fail.

he notices of course.

his hands settle at your waist again, not pushing, just resting there.

“you’re still on top of me,” he points out calmly.

your face burns.

you try to move. he tightens his hold just enough. “no, no, i’m not complaining.” then, “we can be quick,” he says with a grin.

you practically give up.

he leans closer, voice brushing your ear. “or we can take our time later.”

that steadier thing is back in his eyes.

“you’re staying tonight anyway,” he says quietly, not a question.

you rest your forehead against his. “…you’re impossible.”

“and you love it.”

somewhere between the humiliation and the leftover heat and the ridiculousness of it all, you realise that neither of you are actually upset.

embarrassed? yes.

regretful? not even slightly.

outside the door, suguru clears his throat loudly. satoru sighs dramatically. “five minutes,” suguru calls. “i meant five actual minutes.”

satoru rolls his eyes then looks back at you with a wicked little smile. “so,” he says, smug as ever, “speed round?”

you kiss his mouth then press something softer to the corner of it, trailing down his jaw with a small, helpless smile because he’s ridiculous. because you’re still flushed from embarrassment, still a little undone, and still very much wrapped around satoru gojo beneath a throw blanket.

you settle against him, cheek to his shoulder, nose brushing slowly along his neck because you’re greedy for it— the clean, cool trace of him beneath warmth, the scent that’s become unmistakably satoru. you breathe him in like you’re committing it to memory. he exhales, chin resting at your temple, arms tightening just enough to keep you there.

somewhere beyond the door, suguru is still waiting. you both forget completely. the world is still spinning. missions exist. responsibilities exist.

but he closes his eyes.

and he smiles like the world can wait.

♡. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁♡. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁♡. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁♡. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁♡

satoru gojo x reader

golden hour spills through your balcony doors, warm and slow, catching in the curtains as they sway with the breeze. the city looks softer from up here, almost forgiving. you’re sitting on the floor with your back against the couch, a medical journal open on your lap. satoru is beside you, long legs stretched out, switching between scrolling on his phone and staring at the skyline like he’s measuring it.

“you’ve read that page three times,” he says without looking at you.

“i’m absorbing,” you reply calmly.

“you’re distracted.”

“you’re loud.”

“i’m literally silent.”

“you’re thinking loudly.”

he huffs a laugh and tosses his phone aside, turning his head to look at you instead. “you’re in a mood lately.”

“define mood.”

“less available. mysterious. very doctor.”

you turn a page. “i am a doctor.”

a beat passes. wind brushes through the room. “that’s not what i meant.”

you finally glance at him. “then what did you mean.”

he studies you a beat too long, then looks away first. “nothing.”

you close the journal. “you’re bad at nothing.”

“i’m exceptional at nothing.”

“you’re restless,” you say simply.

“am i.”

“you always get like this when you feel something shifting.”

that almost makes him smile. almost. “you sound very sure of me.”

“i am.”

“you didn’t answer my last three messages.”

“i work in a&e.”

“for thirty-six hours?”

“you exaggerate. though that also tracks.”

he hums, unconvinced.

“i’m right here, satoru.”

“physically.”

the breeze moves the curtains again.

“is this an interrogation?” you ask.

“i’m observing.”

“dangerous hobby.”

he watches you carefully. “you do this thing when you start bracing.”

“go on, out with it.”

“like you’re preparing for impact.”

“i don’t brace.”

“you do. it’s subtle. very you.”

you lean your head back against the couch. “you’re projecting.”

“am i.”

“yep.”

silence stretches, not empty, just weighted. he taps his fingers against the floor, restless in a way he rarely lets anyone see.

“if this is about you missing me, you could just admit it”, you tease.

he laughs under his breath. “i didn’t say that.”

“you don’t need to say your thoughts out loud at this point.”

“i think a lot of things.”

“and say very few of them honestly.”

that earns you a look. he shifts closer without quite touching. “you’ve been distant.”

“and what you’re trying to say is...”

he holds your gaze for a second too long, then exhales. “you rearrange your life very quietly. you make space without announcing it.”

you turn toward him fully now, resting your cheek against your hand on the couch. the golden light spills across your face, soft, beautiful, and unfair. his expression changes, more intent now.

“okay, here goes” you begin calmly, “to me, you’re just… you.”

he lifts a brow. “dangerously vague.”

“your white hair,” you continue. “whether it’s up when you put the blindfold on, all composed and dramatic, or down, falling over your face like you don’t care how dangerous that makes you look. those clear blue eyes that shift when you smile. they light up when you’re amused. there’s depth there, satoru. like the sea. easy to drown in if you’re not careful.”

he doesn’t interrupt.

“you’re annoyingly playful. or playfully annoying. i haven’t decided. you bring me sweets every time you visit. i’m probably diabetic now because of you. you talk too much until something shuts you up.” your gaze flickers with something cheeky. “usually when you’re outmatched.”

he exhales softly.

“and you pretend you’re above everything. unreachable. like you don’t care, when you care too damn much.”

the room feels smaller now, not suffocating, just focused.

“you read me like a case file,” he mutters.

“no. the irritating parts are my favourite.”

that makes him look at you properly.

“you turn it off when it matters,” you continue. “the distance. the barrier. you let yourself be reached. you don’t do that unless you mean it. you care about your students and you believe in them. you’d burn the world down for them. you might even love them. and you don’t realise how much that gets returned.”

his jaw tightens, but he doesn’t deny it.

“you don’t have to be the strongest for me,” you say quietly. “if one day you drop all of this,” you gesture vaguely to the skyline, the expectations, the weight, “you’d still be you. and i’d still be here.”

he’s very still now. when you fall quiet, he’s just looking at you. not smirking. not deflecting. just looking.

“…you really notice all that,” he says.

“of course i do.”

he shakes his head faintly. “you don’t even sound impressed. you sound certain.”

“i am.”

something shifts in his expression, subtle but undeniable. he lets out a breath that almost sounds like a laugh.

“you know,” he says lightly, though there’s nothing careless about it, “it’s almost like you love me. i can tell.”

it doesn’t land like a joke. it lands like realisation.

you don’t look at him. you shrug, gaze lowering to his hands. “well,” you say simply, honestly, “yeah.”

silence. the curtains move. the light shifts. he stops blinking.

“don’t panic,” you say gently.

“i’m not panicking.”

“you stopped blinking.”

“processing face.”

“it’s not a demand,” you add.

“most people would expect something after that.”

you shrug again. “if this ends, i’ll live. i’ll go to work. i’ll drink bad coffee. you’ll still be satoru gojo.”

he winces slightly. “don’t say it like that.”

“like what?”

“like i’m separate from it.”

“you are separate from it,” you reply evenly. “you’re the strongest. the honoured one. the expectation. but to me you’re just, satoru.” you continue, “you protect yourself the way you know how and that’s fine. i don’t need to dismantle it. i just accept it.”

you hold his gaze. “you use your emotional unavailability like you use your infinity. it’s protection. i get it. but you turn it off when it matters.”

he doesn’t deny that either.

“i don’t want to meet you at the top,” you say. “i just want to meet you where you are. however much of that you’re willing to give.”

he laughs softly, but it breaks halfway through. “that’s unfair.”

“a lot of things are.”

“and if i never give you more than this?”

you don’t hesitate. “then this is enough.”

his mouth presses thin. “that’s worse.”

“how so.”

“because it means you’re choosing me.”

you don’t deny it.

he leans his head back against the couch and closes his eyes for a second, like something inside him just settled into place. then he shifts closer, nudging your shoulder with his.

“…i don’t want it to end,” he says quietly.

you nod once. “okay.”

no dramatic promises follow. no grand declarations to anchor it. just the subtle shift of two people who have spent years surviving the same ugly world, who learned to hide in physical closeness and call it enough.

the golden light thins and disappears, and for once, there is no infinity between you. no strongest. just satoru— loved exactly where he stands, and it costs him nothing.

note

this was inspired by rearrange my world by daniel caesar & rex orange county. a song that had no business being that on point and hitting exactly where it aches. it’s a quiet confession of a song. it doesn’t beg, it doesn’t demand. it just admits. and that’s what this piece wanted to be. not “choose me.” not “stay forever.” just “i see you”, and not asking you to be anything else.

there’s something almost unfair about hearing that kind of honesty while doing something ordinary and domestic. the quiet ache. the “don’t panic.” the almost-laugh before the truth lands.

18+ | mdni

note: canon-divergent au where suguru stayed and the world is a little kinder but not less complicated.

song inspiration: my song — h.e.r.

he wasn’t ready to hear his own feelings sung back to him.

the bar is exactly the kind of place satoru gojo would choose— low ceiling, amber lights pooling low over polished wood and velvet booths. a piano that looks like it’s held a thousand secrets. he reserved the entire space and still hasn’t shown up. of course he hasn’t. a live jazz band had been playing earlier, soft saxophone and brushed drums, but they’ve stepped off for a break, instruments resting against their stands. the room hums with low conversation, glasses clinking, a few well-dressed patrons lingering over expensive drinks. it’s the kind of place that feels private even when it isn’t.

yuji is already on his second dessert, nobara is critiquing the cocktail menu like she owns the establishment, maki is unimpressed, and megumi is nursing something he insists is non-alcoholic. nanami looks like he might actually relax for once. utahime keeps checking the time in annoyance. shoko watches everything with half-lidded interest. suguru sits back, observant as ever. he watches everything, he always does.

you’re seated between megumi and shoko, laughing quietly at something yuji said, shoulders relaxed in a way they rarely are when you’re in scrubs or on a battlefield. you belong here, in both worlds. suguru has always thought that about you.

“she sings,” yuji blurts, too loudly.

you don’t even look at him. “no, i don’t.”

“yes, you do. i heard you in the lab once. it was insane.”

“yuji,” you warn.

but it’s too late. nobara is curious. maki is already standing.

“get up.”

“maki—”

she doesn’t argue. she simply pulls you toward the stage with calm efficiency. the pianist who’d been idly running scales pauses, eyebrows lifting. “you play?” he asks. “a little,” you reply. he slides aside.

the bar quiets, curious. you sit. the first notes are barely there. soft. careful. your fingers press the keys. the sound is clean and solitary in the room without the band behind you— just piano, warm and unguarded.

when you start to sing, it’s low. almost a whisper. the first lines sit close to your throat, husky around the edges, like they weren’t meant for anyone but yourself. not breathy for effect, just intimate. lived in. the kind of voice shaped by empty rooms and late nights rather than stages.

“i wanna run away with you”, you start singing.

people stop talking. it isn’t volume that silences them. it’s sincerity.

at the entrance, the door opens.

satoru hears the piano before he registers anything else. slow, minimal, unaccompanied. then a woman’s voice— quiet, textured— threads through the air.

he steps inside mid-laugh, already halfway through some dramatic excuse for being late. his sunglasses sit low and relaxed on his nose— the familiar oblong frames doing nothing to hide the fact that he’s absolutely surveying the room like he owns it.

then he hears the lyrics clearly. and he stops. not dramatically, just still.

his gaze finds the stage. finds you.

he doesn’t approach immediately. he moves to the bar instead, asks for a drink without looking away. the glass is placed into his hand and doesn’t remember asking for it.

you don’t notice him yet. you’re inside the song, fingers steady, voice low and honest. when you reach the end of the first verse, you lift your eyes— and there he is. standing in the doorway’s shadow, staring. you don’t falter. you let the smallest smile touch your mouth before your gaze drops back to the keys.

“when i hear your name,

put a smile up on my face,

it don’t matter the time or the place…”

the lines feel almost private.

satoru exhales slowly. he starts walking forward without realizing he’s moving. stops somewhere in the middle of the room. doesn’t sit, doesn’t lean. just stands there, drink loose in his fingers, looking at you like he’s seeing something he didn’t know he was missing.

your voice shifts slightly as you approach the chorus. still controlled. still soft. but there’s something fuller underneath now. not louder, just deeper.

and then—

“let me sing my song…”

your voice lifts. the falsetto is clean and precise and impossibly clear, sliding upward with quiet control. it isn’t showy. it’s emotional without being indulgent. the sound opens the room rather than fills it, bright but restrained, like light slipping through curtains.

it hits him straight in the chest.

no band to soften it. no harmonies to hide behind. just you and the piano.

“don’t wanna be alone…”

the falsetto isn’t fragile. it’s steady. angelic in clarity but grounded in something very human. the kind of sound that doesn’t ask for applause but instead asks to be understood.

megumi swallows quietly.

shoko doesn’t blink.

suguru watches satoru instead. because satoru looks undone.

you sing the next lines softer again, eyes briefly flicking toward him.

“i could love you forever now…”

this time you hold his gaze a second longer and with tender honesty, because eyes can indeed convey that.

satoru’s fingers tighten around his glass. he lets out a quiet breath that almost sounds like a laugh, but softer. his chest feels tight in a way that has nothing to do with combat or infinity or expectation.

is his heart fluttering? it absolutely is.

his mouth curves into a faint smile but it’s not playful. it’s almost stunned. his chest feels tight in a way he hasn’t felt since that night on your apartment floor.

you return to the chorus, falsetto blooming again, fuller this time.

“i know this is my home,

all that i’ve been wishing,

found what i’ve been missing…”

the piano carries you gently, simple chords, nothing ornate. the simplicity makes it devastating.

“all my doubts and fears,

all my cries and tears…”

your voice softens again on the final lines, falsetto dissolving into something warmer, closer.

“you are still right here…”

and standing in the middle of that dim, expensive bar, satoru realizes something that makes his breath catch: you meant it. you meant every word you said weeks ago.

the last note fades into the air.

for a moment, no one moves. not because they don’t know what to do, but because it feels wrong to interrupt it. then applause breaks out all at once. loud, genuine. yuji is yelling. nobara whistles. maki nods approvingly. one of the bartenders lets out a sharp whistle that cuts through the room.

satoru doesn’t clap right away. he just stands there looking at you. and for a moment, it’s like he’s just heard his own heart translated back to him. it feels like you’re singing what he’s been too afraid to articulate since that golden hour on your floor. since you said you’d stay without needing more.

you weren’t asking then. you aren’t asking now.

and tonight, standing in the middle of a dim jazz bar with a drink melting in his hand, the strongest doesn’t look untouchable. he looks like a man who is very, very close to giving in.

__________

back at the table, yuji is vibrating. “WHAT DO YOU MEAN YOU ‘HUM A LITTLE’?”

“sit down,” nobara says.

yuji continues to spiral, “so wait. is this like, your secret alter ego? doctor by day, jazz legend by night?”

“stop,” nobara says.

“no, i’m serious,” he insists. “this changes everything.”

“it changes nothing,” you reply.

“it changes everything,” he repeats.

satoru finally laughs softly under his breath at that.

suguru leans toward him. “you’re not even pretending to be normal right now.”

“i am perfectly normal.”

“you didn’t breathe for an entire chorus.”

satoru pauses.

suguru’s lips curve faintly. “you’re in trouble.”

satoru doesn’t argue.

he just looks at you again.

__________

megumi leans closer once the noise dips a little, lowering his voice just enough to be heard over yuji arguing with nanami about mocktails.

“you okay?” he asks, casual but not really.

“yeah.”

he squints at you like he’s trying to solve a puzzle. “he glitched.”

you blink. “what?”

“gojo-sensei. he glitched. like his brain lagged.”

you huff a small laugh. “he does that.”

“not like that,” megumi says. “that was… different weird.”

shoko exhales smoke beside you, unimpressed and entirely correct. “he went quiet.”

megumi grimaces. “yeah, that. i don’t like when he goes quiet.”

“you two are dramatic,” you reply lightly.

shoko tilts her head, studying you. “sweetheart, i’ve known him since we were kids. that wasn’t casual.”

you lift your glass. “he’ll survive.”

megumi gives you a look. “i’m not worried about him.”

you bump your shoulder gently against his. “i know.”

shoko watches the exchange with that look— half pride, half warning, entirely perceptive. “don’t underestimate what you just did.”

“i sang.”

“mm,” she hums. “you did more than that.”

__________

the rooftop is quieter than the bar, but not silent. tokyo hums below— traffic in the distance, faint laughter drifting up from the street, the glow of neon bleeding into the low clouds. it’s a short building but high enough that the air feels cooler and cleaner.

the door creaks open behind you. you don’t turn. “suguru told you, didn’t he,” you say. “maybe,” satoru replies.

you turn toward him fully now, back resting against the railing. the tokyo breeze moves a loose strand of your hair across your cheek and you don’t even notice. you never really notice when you look like this. satoru does.

he looks the same as always— handsome in a way that borders on offensive. the kind of face that belongs on billboards and battlefields and nowhere near a rooftop conversation like this. his white hair catching the neon glow, the city lights carve shadows along his jaw, his glasses sitting low and relaxed, his eyes clear and ocean blue deep when they settle on you. but right now, he’s not performing, he’s just looking.

you don’t look dressed for anyone. you just look like yourself— in your quiet stance, lips slightly parted from the cool air, but for a moment, he forgets to say anything. because you look unassumingly beautiful. not trying, just the kind of beauty that’s quiet and doesn’t announce itself because it doesn’t need to. and somehow that’s worse. it disarms him more than the stage did.

his footsteps are unhurried, cautious in a way that doesn’t suit him. he stops a few feet away instead of crowding you like he usually would. for a moment, neither of you speak.

it’s been weeks since golden hour. since without conditions. since you said you loved him and didn’t ask for anything in return. you hooked up once after that. maybe twice. one of those nights at his place— which almost never happens. something about that felt heavier than it should have. and then, inexplicably, it stopped. no fight. no discussion. just distance.

“you disappeared after,” he says quietly.

you glance at him. “you did too.”

he huffs softly, almost a laugh. “i was… recalibrating.”

“mm.”

he steps closer this time. not all the way, just enough. “we haven’t talked,” he says.

“we have.”

“not like that.”

you study him now. really look at him. he looks the same— tall, composed, irritatingly handsome under the city lights— but there’s something unguarded about him tonight. something that isn’t trying to win.

“i missed you,” he says, and it’s so simple it almost doesn’t land.

you fish for it, “in what way exactly?”

his jaw shifts slightly. “all of them.”

“i thought,” he continues carefully, “that if i stepped back, it would… settle.”

“and did it?”

“not at all.” that answer is immediate.

“you’re not being subtle right now,” you say softly.

“i’m trying to be. because last time,” he says, voice lower, “you weren’t asking me for anything and somehow that felt worse.”

you don’t interrupt.

“you said it was enough. that whatever i gave you was enough.” he exhales. “do you know how dangerous that is?”

“dangerous for who?”

“for me.” the honesty lands between you, heavy and bare. he steps closer like he’s approaching something fragile. his hand lifts slightly, pauses, as if asking permission without words. you don’t move away.

his fingers brush yours first. just the tips. tentative. warm. then he threads them properly, holding your hand like it’s unfamiliar territory. his thumb traces once over your knuckles.

“i don’t want this to be something i visit when it’s convenient,” he says quietly.

your breath shifts. “then what do you want it to be?”

his free hand rises to your face. not possessive, just careful. his thumb brushes your cheek, slow and warm against skin that’s cooled from the night air.

“i want…” he starts, then stops. swallows. recalibrates. “i want you,” he finishes. no joke. no smirk. just that.

he leans down slowly. the kiss isn’t what you’re used to. it isn’t teasing. it isn’t urgent. it doesn’t demand. it’s gentle. soft enough that it almost hurts. like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he presses too hard. your hand lifts to his collar pulling him closer, the other on his nape, and when you tilt your head just enough, the kiss deepens, still controlled, but warmer now. fuller. the kind that lingers instead of consumes. his hand slides from your cheek down to your waist, fingers spreading slowly over your hip. he draws you closer until your body fits against his like it always has except tonight, it feels charged differently. not reckless but more intentional.

you’ve slept together more times than you can count. you know his rhythm, the way his hands move, the way his breath changes when he loses control. and this isn’t that. this feels like a confession spoken through skin. electricity builds. slow and steady. a quiet storm. and then he stops. the kiss breaks, but only barely. his forehead rests against yours, his breath warm against your lips.

“if we go any further,” he murmurs, “i’m not pretending anymore.”

“you stopped pretending weeks ago,” you whisper.

his hand at your waist tightens slightly.

the breeze shifts, colder now. you barely react to it, but he notices immediately. of course he does.

his gaze drops briefly— not lingering, not possessive— just assessing. the satin of your dress catches the light, deep and fluid, backless and minimal, the cool air brushing against skin you’re pretending isn’t chilled.

“you’re cold,” he says quietly.

“i’m fine.”

he hums, unconvinced.

without another word, he shrugs out of his coat. it’s expensive— tailored, dark, faintly structured— and it still holds his warmth. he steps closer and drapes it over your shoulders before you can argue, the fabric settling around you. his hands adjust it once, lightly at your collarbones, fingers brushing your skin in a way that is careful rather than claiming. the coat smells like him— clean, cool, expensive, something crisp beneath it. not overpowering, just enough.

“there,” he murmurs. “i’d rather not have tokyo competing with me.”

you glance up at him.

“competing.”

“for your attention,” he says smoothly. then softer, “or your comfort.”

the coat hangs long on you, sleeves swallowing your hands slightly. you don’t take it off. he steps back half a pace, studying you like he’s quietly pleased with himself. and somehow that small gesture does more damage than the kiss did.

then he says it.

“come with me,” he says softly. “to my place.”

rare. meaningful.

you know what that means.

not just incredibly good sex, not just the familiar heat and the way you fit together like something practiced and dangerous. not just the way he loses control in your hands or the way you unravel under his. you’ve had that before. this would be different.

this would be the continuation of something you both stopped pretending about weeks ago. a step forward from the restraint. from the almosts. from the space you created after golden hour because neither of you knew how to move without breaking the balance. this would mean you’re not circling it anymore. this would mean progress.

choice.

he doesn’t pressure. doesn’t pull you in with charm or arrogance. there’s no teasing, no smugness. he comes closer again, resting his hands on either side of your waist, steady but not possessive. then tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear. his eyes, those ocean blue eyes that have seen everything and flinched at nothing, are patient now. waiting…

not for your body.

for your answer.