#kittie.fics

The movie was fine. Some loud action thing Satoru had been hyping all week like it was the greatest film ever made. You tried to stay awake, you really did, but the couch was stupidly comfortable, his hoodie smelled like laundry detergent and that expensive cologne he always wears, and every time he shifted the warmth of him just pulled you under.

You blinked once.

The next thing you knew, the living room was darker, the credits were already rolling on the TV, and you were completely buried.

There were blankets. Plural. The soft gray one that usually lived on the back of the couch, the thick navy throw from the armchair, and (you were pretty sure) the nice quilt from his bed.

You were lying horizontally across the couch, head on a pillow, and your legs were draped over his lap. Satoru was sitting up against the armrest, eyes on the screen, one hand resting casually on your shin under the blankets.

You shifted and the pile rustled.

“Hey.” His voice was quiet. “You’re awake.”

You blinked up at him. White hair a complete disaster, still watching the last few seconds of the credits like they actually mattered.

You tugged at the edge of the top blanket. “I definitely didn’t put these on.”

“Yeah, no. You were dead to the world and the AC decided to start freezing the place. Figured you’d rather not wake up as a popsicle.” His thumb brushed once over your shin, almost absentminded. “You’re welcome.”

You hummed, still half-asleep, and let your eyes slip shut again.

The second time you woke up, everything was different.

The couch was gone. The living room was gone. You were in his bed, the good mattress, the soft sheets, still wrapped in most of the same blankets. And Satoru was right there, on his side facing you, one arm tucked under the pillow, the other loosely curved around your waist.

He must have carried you.

You shifted closer without thinking, tucking yourself properly against his chest. His arm tightened immediately, pulling you in like he’d been waiting for it. His face was half-buried in the pillow, white hair tickling your forehead, breathing slow and even.

Typical.

You stayed right there, warm and completely curled into him, and didn’t move for the rest of the night.

Sukuna had been hoping you were asleep when he walked through the front door. He had hoped it every time he got off work lately. It was horrible to think, and he knew that, but he couldn’t help it. He’d been getting tired of the relationship for a while now, the constant arguments, the mood switches, the sorrys you whispered that he knew you never fully meant.

Youd tweak out at the slightest of things, blowing everything out of proportion until one of you left the house for however many hours to cool off.

So, as he shut the door behind him, and realised none of the lights in the kitchen nor living room were on he let out a sigh of relief. Thank fuck

It hadn't always been like this.

There had been a time when he'd race up the apartment stairs just to see if you'd still be awake, knowing you'd throw yourself into his arms before he even had the chance to take his shoes off. You'd complain that he worked too much, then drag him into the kitchen to show him whatever disaster you'd attempted to cook while waiting for him.

Somewhere along the way, those greetings had become interrogations. Why are you late? Who were you with? Why didn't you answer?

He wasn't sure when he'd stopped looking forward to coming home. He wasn't sure when home had stopped feeling like home.

He quietly made his way through the apartment to the kitchen, turning on the small light that sat on the island and just staring into the empty place. He missed the old you, the fun crazy girl in college who was up for anything and everything. When had that version been replaced with the one that shouted and nagged. He couldn’t quite remember.

His eyes drifted toward the fridge door out of habit. It was bare. No stupid little sticky notes with terrible drawings. No reminders to buy milk. No ‘Love you. Don't work too hard :(‘ written in your messy handwriting.

He couldn't even remember the last time you'd left one.

He ran his hand through his pink locks, as he made his way to the fridge looking for anything you might have leftover from when you had dinner. Nothing. Not even the pasta you'd usually save for him after late shifts.

"Seriously?" he muttered, pinching the bridge of his nose. “fine… instant noodles it is.” The irritation came easily. It always did now.

He turned to one of the cupboards ready to find a pack. But before he could a horrid feeling started to settle in his chest, one he couldn’t quite explain. One that told him to check on you.

So he done just that, he stepped quietly through the apartment to your shared bedroom door that was slightly ajar and pushed it open. The room was dark. "You asleep?"

No answer. He let out a tired sigh. "Babe?" Silence. He walked towards your side of the bed. His eyebrows knitted together. You weren’t there. He felt as if his heart stopped in that moment. What the fuck?

Panic started to swim through him, the strongest kind. He couldn’t breathe, he was suddenly frantic as he made his way to the light switch flicking it on. Something felt...

Wrong.

His eyes landed on the bedside table. Your water bottle wasn't there. Neither was the lip balm you constantly complained about losing despite leaving it in the exact same place every night. The blanket was folded too neatly.

Then his gaze shifted toward the wardrobe. The doors were open. Empty hangers swung gently. You haven’t just left… right?

He searched through the whole apartment but there was no sign of you anywhere, and what made it worse is that it looked as if you never were here. Every trace of you gone, all your toiletries had seemingly disappeared, every tiny detail of you vanished from existence, hell you even took star, your shared black kitty.

This couldn’t be happening…

He sat down on the edge of the bed because his legs suddenly didn't feel capable of holding him anymore. The silence was unbearable. It wrapped around him like something alive. Just this morning he'd caught himself wondering what it'd be like if he came home and you simply...

Weren't here. No arguments. No crying. No slammed doors. Just peace. So why did it feel like he couldn't breathe?

He looked at his phone, the time reading 12:34am. He had been searching for you, even the slightest hint of you that proved you ever really existed in the house, for a solid 34 minuets. He couldn’t find a single one.

His chest ached, isn’t this what he wanted. Isn’t this what he had been secretly hoping for. But no matter what he tried to convince himself, that feeling in his chest only grew. He unlocked his phone, pulling up your contact, calling you and waiting just hoping you’d answer.

The call rang once before dropping into the familiar automated voice. "The person you're trying to reach is unavailable. Please leave your message after the tone." The beep sounded impossibly loud. He tried again and again, and again frantically. But every time he heard the same fucking thing.

"The person you're trying to reach is unavailable. Please leave your message after the tone."

Had you blocked him. He went into your message thread and suddenly its like his world stopped, he felt sick. He felt like crying, THE Ryomen Sukuna felt like sobbing into the bed. The message broke him. It was simple, no I love yous or I’m sorry for doing this. No, the only thing it said was.

“This is what you wanted” sent and hour before he had walked through the front door.

His thumb hovered over the keyboard.

‘Please come home.’ Failed to send

‘I'm sorry.’ Failed to send

‘I'll fix it.’ Failed to send

What could he even say to fix it? Six years together. Six years of memories. Six years of loving you. And somehow...

All you'd left behind was one sentence. This is what you wanted. His phone slipped from numb fingers onto the mattress beside him. The apartment was silent. No music drifting from the shower. No cat weaving around his ankles. No voice calling his name from another room. Nothing.

He'd spent months wishing for peace and now that he finally had it...

He'd never hated anything more.

Did you really have to call your ex-boyfriend at two in the morning, nine months after the breakup?

The short answer was no.

The long answer was also no.

So why, after nine months of carefully constructing the illusion that you were over Satoru Gojo, were you staring at his contact like it might bite you?

Maybe it was the hoodie.

Maybe it was the fact that sleep had once again abandoned you.

Or maybe you just missed him, and you were finally too tired to pretend otherwise.

Nine months was supposed to be enough. Everyone had said so.

It gets easier.

You’ll move on.

One day you’ll realise you haven’t thought about him at all.

You had done everything right. New apartment. Deleted photos. Blocked him on every platform, then quietly unblocked him months later when seeing his name no longer felt like pressing on a bruise. You had stopped reaching for your phone every time something funny happened, only to remember there was no one on the other end waiting to laugh with you.

Life had moved on.

You were supposed to have moved on with it.

Instead, your apartment still looked like a temporary holding space. Half-unpacked boxes lined the walls. Clothes hung over dining chairs because you had never bought a wardrobe. The kitchen contained one mug, two plates, and an unholy amount of instant noodles. You had been promising yourself you would finish unpacking “tomorrow” for weeks. Tomorrow never arrived.

Tonight, sleep refused to come either. So you did the only thing your exhausted brain could manage: you started opening boxes.

Books. Utensils. Blankets. Safe things.

Then you reached the last box, shoved into the furthest corner of the bedroom. The one you had deliberately left unlabelled because you already knew what it held.

The memory box.

Movie tickets. Birthday cards. The stupid little keychain he had wasted an embarrassing amount of money trying to win for you at an arcade. You had laughed at him the entire time. He had called the machine rigged. And at the very bottom— Grey fabric.

You recognised it before you even pulled it free.

His hoodie. The oversized charcoal one he had lived in every winter. The sleeves were still too long. The tiny bleach stain near the cuff was still there from the time you had ruined it trying to clean something years ago. He had pretended to be annoyed for five minutes before laughing and telling you it gave the hoodie character.

You stared at it for a long time. Then, without really deciding to, you pulled it over your head. It swallowed you the same way it always had. For a second it felt almost like safety.

Then reality caught up.

It didn’t smell like him anymore. Nine months of detergent and time had erased the last trace of him. Your chest tightened so sharply it almost hurt.

You hated that.

You hated that a stupid piece of clothing could still make your eyes sting.

You hated that after everything—after the tears and the sleepless nights and the endless promises that you would never look back—you still missed him.

Not the arguments. Not the cancelled dates. Not the nights you had waited up until one in the morning wondering if he was even coming home. Just him. The version who danced terribly in the kitchen while making breakfast. The one who kissed your forehead every morning without fail. The one who used to look at you like you had hung the stars yourself.

The version that had slowly disappeared somewhere along the way.

Your eyes drifted to your phone on the bedside table.

Don’t.

You already knew this was a terrible idea. It was two in the morning. He was probably asleep. Or worse—he wasn’t, and he had moved on, and the thought of that made your stomach twist in a way you refused to examine.

You unlocked the phone anyway.

His contact was still there.

Toru <3

You should have deleted it months ago.

Your thumb hovered.

“…Fuck it.” The phone rang.

Once.

Twice.

Three times.

Nothing.

You let out a humourless laugh and ended the call, tossing the phone onto the bed. “See? That was stupid.” Five seconds passed.

Then you picked it back up.

“…One more.”

The second call felt even more embarrassing. It went straight to voicemail. You almost hung up the moment the beep sounded. Your mouth went dry.

“…Hi, Toru.”

Even saying the nickname made your voice wobble.

“I… um. I found one of your hoodies while unpacking.” God, what were you doing? Why would he care about a hoodie? You forced a nervous laugh. “It still has that bleach stain on the sleeve.” Silence.

“I guess… I just didn’t know if you’d want it back or something.” Your fingers tightened around the phone. “I don’t even know why I’m calling.” Another shaky breath.

“I think… I think I just—”

No. You couldn’t say it. Not after nine months. Not after being the one who walked away.

You scrubbed a hand over your face and let out a quiet, mortified groan.

“Actually… you know what? Forget I said any of this.” A weak laugh escaped you. “This was a really stupid idea. I’m sorry.” Click.

You stared at the dark screen for a long moment before slowly lowering the phone. “…I’m never doing that again.” You meant it.

You really did.

A few days passed in complete silence. No missed calls. No texts. Not even a blunt message telling you never to contact him again.

The silence was almost comforting. You could tell yourself he had never heard the voicemail. That it had gone to spam. That was easier than the alternative: that he had listened to every shaky word and simply chosen not to answer.

You were the one who had left. You were the one who had said the relationship wasn’t working anymore. What kind of person expected to be welcomed back after breaking someone’s heart?

Someone who still wasn’t over him, apparently.

Sleep continued to evade you. Three in the morning still felt exactly the same as it had nine months ago. You rolled onto your back with an exhausted groan, rubbing both hands over your face before reaching blindly for your phone.

3:08 a.m.

Your thumb hovered over your messages before you caught yourself. One humiliating voicemail was enough. You weren’t making it two.

You tossed the phone aside. Your eyes landed on the hoodie, still crumpled on the floor where you had left it days ago. You had been avoiding it like it might burn you.

With a quiet sigh you got up, picked it up almost carefully, and pulled it on. The fabric was soft from years of washing. Your thumb brushed the bleach stain. For the smallest moment it felt like being wrapped in a hug.

Your throat tightened.

“I hate this,” you whispered to no one.

Not the hoodie. Not him. Just… this. Missing someone you weren’t supposed to miss anymore.

You climbed back into bed, curling onto your side and pulling the oversized sleeves over your hands. It was embarrassing how much comfort one piece of clothing could still give you.

Embarrassing.

But nice.

For the first time in what felt like forever, sleep finally won.

The shrill vibration of your phone dragged you back into consciousness. You groaned, burying your face deeper into the pillow before reaching blindly across the mattress. Your fingers found cold metal. Without opening your eyes you swiped and lifted the phone to your ear. “…Hello?” Silence.

Then a quiet exhale.

“…Hello?”

Your eyes snapped open. Your heart stopped.

That voice.

You sat upright so fast the blankets tangled around your legs. For a second you genuinely wondered if you were still dreaming.

“…Toru?”

The line stayed quiet. Not awkward—careful. Like neither of you wanted to be the first to break whatever fragile thing still existed between you.

“…Hi.” His voice was softer than you remembered. Almost hesitant. “I… uh…” He let out a tiny, nervous laugh that sounded nothing like the confident man you had spent six years loving. “Did I wake you, sweets?”

The nickname hit harder than it had any right to.

Nine months. Nine months without hearing him call you that. Nine months spent convincing yourself you had forgotten the way it sounded.

Apparently you hadn’t forgotten a thing.

A lump rose in your throat so suddenly you almost couldn’t speak.

“…Yeah,” you admitted with a sleepy, shaky laugh. “You did.”

Another silence settled. Neither of you rushed to fill it. Neither of you wanted to ruin the simple fact that, after nine months, you were finally talking again.

“Sorry about that,” he said quietly. “You’ve always been a shitty sleeper. I should’ve waited until later.”

“No… it’s fine.” You interrupted a little too quickly. Your heart squeezed at the fact that he still remembered something so small.

Out of everything—out of the arguments and the tears and the silence that followed—he still remembered that you couldn’t sleep through the night.

It shouldn’t have meant as much as it did.

“How’ve you been?” he asked eventually. Such a simple question. One that should have had an easy answer.

“I’ve been…” Your eyes drifted around the half-unpacked apartment, then down to the oversized hoodie wrapped around you. “…Okay.”

It wasn’t exactly a lie. You got up every morning. Went to work. Paid bills. Existing. You had just forgotten what it felt like to actually live.

“What about you?”

The silence that followed lasted long enough for your stomach to knot.

“…Same, to be honest.” His voice was still unmistakably Satoru’s. Just quieter. Like someone had stolen the light from it. “Work’s been keeping me distra—” He stopped himself. A small, almost humourless laugh escaped him. “…Busy.” Distracted. He had been about to say distracted.

“…Oh.”

It felt ridiculous. You had spent six years with this man. You had known every version of him—from the unbearably cocky idiot who stole food off your plate just to annoy you, to the exhausted sorcerer who came home after missions pretending he wasn’t falling apart. Nine months apart had somehow turned the two of you into strangers, and that hurt almost as much as losing him in the first place.

You swallowed, suddenly very aware of how quiet the call had become. Your eyes drifted to the sleeve bunched around your hand.

“…Um. I know I already mentioned it, but… do you actually want your hoodie back?” The question sounded casual enough. You hoped. Because the truth was you didn’t want him to take it. Sleeping in it last night had been the first time you had managed more than a few broken hours in months. It hadn’t smelled like him anymore. It hadn’t magically fixed anything. But somehow it had been enough. There was a thoughtful hum on the other end.

“…Nah. I think you should keep it.”

“…Really?”

“Mhm. It looks better on you anyway.”

Your lips twitched. “You haven’t seen me wearing it.”

“I’ve got a pretty good imagination.”

Another pause settled between you. Not awkward. Just careful.

“I would…” He hesitated. You waited. “…I would like to see you though. I mean… if that’s something you’d want.” Your heart skipped.

“I don’t know,” he continued, sounding almost embarrassed. “I just… I don’t really want our first conversation in nine months to end over a hoodie.” A quiet breath. “I figured there was probably another reason you called.”

Heat crept into your cheeks. You stared down at the duvet.

“…Maybe.”

“You don’t have to tell me.”

“I know.”

“I just… I’d like to see you.”

Every sensible part of your brain screamed at you to say no. It was too soon. Nothing had been resolved. You still had a thousand unanswered questions.

But the part of you that had spent nine months pretending it didn’t miss him already knew the answer.

“…Okay.”

He didn’t speak for a second. Almost like he hadn’t expected you to say yes. “…Okay?” he repeated quietly.

You smiled to yourself. “…Yeah.”

A soft breath of relief left him. “There’s… I know this little café.”

You frowned. “What, the one covered in ivy?”

“…Yeah.”

A laugh escaped you before you could stop it. “Oh my God…”

“What?”

“That place is still open?”

He laughed softly. “Apparently.”

“I swear we’ve been saying we’d go there since… forever.” Your voice wobbled a little.

“I remember.”

The words were simple. The silence that followed wasn’t. Because you both remembered. All the times you had walked past. All the times one of you had been too busy. Another mission. Another late shift. Another “next time.” Until there hadn’t been one.

“…Would three be okay?” he asked eventually.

You glanced at the clock. 11:54 a.m.

Three. That gave you just enough time.

“…Yeah. Three’s okay.” “I’ll see you there.”

The sentence hung between you. Neither of you corrected it. Neither of you questioned it. “I should… probably make myself look presentable,” you said, glancing around your disaster of a room. “I look awful.”

“I doubt that.”

Your heart did an annoying little flip.

“See you later, Toru.”

“Yeah.” A small pause. “…I’ll see you at three.”

The call had barely ended before you realised you were smiling.

Not the forced smile you had perfected over the last nine months. A real one. The kind that reached your eyes without permission. Your cheeks ached from it.

You were going to see him.

The excitement lasted approximately four seconds before pure panic slammed into you. 12:03 p.m.

“Oh, shit.”

You threw the duvet off and scrambled out of bed. In less than three hours you would be sitting across from the man you hadn’t seen in almost a year, and you had absolutely no idea what you were supposed to wear. You wanted to look nice without looking like you had tried too hard. You wanted him to think you looked good, but not too good. You wanted to look like yourself—except you weren’t entirely sure who that was anymore.

The next hour and a half became a war against your own perfectionism. You curled your hair, brushed it out, decided it looked awful, and curled it again. You applied eyeliner only to wipe it off because one wing sat higher than the other. You changed lipstick three times before settling on the first shade you had picked.

Eventually you admitted defeat. You weren’t going to look perfect. Nobody did. And Satoru had seen you looking far worse than this—crying until mascara stained your cheeks, bundled in oversized hoodies while sick, exhausted after all-night missions. If he was going to judge you now, another layer of concealer wasn’t going to change anything.

You kept it simple. Soft makeup. Loose curls. And then you found the dress.

It was hanging at the back of the wardrobe between two forgotten things. A simple white summer dress. The one you had worn on one of your first real dates, back when everything still felt effortless. He had spent the entire afternoon insisting he knew the best café in the city, only to drag you to three different places because none of them were quite right. You still remembered the way he had looked at you across the table that day—like there wasn’t another person in the world he would rather be with.

Maybe wearing it today was a terrible idea.

Maybe it was far too sentimental.

Or maybe it was a quiet reminder that before everything became complicated, before the arguments and the misunderstandings and the heartbreak, there had once been two people who loved each other enough to imagine forever.

You slipped it on.

For the first time in a very long time, the reflection staring back at you didn’t look like someone trying to move on. She looked like someone hoping there was still something worth going back to.

Then you checked the time.

2:45.

“Oh, fuck.”

You grabbed your boots, your jacket, your keys, and practically ran out the door.

The drive should have taken ten minutes. Instead every traffic light turned red the moment you approached, and every driver in front of you seemed to have forgotten how an accelerator worked. By the time you finally pulled into the small car park opposite the café, the dashboard clock read 3:05.

“…Great.”

You switched off the engine and rested both hands on the steering wheel, taking a slow breath before looking up.

Your stomach dropped. He was already there.

Satoru stood just outside the entrance, one hand tucked into the pocket of a dark coat, the other lazily scrolling through his phone. The autumn breeze lifted a few strands of his white hair. Even after nine months he somehow looked exactly the way you remembered.

Beautiful.

It almost annoyed you. How was it fair that someone could look that good without even trying?

You hadn’t realised you were staring until his head lifted. His eyes found yours through the windscreen. For a second neither of you moved.

Then his lips curved into a small smile. Not the cocky grin that usually stretched from ear to ear. Just… something warm. Something that looked suspiciously like relief.

Your heart hammered against your ribs.

“Come on,” you muttered to yourself, forcing your fingers off the steering wheel. “It’s just Satoru.”

Just Satoru.

As if those two words had ever belonged together.

You climbed out of the car, smoothing your hands down the front of your dress almost instinctively before shutting the door. The sound echoed through the quiet car park. He slipped his phone into his pocket and watched you approach.

For a brief moment you simply looked at each other. Neither of you seemed to know who was supposed to cross the last bit of distance first.

In the end, Satoru did. He closed the space between you with slow, almost hesitant steps and stopped just close enough that you could finally see him properly.

The faint shadows beneath his eyes.

The tiny crease between his brows that hadn’t been there before.

The smile he was trying very hard to make look effortless.

“…Hi.” His voice was quieter than you remembered.

You swallowed the lump in your throat and managed a smile of your own. “Hi.” God. This was awkward.

You let out a nervous laugh, dropping your gaze to your boots for a second. “I was going to apologise for being late… but I feel like blaming traffic makes me sound about eighty.” A small chuckle escaped him, and some of the tension in his shoulders eased. “I’ll let you off.”

“Oh?”

“Only because I got here twenty minutes early.”

You looked back up at him, raising an eyebrow. He rubbed the back of his neck, suddenly very interested in the pavement.

“I might’ve left a little earlier than I needed to.”

You couldn’t help smiling. Somehow the mental image of Satoru Gojo standing outside a café for twenty minutes because he was nervous made him feel… human.

“You’ve never been early for anything.”

“I know.”

Another soft laugh escaped both of you. The tension hadn’t disappeared completely, but it had eased just enough that breathing no longer felt quite so difficult.

Satoru nodded toward the entrance and held the door open. “After you.”

You smiled as you walked past him. “Trying to impress me?”

“I’m trying to make a better second first impression.”

The comment caught you off guard. You glanced back just in time to catch the small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“I don’t think that’s how first impressions work.”

“They do if you pretend hard enough.”

The warmth of the café greeted you immediately—the scent of freshly ground coffee and sweet pastries wrapping around you like a blanket. Soft conversations hummed through the room, punctuated by the occasional clink of ceramic.

You stood beside him at the counter. Before either of you could speak, the barista looked up and smiled.

“Afternoon, Mr Gojo. The usual today?”

“Yes, thank you.”

The exchange was so natural it took your brain a second to catch up. Your eyebrows knitted together as you turned to look at him.

“You have a usual?”

Satoru blinked, then let out a quiet laugh through his nose. “…Apparently.”

The barista grinned while punching the order in. “Apparently? You’re in here enough that I don’t even ask anymore. He’s been coming almost every morning for months.” Months.

He had been coming here for months.

To the café the two of you had promised to visit together.

You looked back at the menu and quietly placed your own order, deciding not to ask any questions. Something told you he wasn’t coming here just because the coffee was good.

You found a quiet booth in the corner.

Satoru slid into the seat across from you, shrugging off his coat. For a moment neither of you spoke. The silence wasn’t uncomfortable exactly—just heavy with everything that still needed saying.

He was the one who finally broke it.

“You look good,” he said quietly. Not the exaggerated, flirtatious way he used to say it. Just honest. Soft.

Your fingers curled around the edge of the table. “…Thanks. So do you.” He huffed a small laugh. “Liar. I look like I haven’t slept properly in months.” You almost said same. Instead you just smiled, small and real.

The barista brought their drinks over a minute later—his usual (something obscenely sweet, as expected) and your order. The pause that followed while you both wrapped your hands around the warm mugs felt strangely familiar. Like muscle memory. Satoru was the first to speak again.

“I listened to your voicemail,” he said, eyes on his coffee. “A few times, actually.”

Your stomach flipped. “Oh.”

“I didn’t know what to say.” He glanced up, blue eyes softer than you remembered them being in the last year of your relationship. “I kept opening a text and deleting it. Then I figured calling at a normal hour was safer than whatever I would’ve sent at two in the morning.”

You let out a quiet, embarrassed breath. “It was a really stupid voicemail.”

“It wasn’t.” He shook his head. “It was… honest. In a messy, very-you kind of way.” A tiny smile tugged at his mouth. “I’ve missed messy and very-you.” The words settled between you like something fragile.

You stared down at your drink. “I didn’t expect you to answer. Or call back. I half hoped the voicemail would just disappear into the void so I could pretend it never happened.” “I almost let it,” he admitted. “Not because I didn’t want to talk to you. Because I did. Too much. And that scared the hell out of me.”

You looked up. He was watching you carefully, like he was measuring every reaction. “I’ve spent nine months trying to convince myself that packing everything away meant I was moving on,” he continued, voice low. “It didn’t work. Clearly.” His gaze flicked briefly to the ivy-covered windows, then back to you. “Coming here every morning was… pathetic, probably. But it was the closest I could get to the version of us that still had next times.”

Your throat tightened. “I still have half my apartment in boxes.”

“I know.” A small, knowing smile. “You always did take forever to unpack.”

A soft, unexpected laugh escaped you. The tension in your shoulders eased another fraction.

For a while you just talked. Carefully at first—safe topics, light observations—but gradually the edges softened. He told you work had been relentless. You told him your new place still didn’t feel like home. Neither of you mentioned the breakup directly. Neither of you needed to. It sat between you like a third person at the table, acknowledged but not poked at.

Eventually the conversation drifted into quieter territory.

“I don’t know what this is supposed to look like,” you admitted, fingers tracing the rim of your mug. “Us. Talking again. Sitting here like the last nine months didn’t happen.”

“They did happen,” he said simply. “We can’t pretend they didn’t. But…” He hesitated, then met your eyes properly. “I don’t want the next nine months to look like the last ones. I don’t think you do either.”

You shook your head. “No.”

Satoru exhaled slowly, like he’d been holding that breath for a long time. “So maybe we don’t try to jump back into everything at once. Maybe we just… see each other. Properly. No pressure. No expectations. Just dates. A few of them. And we figure out if there’s still something worth rebuilding.”

Your heart was beating too fast. “Dates.”

“Dates,” he repeated, a faint, almost shy smile appearing. “The kind where I actually show up on time and don’t cancel for a mission. The kind where we finally try the food here instead of just talking about it for years.” He tilted his head. “If you want that.”

You looked at him—really looked. At the tiredness around his eyes, the careful way he was holding himself, the hope he was trying not to show too clearly.

“…Okay,” you said quietly. “A few dates. See what happens.”

The smile that spread across his face was small, but it reached his eyes. “Okay.”

Neither of you rushed to leave after that. You stayed until your drinks went cold, talking about nothing important and everything that mattered. When you finally stood, the afternoon light had shifted warmer through the windows.

Outside, the autumn air was crisp. Satoru walked you to your car, hands in his coat pockets, matching your slower pace without comment.

At the driver’s side door you both hesitated.

“Text me when you get home?” he asked.

You nodded. “Yeah.”

“And… thanks for showing up today.” His voice was quieter again. “I wasn’t sure you would.”

“I wasn’t sure either,” you admitted. Then, softer: “I’m glad I did.”

He smiled one more time—warm, real—and stepped back so you could open the door. You watched him in the rearview mirror as you pulled out of the car park. He stayed standing there until you turned the corner.

The second you were alone on the road, the smile you’d been holding back broke free. You gripped the steering wheel and let out a shaky, disbelieving laugh. Your chest felt light for the first time in months. Not fixed. Not magically healed. But lighter. Hopeful in a way that almost hurt.

You were the happiest you’d felt in ages.

The next two months unfolded in pieces.

A late-afternoon walk through a quiet park where the leaves were only just starting to turn, both of you pretending not to notice when your hands brushed and neither of you pulled away.

A second visit to the ivy-covered café, this time sharing a slice of cake that was far too sweet, Satoru stealing the last bite with zero remorse while you pretended to be outraged. A rainy evening where he showed up at your door with takeaway and a sheepish, “I was in the area,” even though you both knew he lived on the other side of the city. You ate on the floor among the still-unpacked boxes, and for the first time the apartment felt a little less temporary.

A night at an arcade where he spent an embarrassing amount of money trying (and failing) to win you another keychain, only to succeed on the last try and present it to you like it was something precious. You laughed so hard your stomach hurt. He looked at you like he’d forgotten how good that sound was.

Slow, careful texts that turned into longer conversations. Voice notes sent at stupid hours.

The gradual return of old nicknames that no longer felt dangerous to say out loud.

He still had late nights. You still had days where the weight of the past pressed a little harder. But the difference was that now you talked about it instead of letting it fester. You were learning each other again—not the versions you used to be, but the ones who had spent nine months apart and come back softer around the edges.

By the time the calendar flipped into October, the air had turned properly cold. The trees outside your apartment were deep orange and gold. You had finally unpacked most of the boxes. The charcoal hoodie lived permanently on the back of your desk chair.

And every time your phone lit up with his name, the smile came easier.

October arrived the way it always had—quietly at first, then all at once. The air turned sharper, the leaves shifted into deep golds and burnt oranges, and the mornings carried that particular crispness you had always loved.

Satoru remembered. He always did.

The tradition had started years ago, back when October still felt endless and the two of you had nowhere important to be. Every Saturday of the month was reserved. No missions if he could help it. No excuses. Just the two of you doing something deliberately special because it was your favourite season, and he had decided a long time ago that meant it was his job to make it count.

This year, after everything, the tradition felt different. Fragile. Precious in a way it hadn’t been before.

First Saturday.

The pumpkin patch was already busy by the time you arrived, families weaving between rows of orange, children shrieking as they tried to lift pumpkins twice their size. Satoru showed up in a dark coat and a ridiculous orange beanie he’d clearly bought just for the occasion, grinning like he hadn’t spent the last nine months looking tired.

“Don’t,” you warned the second you saw it.

“Don’t what?”

“Don’t look that pleased with yourself.”

“I’m always pleased with myself.” He tugged the beanie lower. “Besides, it matches the aesthetic.”

You spent the afternoon wandering the fields, arguing over which pumpkins were worth taking home. He insisted on carrying the heaviest ones. You pretended to be annoyed when he kept placing the smaller, prettier ones in your arms instead. At one point he stopped walking entirely just to watch you, expression soft in a way that still caught you off guard.

“What?” you asked.

“Nothing.” He shook his head, smiling. “Just… missed this.”

You didn’t answer. You just bumped your shoulder into his and kept walking.

Second Saturday.

The scare maze was louder, darker, full of actors in masks and the occasional blast of fog. Satoru walked beside you with his hands in his pockets, completely unfazed, while you jumped at nearly every corner. Every time you startled he reached for you without thinking—fingers brushing your wrist, palm settling against the small of your back, once even tugging you half behind him when a particularly enthusiastic scare actor lunged too close.

“You’re not even a little scared,” you accused, heart still racing.

“Of people in rubber masks? No.” He glanced down at you, eyes warm. “Doesn’t mean I want them touching you though.”

You rolled your eyes, but you didn’t step away from the protective curve of his arm for the rest of the maze.

Third Saturday.

Movie night at his place felt the most dangerous.

Not because of anything that happened—nothing did, not really—but because stepping back into the penthouse after so long made your chest ache in complicated ways. It looked almost the same. A little emptier. A little quieter. But the couch was still soft, and Satoru had somehow acquired an unholy amount of sweets, and when he dimmed the lights and tossed you a blanket like no time had passed at all, something in you unclenched.

You fell asleep halfway through the second film, head tipped against his shoulder. You woke up later to find the credits rolling and his fingers absently tracing patterns against your arm, careful, like he was afraid of waking you properly.

Neither of you mentioned it.

Fourth Saturday.

The last Saturday of October came with a clear sky and a cold wind that already hinted at November.

Satoru picked you up just after sunset. The playlist started the moment you closed the passenger door—the same chaotic, sentimental mix the two of you had made years ago when you first started dating. Half the songs were embarrassing. The other half still made your stomach flip.

You drove through the city with the windows cracked, singing badly and laughing harder. He took the long way on purpose, weaving through quieter streets until the lights thinned and the road climbed toward the lookout point you’d always loved. The city spread out below in glittering gold and white when he finally parked.

For a long time you just sat on the hood of the car, shoulders brushing, sharing the last of a thermos of hot chocolate that had gone lukewarm. You talked about nothing and everything—old stories, new ones, the way the year had felt both endless and too short. At some point the singing started again, off-key and shameless, until you were both laughing so hard your sides hurt.

The cold eventually drove you back into the car. The drive home was quieter, softer. When he pulled up outside your building neither of you moved to get out right away.

“I had a really good October,” you said eventually.

Satoru looked at you for a long second, something warm and unguarded in his expression.

“Yeah. Me too.”

He walked you up to your door the way he always used to. You expected a lingering goodbye, maybe a careful hug. Instead, the second the door clicked shut behind you, the careful distance the last two months had been built on finally cracked.

It started with a kiss that felt inevitable—slow at first, then deeper, hungrier, months of restraint unravelling all at once. Your back hit the wall of the entryway. His hands found your waist, then your hips, then the backs of your thighs as he lifted you like you weighed nothing. You wrapped your legs around him without thinking, fingers already sliding into his hair. “Been wanting to do this for weeks,” he muttered against your mouth, voice rough. “Every single Saturday. You have no idea.”

“Then stop talking,” you breathed, and he laughed once, low and dark, before claiming your mouth again.

Clothes became an afterthought. Your jacket hit the floor. His coat followed. He carried you the short distance to the couch because the bedroom felt too far, too deliberate. You ended up straddling him, dress pushed up around your hips, his hands greedy and reverent all at once as they slid beneath the fabric. When he finally pushed into you it was with a shared, shaky exhale—like both of you had been holding your breath for months.

It wasn’t slow. It wasn’t careful. It was the kind of desperate, slightly clumsy quickie that came from missing someone too much for too long. You clung to his shoulders, forehead pressed to his, breathing the same air while he rolled his hips up into you in deep, purposeful strokes. Every quiet sound you made seemed to urge him on. His fingers dug into your thighs hard enough to leave faint marks. Yours tangled in his hair and pulled.

“Missed you,” he rasped against your throat. “Missed this. Missed you.”

You came first, biting down on a moan against his shoulder. He followed seconds later with a broken sound, burying his face in your neck as he spilled inside you, holding you like he was afraid you might disappear again.

For a while afterward you stayed like that—still joined, breathing hard, his hands stroking slow, soothing lines up and down your back. The city hummed faintly outside the window. The playlist had long since ended.

Eventually Satoru pressed a softer kiss to the corner of your mouth, then another to your temple.

“Stay?” you asked quietly, almost without meaning to.

He smiled against your skin, small and real. “Yeah. I’ll stay.” Morning light filtered softly through the curtains of your bedroom.

You woke slowly, pleasantly sore in all the best ways, the charcoal hoodie you’d pulled on at some point during the night tangled around your frame. For a few peaceful seconds you simply lay there, replaying the night before—the lookout, the laughter, the way he’d kissed you like he’d been starving for it.

Then the smell hit you.

Chocolate. Warm sugar. Something faintly buttery.

You sat up just as the bedroom door nudged open. Satoru stepped inside carefully, balancing a tray like it was the most important mission of his life. His white hair was a mess, and he was wearing only a pair of low-slung sweatpants, but the grin on his face was pure pride.

“Morning, sweets.”

You blinked at the tray as he set it across your lap. Chocolate-chip pancakes stacked high and still steaming. Fresh strawberries. Sliced mango and kiwi. A small bowl of whipped cream. And a mug of hot chocolate topped with far too many marshmallows.

“…You made breakfast in bed?”

“I made your breakfast in bed,” he corrected, sitting on the edge of the mattress. “All your favourites. Don’t act so surprised. I pay attention.”

You stared at the spread, throat suddenly tight. “Satoru…”

He reached out and tucked a strand of hair behind your ear, thumb lingering against your cheek. For a moment the usual teasing light in his eyes softened into something quieter.

More serious.

“I’ve been thinking,” he said. “About the last two months. About October. About last night.”

His hand slid down to find yours, fingers threading together. “I don’t want to keep calling this ‘seeing where it goes.’ I already know where I want it to go.” Your heart stumbled.

“I want you to be my girlfriend again,” he said simply. “Officially. If you’ll have me.” The answer left you before you could overthink it.

“Yes.”

The smile that broke across his face was blinding. Then he was leaning in, and the tray was carefully moved aside, and suddenly you were being kissed like the word yes had undone every careful boundary the last two months had built. It started soft—grateful, almost reverent—then deepened fast, turning hot and heavy within seconds. His hands slid under the hoodie, warm against your skin. Yours tangled in his hair. He pulled you into his lap with zero effort, and for a long while the pancakes went completely ignored.

Halloween arrived on a bright, cold morning.

You woke in Satoru’s bed this time, tangled in his sheets and the faint scent of his cologne. Your favourite holiday. The thought alone made you smile before you’d even opened your eyes properly.

Unfortunately for him, that also meant you were awake at an ungodly hour.

You poked his bare shoulder. Then again. When that earned only a sleepy grumble, you leaned down and pressed a kiss to the corner of his mouth.

“Toru. Wake up.”

One blue eye cracked open. “It’s still dark.”

“It’s Halloween.”

“It’s early.” His arm snaked around your waist and dragged you back down against his chest with zero finesse. “Five more minutes. Or five hours. I’m flexible.”

“Nope.” You wriggled free, laughing when he made a wounded sound. “We’re spending the whole day together. Markets first. Then whatever else we want. Come on, up.”

He groaned theatrically but eventually sat up, hair sticking out in every direction, looking unfairly attractive for someone so offended by the concept of morning.

The markets were already lively when you arrived—orange lights strung between stalls, the smell of cinnamon and caramel apples thick in the air, children in costumes darting between adults. Satoru walked beside you with his hands in his coat pockets, watching you more than the stalls. Every time you so much as paused to look at something, he was already pulling out his wallet. “You pointed at it.”

“I was just looking—”

“You pointed. That counts. I’m buying it.”

By the time you left, your hands were full of paper bags containing far more than either of you needed: a ridiculously soft scarf, a small pumpkin-shaped candle, a bag of spiced nuts, a pair of silly Halloween socks he’d insisted were “essential.” You tried to protest. He ignored you with the smug satisfaction of a man on a mission.

Dinner was quieter. A little Italian place with low lighting and candles that flickered every time the door opened. Conversation drifted easily—work, the markets, how the year had somehow both dragged and flown by. At some point it turned softer. Future-shaped. “I keep thinking about next October already,” he admitted, swirling the wine in his glass. “And the one after that. And maybe finally taking that trip we always talked about.”

You smiled down at your plate. “Yeah. Me too.”

A comfortable silence settled for a moment before you spoke again, quieter.

“I was so stupid for ever breaking it off.”

Satoru looked up. Instead of the serious reaction you half-expected, a slow grin spread across his face.

“Yeah,” he said. “You were.”

You kicked him lightly under the table. He laughed—warm and real—and the last of the old tension that had lingered for months finally felt like it had loosened for good.

By the time you got back to the penthouse, the city was fully dressed for Halloween. Lights glowed in windows. Distant music drifted up from the streets below. You both changed into comfortable clothes, arguing half-heartedly over which horror movie to put on first. Satoru was in the middle of dumping an excessive amount of sweets onto the coffee table when his phone rang.

The change in his expression was immediate.

He answered, listened for a few seconds, then exhaled through his nose. “Yeah. Okay. I’m on my way.”

When he hung up, the apology was already in his eyes.

“I’m sorry. Something’s come up. They need me.”

Disappointment flickered through you, sharp and familiar, but you nodded. “It’s okay. I get it.” He crossed the room in two strides and cupped your face, pressing a firm kiss to your forehead. “I’ll be back by midnight. Promise. Wait up for me?”

“I’ll stay up,” you said. “Just… be careful.”

He smiled, quick and reassuring, then grabbed his coat and was gone.

You settled on the couch with a blanket and the movie still paused on the title screen, telling yourself he’d walk back through the door any minute looking sheepish and hungry for leftovers.

Midnight came and went.

You fell asleep waiting.

Morning light was already creeping across the penthouse floor when your phone rang.

You answered without looking, voice rough with sleep. “Toru—?”

“It’s Shoko.”

Something in her tone made your stomach drop before she even continued.

She explained as gently as she could. Shibuya. The chaos. The special grade who had taken over the body of Geto Suguru. The Prison Realm. Satoru had been sealed. The words reached you in fragments. You sat frozen on the edge of the couch, the blanket still wrapped around your shoulders, listening to Shoko’s calm, tired voice promise that everyone was already working on a way to get him out.

When the call ended, the silence in the penthouse felt enormous.

You cried quietly at first, then harder, curling in on yourself as the reality settled in. He had promised he’d be back by midnight. He had kissed your forehead and told you to wait up.

And now he was gone—locked away somewhere you couldn’t reach.

Eventually the tears slowed. You wiped your face with trembling hands and stared at the cold mug of hot chocolate still sitting on the coffee table from the night before.

He was the strongest.

They would get him out.

You just had to believe that.

The first day you told yourself he would be back by evening.

The second day you told yourself they just needed a little more time.

By the third day the penthouse had gone silent in a way that felt permanent.

You stopped leaving. There was no point. The city outside the floor-to-ceiling windows kept moving—trains, lights, people living ordinary lives—but none of it felt real. You existed in the spaces he had left behind: the side of the bed that still smelled faintly like him, the coffee table still scattered with uneaten Halloween sweets, the mug of hot chocolate that had long gone cold and eventually been abandoned.

Sleep came in broken fragments. Food became optional. Some days you managed a few bites of whatever Shoko left in the fridge during her quiet visits. Most days you didn’t. She came once, properly. Midway through the second week. She didn’t knock so much as let herself in with the spare key Satoru had given her years ago, finding you curled on the couch in one of his hoodies, staring at nothing.

“We’re working on it,” she said, voice low and steady. She set a paper bag of food on the counter that you both knew you wouldn’t eat. “Everyone is. Yaga, the higher-ups—hell, even the old man is losing his mind over this. We’ll get him out.”

You nodded because it was easier than speaking. Your throat felt rusted shut.

Shoko watched you for a long moment. Something in her expression flickered—pity, maybe, or recognition. She had lost people too.

“He’s the strongest,” she said eventually. “If anyone can hold on in there, it’s him.”

You wanted to believe her. You tried. But the silence of the penthouse pressed in from every side, and all you could think about was the way he had kissed your forehead and promised he’d be back by midnight.

Days blurred. You stopped checking the date. The city lights rose and fell beyond the glass. Sometimes you woke up reaching for him. Sometimes you woke up and forgot, just for a second, that he wasn’t simply running late.

On the nineteenth day, you were sitting on the floor with your back against the couch, his hoodie pulled over your knees, when you heard it.

The soft metallic sound of keys in the lock.

Your heart lurched. Shoko, you thought. Another check-in. Another quiet promise. You didn’t move. You weren’t sure you had the energy to face her again.

The door opened.

Footsteps. Familiar ones.

Then—

“…Sweets?”

The voice was rough. Quiet. Unmistakable.

You froze.

For a second the world narrowed to the sound of your own pulse crashing in your ears. You turned your head slowly, almost afraid that looking would make the moment shatter.

Satoru stood in the entryway.

He looked wrecked—hair a mess, clothes torn and dirty, a dark bruise shadowing one side of his jaw—but he was there. Solid. Real. Breathing. His blue eyes found yours across the room and something in them fractured.

You made a broken sound.

Then you were moving.

You didn’t remember standing. Didn’t remember crossing the distance. One moment you were on the floor and the next you had crashed into him hard enough that he had to take a step back to keep you both upright. His arms locked around you instantly, crushing you against his chest like he was afraid you might vanish if he loosened his grip.

“It’s okay,” he rasped into your hair. “I’ve got you. I’m here. I’m right here.”

You were already crying—ugly, gasping sobs that shook your whole body. Your fists twisted in the back of his ruined shirt. He was crying too. You felt the wet heat of it against your temple, the uneven way his chest hitched under your cheek.

“I love you,” you choked out. “I love you, I love you—”

“I love you.” His voice cracked. He pulled back just enough to cup your face with trembling hands, forehead pressing hard against yours. “God, I love you. I thought about you the entire time. Every second. You were the only thing that kept me sane in there.”

You kissed him then—salty and desperate and imperfect. He kissed you back like a man starving, like he needed the proof of you under his mouth to believe he was really free. The entryway blurred. At some point your backs hit the wall. At some point his hands slid under the hoodie you were wearing, palms spreading wide over your bare skin like he needed to map every inch of you to make sure you were real.

Neither of you spoke as he guided you toward the bedroom. There was no rush this time. No frantic urgency. Just the slow, deliberate need to be as close as two people could get. He undressed you carefully, pressing open-mouthed kisses to every newly exposed inch of skin—your collarbone, the inside of your wrist, the soft space just below your navel. You did the same for him, fingers tracing the new bruises and the familiar lines of his body like you were relearning him. When he laid you down on the bed the sheets were cool against your back, but his body covering yours was warm. Solid. Alive.

He entered you slowly, forehead pressed to yours, both of you shaking. The stretch was sweet and overwhelming after so many days of emptiness. You clung to his shoulders as he began to move—deep, measured rolls of his hips that seemed designed to remind you that he was here, that this was real, that the nightmare had an ending.

“I love you,” he whispered against your mouth, over and over, like a prayer. “I love you. I love you.”

You answered every time, voice breaking, legs wrapped tight around his waist to keep him as deep as possible. Tears slipped from the corners of your eyes into your hair. He kissed them away. His hand found yours and pinned it gently to the mattress, fingers interlaced so tightly it almost hurt.

The pleasure built like a tide—slow, inevitable, devastating. When you came it was with a quiet, shattered cry, pulsing around him as he followed with a low groan, burying himself to the hilt and holding there like he never wanted to leave again.

Afterward he didn’t pull away. He simply rolled you both onto your sides, still joined, and gathered you against his chest. His heartbeat thudded strong and steady under your ear. One hand stroked slowly through your hair. The other rested low on your back, anchoring you.

Neither of you spoke for a long time.

There was nothing left that needed saying.

He was home.

The first week after Satoru came home passed in a soft, private haze.

Neither of you left the penthouse. There was no need. The world outside could wait. You existed in a closed loop of each other—sleeping tangled together, talking until your voices went hoarse, touching constantly like you were both still proving the other was real. On the second morning you found him in the kitchen attempting pancakes again. You leaned against the counter in one of his shirts, watching him frown at the pan.

“You’re going to burn them,” you said.

“I am a master of culinary arts,” he replied without looking up. “Have some faith.”

“You set the smoke alarm off last time.”

“That was a fluke.” He flipped one with unnecessary flair, then glanced over his shoulder at you, eyes soft. “Come here.”

You went. He wrapped an arm around your waist and pulled you against his side, pressing a kiss to your temple while the pancakes sizzled.

“I still can’t believe you’re actually here,” you murmured.

“I know.” His voice dropped. “Every time I wake up and you’re still next to me I have to check I’m not dreaming.”

You tilted your face up. “You’re not.”

He kissed you slowly, tasting of coffee and something sweeter. When he pulled back he rested his forehead against yours.

“I love you,” he said, simple and certain.

“I love you too.”

The days blurred in the best way. You talked about everything—stupid things, heavy things, things you’d both avoided for months. One afternoon you were curled on the couch under a blanket when he suddenly said,

“I hated every second in that box. But the worst part wasn’t the dark or the quiet. It was not knowing if you were okay. I kept thinking… what if you thought I left you again?”

You tightened your arms around him. “I was a mess. But I never once thought you’d left me on purpose. I just… needed you to come back.”

He was quiet for a long moment. Then, softer: “I’m not going anywhere. Not again. Not if I can help it.”

You believed him.

By the end of the week the penthouse felt like home again. Your clothes had migrated into his closet. His hoodies had migrated onto your body. You fell asleep every night to the sound of his heartbeat and woke up to him already watching you, like he still couldn’t get enough of the sight.

On the morning of the eighth day you woke to an empty bed and a folded note on his pillow.

You sat up, blinking, and unfolded it.

Morning, sweets.

Get dressed in what’s in the box on the chair. Be ready by 1. A driver will pick you up. Trust me.

I love you.

— S

You looked over. On the armchair sat a sleek white box tied with a pale ribbon. Inside was a long, off-the-shoulder white dress—soft, elegant, the fabric light enough to move with you. Strapless, with a gentle flow that would brush your ankles. Simple. Beautiful. Exactly your taste.

You smiled to yourself, already excited. Satoru had always been good at surprises, but after everything this felt especially sweet. You didn’t overthink it. You just got ready. The next hour and a half became a quiet, happy ritual. You showered slowly, using the expensive body wash he kept stocked for you. You dried your hair carefully, then styled it in soft waves that fell over your bare shoulders. Makeup stayed light—just enough to make your eyes brighter, your lips soft and tinted. When you finally slipped the dress on it fit perfectly, the fabric cool against your skin. You turned in front of the mirror, watching the way it moved, and felt a little flutter of nerves and anticipation.

By the time the driver buzzed up at exactly one o’clock you were ready, clutching a small bag and trying not to grin too hard.

The drive was quiet. The city slid past the windows in soft afternoon light. Eventually the car turned into a private road that climbed gently upward, away from the denser streets, until it stopped at a secluded elevated terrace tucked into the western hills—one of those rare spots in Tokyo where the entire skyline stretched out below in sharp, glittering detail, framed by trees just starting to turn. A low stone wall lined the edge. The air was clear and cool. You stepped out, thanking the driver, and walked slowly toward Satoru who was looking at the view, your white dress catching the light.

“Wow,” you breathed, resting your hands on the stone. “Okay, this is… actually perfect. How did you even find this place?” Silence.

You frowned slightly, glancing around. A tiny movement near the edge of the trees caught your eye.

“Oh— I think I just saw a cat—”

You turned.

Satoru was already on one knee.

The world narrowed to the sight of him—white hair slightly wind-tousled, eyes impossibly blue, a small velvet box open in his hand. The same ring from all those months ago. The one engraved with forever.

Your hands flew to your mouth.

“I had a whole speech,” he said, voice a little rough. “I practised it. Then I got here and looked at you in that dress and every word left my head.” He swallowed. “So I’m just going to say it. I love you. I’ve loved you for years. I bought this ring a long time ago and then I almost lost the chance to give it to you. I’m not making that mistake again. Marry me. Please. Be my wife.”

You were already crying.

Then you were nodding so hard it was a miracle you didn’t fall over.

Then you were jumping in place, laughing and sobbing at the same time.

“Yes— yes, yes, yes, a million times yes—”

He barely had time to stand before you launched yourself at him. He caught you with a breathless laugh, arms locking tight around your waist as he spun you once, the white dress flaring. When he set you down he slid the ring onto your finger with slightly shaking hands, then kissed you like the answer had rewritten something fundamental inside him.

“I love you,” he murmured against your mouth. “God, I love you.”

“I love you too,” you managed between kisses. “You’re such an idiot. A perfect idiot.”

He grinned, eyes wet. “Your perfect idiot.”

You stayed on the terrace for a while, walking slowly along the stone path with your fingers linked, the city glittering below. He kept lifting your hand to look at the ring like he still couldn’t believe it was finally where it belonged. You kept catching him staring at you instead of the view.

Eventually he checked the time and smiled. “Come on. I’m not done with you yet.” The restaurant was quiet, expensive, all soft lighting and private corners. You sat across from each other nursing glasses of champagne, the ring catching every flicker of candlelight.

“So,” he said, leaning forward. “Mrs. Gojo. Has a nice ring to it, doesn’t it?”

You laughed, cheeks warm. “You’re already testing it out?”

“I’ve been testing it out in my head for years.” He reached across the table and took your hand. “I mean it. I want the whole thing. The wedding. The stupidly big house you’ll make me buy. Maybe a couple of kids who’ll inherit my looks and your common sense. All of it.”

Your throat tightened. “I want that too. So much.”

He squeezed your fingers. “Then we’ll have it. No more almosts. No more packing things into boxes and pretending we’re okay without each other.”

You smiled through the fresh burn of tears. “You’re going to make me cry again in public.”

“Good. Means I’m doing it right.”

The rest of dinner passed in a warm blur of conversation and quiet laughter and the constant, grounding weight of the ring on your finger. When you finally stepped back into the penthouse that night the city lights spilled across the floor, and the air between you felt charged in a brand-new way.

Satoru closed the door, then turned to face you fully. He reached out and brushed his knuckles gently down your arm.

“Move back in,” he said. Not a question, not really. Soft. Certain. “Properly. Today. Tomorrow. Whenever you want. I don’t want you going back to that half-empty apartment. I want you here. With me. Every day.” You didn’t even hesitate.

“Yes.”

The word was barely out before he was on you.

The kiss was immediate and hungry, nothing like the careful ones from the first week. He backed you against the wall of the entryway, one hand braced beside your head, the other already sliding down to gather the white fabric of the dress in his fist. You arched into him with a soft sound, fingers threading into his hair as his mouth moved hot and open against yours.

“Been thinking about this all day,” he muttered between kisses. “You in this dress. Saying yes. Mine.”

“Then stop talking and show me,” you breathed.

He growled low in his throat and lifted you clean off the floor. Your legs wrapped around his waist on instinct as he carried you toward the bedroom, mouth never leaving yours for long. The dress was shoved up around your hips by the time he laid you down on the bed. He pulled back just long enough to look at you—flushed, ring glinting on your finger, white fabric pooled around your waist—and the expression on his face was almost reverent.

“Fuck, you’re beautiful.”

Then he was kissing down your neck, across your collarbone, dragging the top of the dress down so he could close his mouth over one nipple. You gasped, back arching, hands fisting in the sheets as he sucked and licked and teased until the peak was tight and aching. He gave the other the same attention, slow and thorough, before continuing lower.

He pushed the dress the rest of the way up and off, leaving you in nothing but the ring and the damp scrap of lace between your legs. His eyes darkened. He hooked his fingers in the sides and dragged the underwear down your legs with deliberate care, then settled between your thighs like he had all the time in the world.

The first drag of his tongue through your folds dragged a broken moan out of you. He hummed in approval, hands spreading your thighs wider as he licked into you properly—slow, deep strokes that made your hips twitch. He circled your clit with the tip of his tongue, then sucked gently, then harder, alternating until your thighs were trembling around his head.

“Satoru— oh my God—”

“That’s it,” he murmured against you, voice rough. “Let me hear you.” He slid two fingers inside you while his mouth kept working, curling them just right, and the dual sensation made your vision blur. He ate you out like he was starving for it—wet, focused, relentless—until you were gasping his name and grinding against his mouth. When the orgasm hit it rolled through you in long, shuddering waves. He licked you through every second of it, only easing off when you tugged weakly at his hair.

He crawled back up your body, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand, and kissed you deep so you could taste yourself on his tongue. You felt him hard and heavy against your hip. He sat back just long enough to strip out of his clothes, then settled between your legs again, the blunt head of his cock sliding through your soaked folds.

“Look at me,” he said quietly.

You did. He pushed in slowly, inch by inch, eyes locked on yours the entire time. The stretch was perfect—full and deep and overwhelming in the best way. When he bottomed out he stayed there, forehead pressed to yours, both of you breathing hard.

“I love you,” he whispered.

“I love you,” you answered, already moving your hips, needing friction.

He started thrusting—deep, measured rolls of his hips that dragged over every sensitive place inside you. One of his hands found yours and pinned it to the mattress, fingers interlaced, the diamond of the ring pressing into his skin. The other slipped under your thigh to hitch it higher, changing the angle until every stroke made you cry out.

“Feel that?” he rasped against your mouth. “That’s me. Your fiancé. Going to spend the rest of my life buried inside you just like this.”

You moaned, clenching around him. He groaned and picked up the pace, the wet sound of skin on skin filling the room. You wrapped your legs around his waist and met every thrust, nails dragging down his back. The pleasure built fast and hot, coiling tight in your core. He must have felt it—the way you started to flutter around him—because he reached between your bodies and rubbed tight circles over your clit in time with his hips.

“Come for me,” he ordered, voice wrecked. “Want to feel my future wife come on my cock.” The orgasm crashed through you hard. You sobbed his name as you clamped down around him, pulsing in long, intense waves. He fucked you through it, never slowing, dragging the pleasure out until it bordered on too much. Only when you were shaking and oversensitive did he let himself follow—burying himself to the hilt with a broken groan and spilling deep inside you, hips stuttering as he came.

He stayed inside you afterward, both of you panting, sweat-slick and sated. Eventually he rolled onto his back and pulled you with him so you were sprawled across his chest, still joined. His fingers traced idle patterns up and down your spine. Every so often he lifted your left hand and pressed a kiss to the ring, like he needed the reminder it was real.

“Move in tomorrow,” he murmured into your hair. “I’ll help you pack. Or we can just buy new stuff. I don’t care. I just want you here.”

You smiled against his skin, exhausted and happier than you could ever remember being.

“Okay,” you whispered. “Tomorrow.”

Outside, Tokyo glittered on. Inside, the strongest sorcerer alive held his future wife like she was the only thing in the world that mattered.

And for once, everything felt exactly right.

Wedding planning settled over the penthouse like soft morning light—warm, constant, and impossible to ignore.

You had turned the dining table into a command centre. Sample menus, fabric swatches, venue brochures, and a half-empty binder labelled Maybe?? in your handwriting covered every surface. Satoru, for his part, had appointed himself Head of Moral Support and Occasional Opinion-Giver, which mostly meant he sat beside you with his chin on your shoulder and made increasingly unhelpful suggestions.

“I’m just saying,” he said one afternoon, spinning a pen between his fingers, “we could have the ceremony on top of Tokyo Tower. Very us. Dramatic. High up. I’d look great against the skyline.”

You didn’t even look up from the seating chart you were rearranging for the third time. “We’re not getting married on top of a tourist attraction.”

“Why not? Think of the photos.”

“Think of my dress blowing over my head in the wind.”

He paused, considered it, then grinned. “Actually, that sounds—”

“Satoru.”

“I’m kidding. Mostly.” He leaned over and pressed a quick kiss to the side of your neck.

“Okay, fine. No Tower. What about that garden place you liked? The one with the koi pond.”

You finally glanced up, unable to stop the small smile. “You remembered.”

“Of course I remembered. You went all soft and sparkly when you showed me the pictures. I’m not completely useless.” He tapped the binder. “And I already called. They’re holding the date for us.”

Your chest did that warm, tight thing it had been doing a lot lately. “You’re really into this, huh?”

“I’m marrying you,” he said simply, like it was the most obvious truth in the world. “Of course I’m into it.”

Later that same evening you were both sprawled on the couch, your legs draped over his lap, talking about the future the way people did when it finally felt allowed.

“What about kids?” you asked, tracing idle patterns on the back of his hand. “Do you still want them?”

“Yeah.” No hesitation. “A couple, at least. Maybe three if you’re up for it. I want the whole chaotic house situation. Tiny shoes by the door. Someone calling me Dad at full volume at six in the morning.”

You laughed. “You’re going to be so soft with them.”

“I’m going to be the best,” he corrected, utterly serious. “Spoil them rotten. Teach them how to use cursed energy properly. Let them win at board games until they’re old enough to realise I’m letting them.” He glanced at you, eyes warm. “What about names? Any ideas yet?”

You hummed, thinking. “I like softer ones. Nothing too flashy. Maybe… Haru for a boy? Or

Ren. For a girl… Aoi? Or Yuki.”

Satoru repeated the names under his breath, testing them. “Yuki Gojo. That’s cute. Little white-haired menace running around.” He smirked. “Obviously they’re going to get my hair. Poor kids.”

“Your ego is unreal.”

“It’s not ego if it’s true.” He caught your hand and laced your fingers together. “Whatever the names are, they’re going to be so loved. And they’re going to know their parents actually like each other. That’s important.”

You squeezed his hand. “Yeah. It is.”

Two days later Satoru came home with a cardboard carrier and a look of barely contained smugness.

You were in the kitchen making tea when he set the carrier on the counter and opened the little door. A tiny white kitten stumbled out, blinked enormous blue eyes at the world, and immediately tried to climb his sleeve.

You stared.

“Satoru.”

“Before you say anything,” he said quickly, scooping the kitten up with careful hands, “I was walking past the shelter and this one looked at me. And I thought about how you turned around right before I proposed because you thought you saw a cat. And then I thought… destiny. Or something.”

The kitten—fluffy, pure white, with the brightest blue eyes you had ever seen—let out a soft mewl and batted at a strand of his hair.

You covered your mouth, already laughing. “Oh my God. It looks exactly like you.” “I know.” He held the kitten up beside his face, deadpan. “Genetics are strong even across species.”

“Your ego is showing again.”

“Can you blame me? Look at us.” He stepped closer and gently deposited the kitten into your arms. It immediately curled against your chest and started purring like a tiny engine.

“See? Even the cat knows you’re the soft one.”

You scratched under its chin, completely gone already. “What’s its name?”

“Thought we could decide together. But I’m voting for something cool. Like… Satoru Junior.”

“Absolutely not.”

“Mini Me.” “Worse.”

He grinned, watching you melt as the kitten nuzzled under your jaw. “Fine. You can name it.

But I’m telling everyone it takes after me.”

You rolled your eyes, but you were smiling so hard your cheeks hurt. “You’re ridiculous. And

I love you. And we’re keeping the cat.”

“Obviously.”

The kitten—eventually named Mochi, despite Satoru’s continued campaign for “Satoru Junior”—settled into the penthouse like it had always belonged there. It slept on Satoru’s head. It attacked your wedding binder. It became the third, fluffiest member of the household, and every time you caught Satoru baby-talking it when he thought you weren’t listening, your heart felt too big for your chest.

A little over a week later, something shifted.

You were standing in the bathroom one morning, toothbrush in hand, when the realisation landed with quiet, terrifying clarity.

Your period was late.

Not a little late. Late enough that the calendar on your phone had started to feel like an accusation. You stared at your reflection, heart suddenly racing, and did the mental maths twice. Then a third time.

You bought a test that same afternoon under the cover of “running errands.” The two pink lines appeared so quickly it almost felt rude.

Pregnant.

You sat on the closed lid of the toilet for a long time, one hand resting over your still-flat stomach, eyes wet and smiling so hard it hurt. Happy didn’t even begin to cover it. You were going to have a baby. Satoru’s baby. The future you had only talked about in soft, hypothetical voices was suddenly real and growing inside you.

You decided almost immediately that you wanted to tell him in a special way.

The next morning you slipped out while he was still asleep, Mochi curled on his chest like a tiny white scarf. You came home with a paper bag full of carefully chosen things: a pair of impossibly small white baby shoes, a mug that said World’s Best Dad in stupidly cheerful letters, a soft yellow onesie, and a little card you planned to write later. You hid everything in the back of your side of the closet, heart thudding with secret delight every time you walked past it.

For the rest of the week you floated. You caught yourself smiling at nothing. You let Satoru pull you into random hugs and kisses without protest. You listened to him talk about venue lighting and cake flavours and nodded along, all while the secret glowed warm and bright under your ribs. Keeping it to yourself for a few more days felt almost sacred—like you were holding the best surprise of both your lives just long enough to wrap it properly.

The morning it happened started like any other.

You were still half-asleep, tangled in the sheets, when Satoru’s phone rang on the nightstand. He answered it with a sleepy grunt that turned into sharp focus within seconds.

You drifted in and out, catching only fragments through the haze.

“…Now? …How many? …Yeah. Okay. I’m on my way.”

The mattress dipped as he stood. You heard him moving around the room—pulling on clothes, the quiet clink of his keys. Then the bed sank again and his hand brushed your hair back from your face.

You blinked up at him blearily. He was already dressed, expression tight in a way that didn’t match the soft way he was looking at you.

“Hey,” he murmured, leaning down to kiss you—slow and lingering, like he was trying to memorise it. “Get your beauty rest. I’ll be careful.” Another kiss, this one to your forehead.

“Love you.”

“Love you too,” you mumbled, already sliding back toward sleep. “Be safe.”

“Always.”

You heard his footsteps fade down the hallway. The front door opened, then closed. The penthouse settled into quiet again, broken only by the soft sound of Mochi jumping up onto the bed and curling into the warm space Satoru had left behind.

You drifted off with one hand resting over your stomach, still smiling.

You slept most of the day.

It was the deep, heavy kind of sleep that only came when your body finally decided it was safe enough to let go. When you woke, the light in the penthouse had shifted to late afternoon gold, and your stomach was growling loud enough to offend Mochi, who was curled in a perfect white loaf on Satoru’s pillow.

“Rude,” you told the kitten, voice still rough with sleep. “You’re judged.”

Mochi blinked slow blue eyes at you and yawned, showing a flash of tiny teeth.

You dragged yourself out of bed, pulled one of Satoru’s hoodies over your head, and padded into the kitchen. The apartment felt quiet in a peaceful way. You made yourself a simple bowl of rice and miso, then scrambled two eggs the way he always did—soft, a little too much butter. You ate standing at the counter, staring out at the city, one hand resting absently over your stomach.

Still flat. Still secret.

After you finished, you filled Mochi’s little ceramic bowl with the expensive wet food Satoru insisted on buying and watched the kitten scramble down from the bedroom to attack it like it had been starving for days. You sat on the floor beside the bowl and dragged a feather toy across the hardwood. Mochi’s entire body wiggled before he pounced, missing spectacularly and sliding half a metre on his own momentum. You laughed—really laughed—and did it again.

“Your dad’s going to be so smug when he sees you failing at basic hunting,” you told him. “He’s going to say it’s because you inherited my coordination instead of his.” Mochi answered by attacking your hand.

You spent a long time on the floor like that, letting the kitten climb over your legs and bat at the strings of the hoodie. Eventually he got tired and flopped against your thigh, purring hard enough that you could feel the vibration through the fabric. You stroked his soft white fur and felt the secret glow warm under your ribs again.

Later, you pulled the hidden bag out of the closet and spread everything across the bed. The tiny white shoes looked almost unreal in the centre of your palm. The yellow onesie. The mug with World’s Best Dad printed in cheerful blue letters. You lined them up carefully inside a small wooden box you’d bought for the occasion, then sat cross-legged with a blank card and a pen.

Writing it took longer than you expected.

You kept stopping to smile, or to press a hand to your mouth, or to reread the lines and tear up all over again. In the end the card simply said:

Surprise.

You’re going to be a dad.

I love you. We love you.

— Your girls (or boys. Or one of each. I’m not ruling anything out yet.)

You tucked the card on top of the little shoes, closed the box, and hid it again in the closet like it was treasure. The whole time your face hurt from smiling.

By evening you had cleaned the kitchen, folded a load of laundry that included three of Satoru’s hoodies, and fed Mochi again. You were curled on the couch with the kitten on your chest and a mindless show playing when your phone rang.

Shoko’s name lit up the screen.

Your heart slammed once, hard.

Then you forced yourself to breathe. It was fine. He probably forgot to tell you he’d be late. Or he needed you to bring him a change of clothes. Or Shoko was just checking in because she was nosy.

You answered with a small smile already forming. “Hey, Shoko. What’s up?” Her voice was carefully level.

“I need you to come to Jujutsu High. Right now.”

The smile disappeared. “Is everything okay?”

“Just get here.”

You didn’t remember hanging up. You didn’t remember grabbing your keys or shoving your feet into the first pair of shoes you found. You only remembered the cold air hitting your face as you ran out of the building in an oversized hoodie and sweatpants, hair still a mess from sleeping, heart climbing into your throat.

The drive passed in a blur of red lights you barely stopped for and a single thought that looped until it lost meaning: He’s fine. He’s the strongest. He’s fine.

You abandoned the car at an angle and ran.

The second you stepped into the familiar grounds people turned to look at you. Someone tried to speak. You didn’t hear them.

“Where is he?” Your voice already cracked. “Where’s Satoru— please, where is he?” No one answered fast enough. You pushed past them, half-running, half-stumbling toward the medical building, vision tunnelling. Shoko appeared in the hallway and the expression on her face made the floor tilt.

“No,” you whispered. Then louder. “No— no, don’t look at me like that—” She reached for you. You shook her off and shoved through the door.

The room was too quiet.

Satoru lay on the table with clean white bandages wrapped thick around the centre of his body. His eyes were closed. His chest was still. Someone had tried to smooth his hair back, but a few white strands still fell across his forehead the way they always did when he slept.

You stopped breathing.

Then the sound that left you didn’t sound human.

Your knees hit the floor hard enough to bruise. The sob tore out of your chest so violently it hurt. You crawled the last few steps and clutched at the edge of the table, at his hand, at the bandages, at anything that still felt like him.

“No— no, no, no, please— Satoru, wake up— you promised— you said you’d be careful—” People tried to pull you back. You fought them. Your voice broke into raw, gasping screams that scraped your throat bloody. You couldn’t get enough air. The room spun. Someone was saying your name over and over but it didn’t matter. Nothing mattered except the terrible stillness of the man who had kissed your forehead that morning and told you to get your beauty rest.

Hours blurred.

At some point your voice gave out completely. At some point the fight drained from your body and you simply folded over his hand, forehead pressed to his knuckles, shaking with silent, endless sobs. Shoko stayed. She didn’t try to make you leave. She only waited until the worst of the storm had passed and then gently, carefully, pressed a folded piece of paper into your shaking fingers.

“He left this with me,” she said quietly. “Just in case. He made me promise.”

Your hands trembled so badly you almost tore it. The handwriting was unmistakably his—a little messy, a little rushed.

Sweets,

If you’re reading this, then I didn’t make it back like I promised. I’m so sorry. I need you to know that the last thing I thought about was you. Not the fight. Not the pain. You.

Also— congratulations.

You can’t keep a secret like pregnancy away from me. Six Eyes, remember? I felt the shift in your energy weeks ago. I’ve been waiting for you to tell me. I’ve been looking at the calendar and smiling like an idiot every time I thought about it. I’ve already started arguing with myself over names. I wanted to hear you say it out loud. I wanted to put my hands on your stomach and feel our baby move someday. I wanted to be there.

I’m so angry that I won’t get to see you round and glowing and annoyed at me for hovering. I’m furious that I won’t get to hold our child. But more than anything I’m grateful. Grateful I got to love you. Grateful you said yes. Grateful for every ordinary morning and every stupid argument and every time you fell asleep on my chest.

Please don’t let this break you. You’re allowed to cry. You’re allowed to hate me for a while for leaving. But then I need you to live. Raise our baby with the same stubborn heart that made me fall in love with you. Tell them their dad was insufferable and brilliant and that he loved them more than cursed energy and infinity and every star in the sky.

I love you. I love you. I love you.

Take care of Mochi and the baby. And take care of yourself.

Forever,

Satoru

10 months later the penthouse was still quiet, but in a different way.

Late afternoon light spilled across the floor. A white bassinet stood near the window. Mochi—now half-grown and still blindingly white—lay curled protectively at the foot of it like a tiny guardian. And in your arms, wrapped in a soft cream blanket, was a newborn with a shock of pure white hair and eyes that had already started to turn that impossible, sky-bright blue.

You sat in the same chair Satoru used to occupy, rocking gently, staring down at her face like it still didn’t feel real.

“You look just like him,” you whispered. Your voice was soft, a little rough, the way it always was when you spoke to him now. “Same ridiculous hair. Same eyes. She’s going to be so much trouble.”

The baby’s tiny fist flexed against your collarbone. Mochi lifted his head, blinked, then put it back down with a sigh.

You swallowed past the familiar ache in your throat and pressed a kiss to her forehead. “I miss you,” you said quietly into the stillness of the room. “I miss you every single day. You would’ve been the best dad. You would’ve carried her around like a trophy and taught her how to talk back before she could walk and spoiled her until she was impossible. She would’ve had you completely wrapped around her finger.” Your voice trembled, but you kept going.

“I’m doing my best. We’re okay. We’re still here. And I love you. We both do.”

Outside, Tokyo kept moving. Inside, the strongest sorcerer’s daughter slept in your arms while a white cat kept watch, and the ring on your finger caught the light like a promise that had outlived the man who gave it to you.

You closed your eyes and held her a little tighter.

Forever, he had written.

You were still learning how to carry it alone.

It had been six months since you had left. Six long months of Gojo trying to distract himself.

The penthouse stayed the same, the things you had left behind stood frozen it time. He didn’t dare move them, not because he was trying to preserve them, though he did have a slight flicker of hope that this wasn’t truly the end and you would eventually come back. No, he couldn’t move them because he physically couldn’t bring himself to do so.

Your favourite mug still sat in the cupboard, unused for way too long. Every time he took a shower he saw the half empty shampoo bottle from the brand you liked. You once complained it was too expensive, so Satoru started replacing it for you before it ran out.

It felt awfully quiet in his penthouse now, an empty environment that was once filled with love now just lie docile. He didn’t really like coming back to it. Hed started taking on more missions, staying later at jujitsu high just so that he wouldn’t have to live around your ghost.

Every morning he’d leave earlier than he had to, walking through the busy streets of Tokyo seemed to distract him before work. Hed usually stop at this little café, he tells himself its because they make there drinks extra sweet but in reality he’d remember you asking him if you could go sometime.

“yeah of course sweets, ill take ya.” he had promised, kissing you on the forehead. He never did take you, too busy with work or too tired.

He'd always meant to. Every time you brought it up he'd smile, kiss your forehead and promise, "Next week." Then another mission would come in. Another late night. Another excuse. It had become a running joke between the two of you that the café would probably shut down before he ever found the time. You'd laughed every time you said it.

Looking back...

He wasn't sure it had ever really been a joke.

He walked into the café, the little bell above the door chiming as he wiped his feet on the welcome mat. Striding up to the counter and ordering his usual, and as he pulled out his wallet getting ready to pay something fell out.

He had bent down and picked up the crumpled receipt ready to throw it in the trash when he took a closer look at it and paused. His heart started to ache, he knew that logo all too well.

A purchase he had made eight months ago, one he was so excited to make. His hands started to shake, he couldn’t stop looking at it. A purchase that he was going to promise forever with, a promise he couldn’t make in time. A diamond engagement ring he never got to show you.

He remembered walking home that day feeling lighter than he had in years, the little velvet box tucked safely inside his jacket pocket. He'd caught himself smiling at strangers on the train home, already imagining your face when he finally got down on one knee.

He'd even rehearsed it. Not in front of a mirror, Just quietly in his head. Over. And over again.

“sir… your coffee” a barista called but he didn’t want it anymore. No he felt sick, he turned and headed for the door. Only one thing on his mind.

Eight months ago, he had walked into your favourite jewellers with so much confidence. He knew exactly what you wanted, the ring size, diamond size. Everything.

He had gone through your Pinterest one night and seen the collection called “engagement”. It was the easiest part of the whole ordeal, finding what cut, style and diamond you wanted. The ring size part was the most difficult, you were always a very light sleeper so Satoru had to sneak around when measuring it, he had to try not to laugh the whole time so giddy and so pleased with himself for not ruining such a suprise.

“you must know her pretty well Mr Gojo,” the women behind the counter smiled. He had gleamed back at her “better than anyone.”

"She's lucky."

He'd smiled so effortlessly. "No..." His thumb had brushed over the display case absentmindedly. "I'm the lucky one."

At first he started laughing at the memory, it was sweet and wholesome. But soon the tears started to form. He clearly didn’t know you well enough otherwise you wouldn’t have left.

He couldn’t even manage to walk back to his apartment without tears rushing down his cheeks and even as he got to his floor they didn’t stop. He had slammed the front door hard enough for a few items to rattle. Then he started frantically searching.

He was sure he'd hidden it. Somewhere safe. Somewhere you'd never think to look. That had been the whole point.

Gojo dropped to his knees beside the bed, yanking open the first drawer of the bedside table. Phone chargers. Loose receipts. A half-empty packet of gum. Nothing.

"...Come on." The second drawer. Old batteries. Painkillers. A pair of sunglasses he'd been looking for three months ago.

Not there.

His breathing grew uneven as he stood, crossing the bedroom in hurried strides. The wardrobe. Top shelf. Winter scarves. A shoebox full of photographs.

Nothing.

He pulled everything down anyway, not caring as clothes spilled across the floor around him. "Where are you...?" The bathroom. Behind the towels. Under the sink. Medicine cabinet.

Nothing.

His pulse hammered against his ribs. Kitchen. Every cupboard. Every drawer. The cereal box. The coffee tin. The stupid cookie jar neither of you ever used.

Nothing. "...fuck"

He stopped in the middle of the apartment, chest rising and falling far too quickly. Think. Where would you not fucking look?

His eyes darted around the room before he was moving again. The bookshelf. Between novels. Inside old board game boxes. The coat closet. Every jacket pocket.

Nothing.

He swore under his breath, running both hands through his hair so hard it almost hurt. "This is ridiculous..."

He'd searched the wardrobe already. Hadn't he?

He was back there before he could stop himself, pushing hangers aside, checking every shelf a second time. Then a third. His apartment looked like it'd been turned upside down by a burglary. Clothes littered the bedroom floor. Drawers hung open. Cushions had been thrown from the sofa. Cabinet doors stood wide, forgotten. Still...

Nothing.

His shoulders sagged. Maybe he'd thrown it away. Maybe...

No.

His gaze drifted to the top of the hallway cupboard. The one above the coats. The cupboard neither of you ever opened. "..."

He dragged over a chair, climbing onto it without thinking. His fingertips brushed against an old storage box, pulling it down with a cloud of dust. Inside were old birthday cards. Christmas decorations. A camera neither of you had touched since college. And underneath it all...

A small navy velvet box. Gojo froze. His hands suddenly didn't want to work

The memory came quietly. Not the kind that announced itself with fanfare, but the sort that slipped into the silence uninvited, settling somewhere deep inside his chest before he even realised what he was remembering. It had been years ago. Back when loving each other still came easily.

The two of you had spent the entire afternoon wandering aimlessly through the city, neither of you with anywhere important to be. You'd insisted on stopping at every little shop that caught your eye, disappearing inside antique stores just to laugh at ugly porcelain cats, dragging him into bookstores despite the fact he hadn't willingly picked up a novel in years, and making him stand outside cafés while you debated whether buying another overpriced pastry was "financially responsible." It had been one of those ordinary days that felt extraordinary simply because you were together.

He remembered watching you more than anything else.

The way you laughed with your whole body, your nose scrunching every time he made some stupid joke. The way your fingers instinctively searched for his whenever you crossed a road, as though it had become second nature. The way sunlight had caught the little strands of your hair as you turned to smile at him, completely unaware that he was already looking.

That had been the moment. Not fireworks. Not some dramatic confession. Just you looking impossibly happy over something he'd already forgotten saying. And he'd thought so clearly it almost scared him, I'm going to marry her.

The thought had arrived so naturally that he hadn't questioned it. It wasn't if. It wasn't maybe. It was simply a fact. One day, you would be his wife. He'd looked down at your intertwined hands and imagined a different ring sitting on your finger.

Something silver. Simple. Elegant. You'd hate anything too flashy. He smiled to himself. You caught him. "Why are you looking at me like that?"

"Like what?"

You narrowed your eyes suspiciously. "...You're thinking."

"I'm always thinking." He smiled.

You laughed, bumping your shoulder into his. "Don't start plotting."

The rest of the afternoon blurred together after that. He barely remembered where you'd gone or what you'd bought because his mind had been too busy imagining a future he'd suddenly realised he wanted more than anything. A tiny apartment that eventually became a house. Lazy Sunday mornings. Maybe a cat because you were always trying to convince him they were less work than dogs. Growing old enough that the little lines around your eyes deepened every time you smiled.

He'd seen it all. A whole lifetime. Then you'd stopped walking. His eyes followed yours to the bridal boutique across the street. A little girl, no older than six or seven, stood pressed against the glass with her mother, pointing excitedly at one of the white dresses displayed beneath the warm lights.

You smiled without thinking. "They're so pretty..."

He hummed absentmindedly, still watching you instead of the window. "They are."

You rested your chin against his shoulder with that soft, dreamy look you'd get whenever you let yourself imagine impossible things. "I think I'd cry if someone proposed to me."

Gojo laughed. "You cry when your takeaway order's wrong."

You gasped dramatically, shoving his arm. "I do not."

"You absolutely do."

"That happened once!"

"It happened three times." You rolled your eyes, trying so hard not to smile.

"I mean it though." Your voice grew quieter this time. Softer. "Not because of the ring or anything... I just think it'd be nice."

He looked at you. Really looked at you, your eyes never left the dresses.

"I don't care if it's expensive. Or fancy. I'd honestly be happy with one of those plastic rings from a vending machine if it meant the person asking actually loved me."

His heart had never beaten so hard. He slipped his hand into yours, squeezing gently. "You deserve more than a vending machine ring."

You laughed. "I know... but that's not really the point."

"No?"

You shook your head. "I just want someone to choose me every day."

The words hadn't meant much to him back then. Not because he didn't care...

But because he'd been so certain that's exactly what he'd always do. He'd thought choosing you was something that would come naturally forever. He hadn't realised it was something you had to keep doing. Every single day. The memory dissolved as quickly as it had come, leaving Gojo staring silently at the velvet box resting in his hands.

He wished he'd held your hand more. He wished he'd cancelled the missions that could have waited. He wished he'd come home before midnight instead of promising he'd make it up to you tomorrow. He wished he'd listened instead of brushing off your fears with another easy smile and a careless, "You know I love you."

Because somewhere along the way, he'd stopped making you feel loved. Stopped making you feel chosen. Stopped making you feel secure enough to believe that forever really meant forever. He'd always assumed there would be another date. Another anniversary.

Another chance to get down on one knee and make every dream you'd whispered outside that little bridal shop come true. He'd even bought the ring. But dreams didn't wait forever. Neither did you.

And now, all he had left of the future he'd once pictured so effortlessly... was a velvet box gathering dust in his hands.

He couldn’t handle it, couldn’t handle the reality that if he had just tried a little bit more, you would’ve been wearing it. Instead, it was just sat waiting for you, just like satoru still was. He let out a shaken sigh, slowly opening the small box.

He looked at the ring, tears welling in his eyes again. it would’ve looked beautiful on your delicate hand. He just stared at it for a moment. Unable to move, unable to do anything else. Its as though he whole world was crumbling again just like the day you left.

Then he saw the engravement on the lid of the box, that was the final straw really. It wasn’t I love you or both your names no it was a simple “forever” he closed the lid.

He couldn’t keep living like this, living like you were going to come back any day now. Not touching your stuff “just in case”. So he done what he should’ve all them months ago.

He grabbed a spare box he had it the coat cupboard and started packing. Taking all the stuff you left behind and shutting it away for good. Your favourite mug, the shampoo, the old photos, the hoodie of his that he refused to wash because it smelt of you. Everything and anything that lead to you he packed away. And lastly the engagement ring, he paused before doing so.

A flash of what could’ve been showing in his mind. You in a wedding dress walking down the aisle. You moving into a bigger house after having your first child. Growing old together. All things he would never have with the only girl hes loved.

He took a deep breath and places the velvet box in the larger one. A muttered “I love you” falling from his lips and then he closed the lid. Writing a quick ‘us’ on the front. He carried the box back to the hallway cupboard, setting it carefully onto the highest shelf.

His hand lingered on the door for a moment. Then...

Click.

The cupboard closed and this time...

He didn't open it again.