#sugucvnt

Your thighs trembled on either side of his head, muscles jumping every time he sucked the sensitive bud between his lips. You stared down at him through heavy lashes, cheeks flaming, whole body buzzing from too much cheap liquor and the impossible heat of his mouth. This was easily the drunkest you’d been in months; words kept slipping out slurred and broken.

Every pull of his lips drew another soft, hiccuping sob from your chest. You couldn’t stop them. Didn’t really want to.

After a few minutes, he slid lower, tongue pressing flat and hot against your entrance before pushing inside, thick, insistent, curling just enough to make your walls flutter. You gushed around him instantly, slick coating his chin, and he chuckled darkly into you.

“Oh, fuck yeah,” he growled, voice muffled and rough. He pulled back just enough to watch his fingers take over, long, pale digits sliding through your folds, middle finger rubbing slow, firm circles over your swollen clit while he admired the mess you were making. “Look at you. Dripping for me.”

He lined those same two fingers up with your entrance, pressing just the fingertips there, enough pressure to tease, not enough to breach. Your whole body tensed instinctively; shoulders hunching, breath catching.

“O-Oh, actually, no fingers please,” you whimpered, squirming under him, thighs twitching like you couldn’t decide whether to close or open wider.

He lifted his head, blue eyes glinting in the low light, lips glossy and smug. He studied your flushed face for a beat, wide eyes, parted lips, the way your chest rose and fell too fast, and clearly clocked the difference between real fear and shy, overwhelmed want.

“Yeah?” he said with a low chuckle, sounding amused and fond at the same time. “You’re a grown woman, you can take some fingers.”

He didn’t push in. Instead, he kept the tips right there, circling your slick entrance in lazy, feather-light strokes, teasing, never forcing. The more your eyes widened, and your bottom lip trembled, the wider his grin got.

He laughed softly, breath hot against your thigh. “Fuck, you look so scared. It’s cute.” His voice dropped lower, almost coaxing. “But your pussy’s clenching every time I get close. You’re dying for it, aren’t you? Just too shy to say it.”

You couldn’t form a proper sentence, too drunk, your cheeks burning so hot you thought they might glow in the dim fairy lights strung above the bed. But your hips gave you away: a tiny, helpless roll toward his hand, chasing the teasing pressure of his fingertips even as you squirmed. That small movement said everything your mouth couldn’t.

If there was ever a moment to finally lose your virginity, this hazy, reckless night felt like the one. Your last boyfriend had gotten frustrated waiting, always sighing like it was a personal insult whenever you hesitated. And now here you were, thighs spread for Satoru Gojo, a guy you’d only ever heard stories about, the kind of guy who showed up in campus gossip like he was a myth. The irony wasn’t lost on you, even through the alcohol fog.

He groaned low in approval at that little hip roll, the sound vibrating against your skin. His thumb kept up those steady, maddening circles over your clit while his two fingertips stayed right at your entrance, pressing, circling, never quite pushing in yet. “That’s it,” he murmured, voice rough and pleased. “Let me play a little longer like this. You’re so fucking wet I can hear it.”

The slick sounds were embarrassingly loud in the quiet room, every tiny shift of his fingers making an obscene little noise that had you biting your lip harder. Then his mouth returned, hot, wet suction on your clit again, tongue flicking in time with his thumb while those fingertips kept teasing your hole.

He pulled back after a long, slow pull, pressing soft, open-mouthed kisses along your inner thigh instead. The contrast made you shiver. “You gonna let me continue with what I want or?” he asked, voice lazy and teasing, breath warm against your skin.

You were too embarrassed to speak; words felt impossible, but a needy little whine slipped out anyway. After a beat, you managed a small, jerky nod, eyes squeezed shut like that would hide how badly you wanted it.

He didn’t hesitate. Slowly, agonizingly slowly, he slid his fingers inside, one inch at a time, letting you feel every bit of the stretch. Your walls fluttered and clenched around him instinctively, slick easing the way even as your breath hitched.

“If I didn’t know any better,” he teased, curling his fingers just slightly to test your reaction, “I’d say you were a virgin.”

You froze. Completely. Eyes snapping wide open, heart slamming against your ribs in sudden panic. The embarrassment hit like ice water. Your face must have given everything away because his own eyes widened too, surprise flashing across his features before it melted into something softer, almost careful.

“Oh, fuck,” he breathed, pausing with his fingers still buried halfway inside you. “You actually are?”

You nodded again, eyes still squeezed shut like admitting it out loud would make the embarrassment worse. Satoru blinked once, processing, then let out a soft huff of breath that was half laugh, half awe.

“Okay,” he murmured, mostly to himself. “Gentle. As gentle as I can be.” He said it like a promise, voice lower now, the cocky edge softened just enough to make your stomach flip differently.

He eased his fingers deeper, slow, deliberate pumps now, curling them slightly on each inward stroke so the pads brushed that spot inside you that made your thighs shake. He wasn’t slamming against your cervix; he was careful, testing, letting you adjust inch by inch. You’d touched yourself before, quick, fumbling sessions under the covers when the ache got too loud, but it had never felt like this. Never electric. Never overwhelming. His fingers were longer, thicker, warmer, and the way he watched you, blue eyes dark and focused, lips parted, made every slide feel like it lit up your nerves.

“Fuck,” he breathed, almost reverent. “Look at you taking me already. This little virgin pussy’s so tight… gripping like it doesn’t wanna let go.”

You whimpered, hips twitching up to meet him even as heat flooded your face. The slick sounds were obscene in the quiet room, every slow thrust making a wet, rhythmic noise that had you biting your lip hard enough to taste copper.

“Gonna look so good on my cock, fuck,” he growled, voice rougher now. “Shouldn’t have told me you were a virgin.” He leaned down again, mouth closing over your clit in a gentle suck, nothing too aggressive, just steady pressure and soft flicks of his tongue while his fingers kept that slow, deep rhythm.

“I’m gonna fuck you,” he promised. 

The combination hit you like a wave building too fast. Your back arched off the mattress, hands flying to his hair, fingers tangling in white strands as your whole body started to tremble. Soft, broken sobs spilled out—half pleasure, half overwhelmed begging.

“Satoru, please! Make me cum, I—I need—”

He groaned against you, the vibration sending sparks straight up your spine. His free hand slid up under your shirt, palm flat and warm on your stomach to hold you steady as you squirmed.

“Yeah?” he rasped, pulling off your clit just long enough to speak. His lips brushed the swollen bud with every word, sending little aftershocks through you. “Too bad I’m selfish.”

Before you could even process it, he slid his fingers out, slow at first, then all at once, leaving you clenching around nothing, aching and empty. The sudden loss made you whimper, hips twitching up instinctively. He didn’t give you time to settle. In one fluid motion, he shoved his jeans and boxers down his thighs, kicking them off the bed. His cock sprang free. Thick, flushed, and dark at the tip, already leaking a steady bead of precum that dripped down the underside in a slow, glistening line.

He looked at you then, really looked, like you were something he’d been starving for. Eyes dark, hungry, pupils blown wide in the low light. No gentle preamble this time; just raw want.

He wrapped a hand around the base, gave himself one slow stroke to spread the slick, then lined up with your entrance. The blunt head nudged your folds, parting them easily from how soaked you still were. Your breath hitched, fear and anticipation twisting together in your chest. You opened your mouth like you might say something, anything, but the words died when he pushed forward.

He didn’t slam in. Not quite. But he didn’t ease in inch by inch either. He sank steadily, stretching you open in one long, unrelenting glide until his hips met yours and the head of his cock pressed hard against your cervix. A deep groan tore from his throat, vibrating through his chest as he bottomed out.

Your eyes flew wide. The stretch burned, sharp and full and so much more than fingers ever could be. Your walls fluttered wildly around him, trying to adjust, trying to take all of him. It hurt, but underneath the sting was this overwhelming heat, this pressure that made your toes curl, and your breath come in short, shaky pants. You felt every ridge, every vein, the way he throbbed inside you like he was already close just from being buried to the hilt.

“Fuck,” he hissed through gritted teeth, forearms braced on either side of your head. His forehead dropped to yours for a second, white hair falling into your face. “So tight… squeezing me like a fucking vice. You okay?”

You couldn’t speak right away. Just nodded while your hands scrambled up to grip his shoulders, nails digging in. The pain was already easing, melting into something hotter, fuller. Your hips shifted experimentally, and the drag of him inside you made you gasp.

If this was what Haru got every day, this feeling, this stretch, this impossible fullness, she must’ve been insane to let him go. The thought flashed through your mind, petty and hazy and a little jealous, and it made your walls clench harder around him.

Satoru felt it. His hips jerked once on instinct, grinding deeper, and he let out a rough laugh that sounded almost pained. “Shit, do that again. Fuck yeah, just like that.”

He groaned low in his throat, the sound rough and broken as your walls fluttered and clenched around him, tight, hot, gripping like they were trying to pull him deeper with every thrust. He couldn’t hold back anymore. His hips snapped forward harder, burying himself to the hilt each time, the blunt head of his cock kissing your cervix with a dull, aching pressure that made your whole body jolt.

“Fuck, fuck,” he hissed through clenched teeth, hands clamping down on your hips to hold you exactly where he wanted you. The wet slap of skin on skin filled the room, obscene and rhythmic, mixing with the soft, slick sounds of how soaked you still were. You were making a mess and dripping down his shaft, as well as coating his stomach. Every rough thrust pushed more out of you.

He was already close. Way too close. The way you squeezed him, the way your body trembled under his, the little broken whimpers you couldn’t stop making, it was driving him insane. He leaned down, forearms braced on either side of your head, forehead almost touching yours so he could stare straight into your glassy, half-lidded eyes.

Your faces were inches apart; you could feel his ragged breath against your lips, smell the faint rum and sweat on his skin.

“Lucky ‘m not evil, baby,” he laughed, but there was no real humor in it, just strained, desperate edge. His hips kept snapping forward, aggressive and deep, no pause even as he felt how swollen and sensitive you’d gotten. Your pussy ached from the stretch, from how relentlessly he filled you, but the ache blurred into something hotter, something you chased with every helpless roll of your hips.

“Wanna make you cum too… most guys wouldn’t,” he said, softer now, almost gentle despite the way he was fucking you like he couldn’t stop. His hand slid between your bodies, fingers finding your clit, and he rubbed firm, fast circles that matched the brutal rhythm of his thrusts.

Your back arched hard off the mattress, a sharp gasp tearing from your throat. Eyes squeezed shut, mouth falling open in a silent cry as the pressure coiled tight and then snapped. You came around his cock with a shuddering sob, walls spasming, fluttering wildly, milking him in tight, rhythmic pulses that made stars burst behind your eyelids. Slick gushed around him again, soaking his hand, his hips, everything.

The sudden squeeze was too much. His rhythm stuttered, hips slamming forward one last time as he buried himself as deep as he could go. A guttural groan ripped out of him, half curse, half plea, and he came hard, spilling deep inside you in hot, pulsing spurts. His whole body trembled above you, cock twitching with every wave as he filled you up, forgetting entirely about pulling out.

For a long second, neither of you moved. Just heavy breathing, the faint thump of bass still leaking through the floor from downstairs, the sticky warmth spreading between your thighs.

He finally exhaled, shaky, and dropped his forehead to your shoulder. “Shit,” he muttered against your skin, voice wrecked. “Meant to… fuck. You okay?”

You nodded. Your legs were still loosely wrapped around him like you didn’t want him to move yet. Your body hummed with aftershocks, sore and full and strangely satisfied.

You learned from a young age how to exist quietly.

You learned it in the way your shoes scuffed softly against the pavement as you walked beside your mother, head bowed, shoulders drawn in, careful not to draw attention in a neighborhood that was never meant to be yours. You learned it in how you folded yourself small, curling into corners, shrinking inward until you barely took up space, never allowing anyone to witness you simply existing as a human being.

Silence became your default. You spoke little, even at home. Your father demanded a house that was respectable and hushed, where laughter was suspect, and joy was a provocation. If he so much as thought you were enjoying yourself, his temper flared, bottled rage spilling over, his hand always ready to remind you of the cost of being seen. Life felt shameful before you ever understood why. Your earliest memories were of your mother being pushed to the margins of the world, shunned, spat at, struck, insulted, and her dignity being treated like a joke for other people’s amusement. Those images never left you.

Eventually, you began singing to yourself for comfort. It started small; soft, barely-there melodies whispered into the dark. Nights bled into days as your tiny body curled inward, knees pulled to your chest, lullabies slipping from your lips like prayers. With every song, you wished the yelling would stop. That the pain would soften. That the world would finally go quiet.

Your mother was never far. Even in the thick of chaos, she heard you. Your voice cut through the noise. So sweet, gentle, and impossibly pure. It broke something open in her chest every time. She knew then that it was something fragile, a gift the universe bestowed upon you for comfort. For your sake, she had to preserve it.

Through it all, she was gentle with you in ways that felt almost impossible given everything the world had already taken from her. She held you as though you might shatter, spoke to you in hushed tones meant only for safety, and loved you with a devotion that asked for nothing in return. Sometimes, though, her voice would turn brittle, edged with fear rather than anger, as she warned you what not to become.

She told you never to marry the first man who showed you attention. Never sell your dignity. Never to mistake survival for love.

“You’re meant for more than this,” she would say, sobbing quietly into your tiny shoulder, as if saying it enough times might make it true.

And so began acting school. Only six years old, and already your future was being shaped desperately by hands that loved you too much to let the world decide for you.

Somehow, your mother managed to convince your father that you could become something great, if only by promising him the benefits he would reap. She showed him proof: interviews, headlines, the carefully curated success stories of child actors who’d supposedly made it out unscathed. That was what finally swayed him. At the time, it felt like a last resort, a gamble disguised as hope, a way to claw toward a future that didn’t look so bleak.

He paid for acting classes, singing lessons, and the tuition required to send you to the best arts school they could afford. You weren’t rich, but your family lived comfortably enough. Your father was a successful salaryman; he just happened to spend most of his paychecks in bars, slipping bills to women in fishnets and garter belts, coming home smelling like alcohol and someone else’s perfume.

School was never your favorite part of the day. While your peers were handed opportunities and encouragement, you walked through those doors each morning under the weight of judging eyes. Eyes that lingered too long on the purple bruises blooming along your exposed arms. On the exhaustion carved into your face, the shadows beneath your eyes, no amount of sleep could erase. You smiled anyway, forced it, perfected it, because not smiling only invited more scrutiny. No matter how tired you felt, your mother was worse. She moved through life like a woman already half-buried, her body worn thin by sacrifice, yet she bloomed despite it all. Watching her endure changed something inside you. Your practiced smiles grew a little wider. Your voice carried a little more light.

Though you were grateful for the opportunity, regret followed close behind. You wished your mother had never asked that evil man to pay for your schooling. From the moment he covered your tuition, he began breathing down your neck, his presence heavy and inescapable. He punished you if your voice wavered even slightly during lessons, if your pitch cracked, if your grades slipped by a single point. Excellence wasn’t enough. It had to be flawless, and even then, it never satisfied him.

What began as an opportunity slowly revealed itself as a curse. When you were ten, freshly graduated from your fifth year, he finally parted with a few words meant to follow you for the rest of your life.

“You will never amount to anything,” he said. “Just like your mother.”

He was supposed to pay for your sixth year at a new school. Without him, your mother couldn’t afford it. The future you’d been pushed toward vanished overnight, as easily as it had been promised. And that was the day you sobbed into Satoru’s arms for the first time.

He had never been to your house. Whenever you were together outside of school, it was always the park or his place. You preferred it that way, mostly because he lived in what felt like a miniature mansion. You loved running through the long halls, your feet slapping against cool marble as the two of you flung water at each other, laughter echoing loud enough to earn sharp looks from his mother.

He had never seen you like that before, so unguarded, so broken open. Even on the days you went to school after witnessing things no child should ever have to see, you carried a soft smile on your face. You held it carefully, kept it intact.

Just for him.

“It’s okay,” he said softly, hopeful in the way only a child could be. “I’m sure your papa will be back.”

You couldn’t speak. The lump in your throat made breathing difficult, but it wasn’t the only thing silencing you. To tell him the truth, to say that you knew your papa wasn’t coming back, would have meant explaining everything. Your situation. The shame of it. The constant bruises blooming on your mother’s face, the matching ones hidden beneath your own clothes. It would have required honesty and a level of vulnerability you weren’t ready for. You were only ten, after all.

Instead, you stayed quiet.

That day became the sweetest you could remember. He begged his mother to let you stay the night, clinging to her arm with earnest insistence. You like to think she understood then, the weight of a father leaving, for good. Perhaps even the cruelest creatures are capable of sympathy, if only in small, fleeting doses.

Most of the night was spent with Satoru doing everything he could to distract you. He baked cookies with reckless enthusiasm, flour dusting the counters and his hair, dragged out the action figures from his favorite television shows, the ones your mother had given him for his eighth birthday (and could barely afford), and insisted on reenacting entire scenes with exaggerated sound effects. When the kitchen grew quiet, he flipped on the television, sprawled across the floor like the world was light again.

Satoru’s love for television ran deep. He gravitated toward playful characters, especially the ones who spoke too loudly or laughed too much, the ones who filled every moment with noise. He learned early that he wasn’t meant for impressions or dramatic voices, no matter how hard he tried. What he was, though, was a natural performer, effortlessly funny, and magnetic in a way that drew people in without trying. Even then, it was clear he belonged in front of an audience.

His mother was buried in debt long before you ever met her, debt left behind by a husband who died when Satoru was only two. He never spoke about his father, or the absence of one, but now and then you caught glimpses of it anyway: the flicker of jealousy when other kids talked about theirs, the way he lingered a second too long when someone mentioned family traditions he’d never known.

His mother took over the struggling company after her husband’s death and rebuilt it with sheer force of will, turning it into something stronger and more profitable than it had ever been under his father’s care. Still, it was never enough. It could never be enough. She needed security, needed Satoru to become part of the solution someday, or better yet, to generate his own success entirely.

When she noticed his love for comedy and theatre, she acted immediately. She paid for his schooling without hesitation, investing in him the way one might invest in a future asset. That was how he met you.

Unlike you, Satoru was handed wider doors. Better opportunities. He had star appeal in a way that couldn’t be taught, money, confidence, and a face that felt unreal. Beautiful white hair, crystal-blue eyes on a Japanese child, no less. He was an anomaly, unmistakable and impossible to overlook. The commercials he booked leaned heavily into it, framing him as something ethereal, something rare.

Even then, it was clear the world was already reaching for him.

At twelve, you had your first kiss.

By then, the starlight had already begun to fade. Your mother could no longer afford fine arts schools or music lessons, and just like that, the future that had once felt so carefully planned slipped through your fingers. You were quietly pushed out of auditions, out of classrooms that smelled like stage makeup and hope, back into a world that demanded practicality over possibility. The industry moved on quickly. Too quickly for a child who had never been taught how to stop dreaming.

You booked one commercial that summer, right before your birthday. It was for a company that felt off in ways you didn’t yet have the language for. The set was cramped, the smiles too forced, the adults too eager. The pay was enough to keep the lights on for a little while, enough to make your mother cry with relief, but nowhere near what she’d been promised. Nowhere near enough to buy your way back in.

Meanwhile, Satoru was everywhere.

Commercial after commercial. Voice acting gigs that stacked up like proof the world wanted him. His mother’s pockets filled, his future accelerating faster than anyone could keep up with. You watched it all happen from the sidelines, never once feeling jealousy take root. Only pride. A quiet, aching kind of pride for the boy who had always been meant for something bigger.

The night of the party, his mother threw a celebration for his newest voice acting job. The house buzzed with laughter and adult voices, the clink of glasses drifting up the stairs. You stayed in his room instead, lying on the edge of his bed, staring at the ceiling.

Lately, you’d been depressed as hell.

You didn’t have a better word for it back then, just a constant heaviness that pressed down on your chest. You were tired all the time. Food tasted like nothing. Even breathing felt like an effort some days. Still, you’d come. You wanted to be there for him, even if all you could offer was your presence.

The door creaked open.

Satoru stepped inside, light spilling in behind him, before he nudged the door mostly shut. He crossed the room quietly, like he was afraid of startling you.

“Hey,” he said softly, reaching down to brush his fingers through your hair. “Mom’s cutting the cake. You want some?”

You turned your head slightly, meeting his eyes. They were gentle. Always had been.

You shook your head. “Nah,” you admitted after a pause. “I haven’t felt hungry in a while.”

Something shifted in his expression, concern settling in, deeper than before. He didn’t fully understand what was happening to you lately. He just knew you were quieter. Smaller somehow. That you laughed less and slept more and looked like you might drift away if he didn’t hold on tightly enough.

He knelt beside the bed, still tall even then, his presence grounding in a way you hadn’t realized you needed.

“Don’t be scared to talk to me,” he said, voice earnest, almost pleading. “I’m serious. I don’t care if you think you’re annoying me or whatever.” His hand came up, warm and careful as it cupped your cheek. “I… like you. I want to take care of you. You’re my best friend.”

Your heart began to race, the words sinking in slowly, painfully. He was looking at you differently, focused, intense, like you were the only thing in the room that mattered.

“Sato…” you started, your voice catching.

You didn’t get to finish.

His lips brushed against yours, tentative and soft, like he was asking permission even as he crossed the line. For a second, the world went silent. No shouting. No expectations. No fear of being left behind.

Just warmth.

You pressed into his lips harder, clumsier than you meant to, the kiss turning desperate before either of you understood why. He adjusted instinctively, tilting his head, meeting you where you were, and for a moment the world narrowed to warmth and breath and the quiet sound of your heart in your ears. Then he pulled away, slowly… reluctantly, like he’d only been promised a taste of you, like he wasn’t sure he was allowed to want more.

He rested his forehead against yours, breathing unevenly.

“Is that okay?” he asked, voice softer than you’d ever heard it.

You nodded, unable to speak yet, still suspended somewhere between fear and relief.

From that day on, your relationship deepened in quiet, stolen ways. Your kisses multiplied, behind bleachers where the air smelled like grass and metal, in the corners of empty classrooms after the bell rang for lunch, in his room with the door locked and the world held at bay. Sometimes it was just his lips against yours, slow and careful. Other times, it was your hands on his cheeks, grounding yourself in the proof that he was real, that he was choosing you.

That winter, he asked you to be his girlfriend as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.

“You don’t have to think about it,” he said, trying to play it cool and failing miserably. “I mean, unless you want to. But I already know what I want.”

You laughed through nerves, through the way your chest felt too full. You said yes without hesitation. You couldn’t imagine saying anything else.

At fifteen, you realized you loved him and the life he provided. You had so many firsts with him.

His first movie premiere, the first one he ever voice acted in, was also your first. You were fifteen, standing beside him as his plus one, surrounded by other voice actors and industry people who spoke in polished tones and practiced smiles. The lights were blinding. Cameras flashed. You wore a borrowed dress that fit just well enough, your hands shaking as you clutched his sleeve.

“You okay?” he whispered, leaning down so only you could hear.

“Yeah,” you lied softly. “I just… don’t want to embarrass you.”

He frowned. “You couldn’t.”

But you felt it anyway, the weight of the room, the way you didn’t belong. You watched him laugh with producers, watched strangers praise him like he was already something untouchable. You felt proud, achingly so, and terrified in the same breath. Like you were standing beside a rising star, already wondering how long before gravity caught up with you.

Still, those years were happy. Happier than you’d ever known. Even your mother began to look healthier, the lines in her face softening as hope crept back in. For a while, it felt like maybe things really were changing. Maybe this life, this version of you, could last.

You didn’t know what was happening beneath the surface.

Satoru’s mother had always tolerated you when you were younger. Hating a child outright would’ve looked cartoonishly cruel. But once you turned twelve, the patience evaporated. The complaints started quietly at first, offhand remarks, heavy sighs, pointed looks.

“She’s always sad,” she’d say to him. “It’s exhausting.”

“She drags the mood down.”

“She’s going to hold you back.”

She told him you were miserable and wanted the same fate for him. That your sadness was contagious. That loving you meant choosing a smaller life.

Satoru argued with her constantly.

“You don’t know her,” he’d snap late at night, voice raised, door slammed shut. “You don’t get to talk about her like that.”

“She’s a liability,” his mother would fire back. “And you are too young to see it.”

Those fights bled into your nights. You sat on his bed afterward, knees pulled to your chest, listening as he paced the room, furious and restless.

“She’s ridiculous,” he’d say bitterly.

You shook your head, throat tight. “No. She’s just… right.”

He stopped. “Don’t say that.”

“She is,” you insisted quietly. “I see it. I’m not blind, Satoru. I don’t have anything to offer you like she wants.”

He knelt in front of you then, hands gripping your knees. “You’re not dragging me down.”

“You don’t know that,” you whispered. “You’re flying, and I’m—” You swallowed. “I’m barely staying afloat.”

He shook his head hard. “I choose you. I’ve always chosen you.”

When he finally told his mother you were dating, really dating, she exploded.

“I don’t know why you insist on disobeying me!” she screamed, her voice carrying down the halls. “She is ruining your future. Either get rid of her, or you won’t hear the end of it!”

He didn’t back down.

At sixteen, he bought you a promise ring.

It was a thin, beautiful band with a princess-cut diamond that caught the light every time you moved your hand. The fact that he could afford it at all was insane. The fact that he chose to spend that money on you made your chest ache.

“I know it’s stupid,” he said, slipping it onto your finger with hands that trembled just slightly. “But I want you to know I’m serious. About us. About everything.”

You stared at it, overwhelmed, terrified, loved beyond reason.

Your heart felt like it might burst in that moment, and you knew you would have been okay with it, so long as his love still surrounded you. His eyes held yours, kindness swirling in those impossible shades of blue, steady and unwavering. When he looked at you like that, the world felt safe.

“You’re mine,” he whispered, like it was something sacred. “You’ll always be mine. I promise I’ll always be here for you, no matter what.”

He rested his forehead against yours, the room falling into stillness around you. For a moment, nothing else existed. No expectations. No futures pressing in. Just the two of you, breathing in sync, suspended in a fragile, perfect now.

That night marked another first.

It wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t reckless. He was kind and gentle with you, hands on your hips as he drove deep inside, rambling on about how he loved you so much. How you were his, forever. Long, strong hands on your soft skin,n squeezing, feeling you up, and drinking every single moan that dared to escape your lips. You carried that night with you long after it ended. It lingered in the warmth of your cheeks when you thought about it later, in the way your chest tightened whenever you remembered how carefully he’d held you, how sure he’d sounded when he spoke about forever. Even years later, the memory remained gentle.

--

You never could have predicted what came next.

A week passed with no word from Satoru. Not just missing school, missing you. No texts. No half-asleep calls. No rambling voice notes sent too late at night. The two of you spoke every single day, even when he was busy, even when he was exhausted, even when he’d barely slept. Silence like this wasn’t just unusual. It was wrong.

By the eighth day, the worry had eaten through you completely.

You told yourself there had to be a reason. A shoot running late. A phone was taken away. Something temporary. But your chest wouldn’t loosen, and your hands wouldn’t stop shaking as you walked to his house after school, rehearsing explanations you didn’t believe in.

You saw the moving truck before you saw anything else.

A large van sat parked in front of the house, its back doors open wide. Furniture lined the driveway, couches wrapped in plastic, boxes stacked and labeled, pieces of a life being dismantled in broad daylight. Your breath caught painfully in your throat.

Moving?

No. That couldn’t be right. He’d lived here his entire life. He’d told you once he couldn’t imagine leaving this place, said his mother wouldn’t even think of it.

You knocked anyway. Harder than you meant to.

The door opened almost immediately.

His mother stepped out first, sharp heels clicking against the pavement as she barked orders over her shoulder. “Satoru, bring the rest of the boxes out. Now!”

You heard his voice inside then. Raised. Strained. Furious.

“I told you I needed time,” he snapped.

“We don’t have time,” his mother shot back. “The role starts filming in two weeks. This is not a discussion.”

Your heart hammered.

When she finally noticed you, it was like watching something ugly surface. Whatever thin layer of civility she’d ever bothered with vanished, her expression twisting into something openly hostile.

“What do you want?” she demanded, eyes narrowing to slits.

You froze. You’d seen her cold before, dismissive and sharp, but never like this. Never so openly cruel.

“I—I was just—” Your voice faltered. “I was looking for Satoru.”

Something flickered across her face. Recognition. Then satisfaction.

“Oh,” she said slowly, lips curling. “Did Satoru not tell you?”

Your stomach dropped.

Behind her, you could hear him pacing, his movements restless, angry. He hadn’t been at school because he’d been shuttled between studios and auditions, locked in windowless rooms with producers and directors who spoke about his future like it was already theirs. He’d spent days recording lines, reshooting scenes, being molded into something sharper, bigger, more marketable. Nights dissolved into arguments, his voice raw from shouting, his hands clenched at his sides as he demanded to know why his entire life was being uprooted without his consent.

“You can’t just take me away from everything,” he’d yelled. “From her.”

“She’s a distraction,” his mother had replied coldly. “And you’re proving my point.”

He thought about you constantly during those days. Thought about texting you a hundred times, fingers hovering over his phone before dropping it again. He didn’t know how to explain this over a screen. Didn’t know how to tell you that the ground had shifted beneath his feet, that everything was being decided for him again. He was terrified you’d hear it from someone else. Terrified you’d look at him and think he’d chosen this.

He hadn’t chosen anything.

And now you were standing there, watching his life being packed away piece by piece, realization dawning far too late.

His mother’s voice cut through your thoughts, sharp and satisfied.

“We’re moving,” she said. “You should go home.”

Before you could respond, footsteps sounded behind her. Satoru came through the doorway slowly, like his body was heavier than usual. His eyes were red, rimmed and glassy, his face drawn tight with something close to panic. He looked like he’d been crying, something you had never seen in the ten years you’d known him. Not once. The sight alone knocked the air from your lungs. When his gaze found yours, it softened instantly. Those bright, familiar eyes filled with something raw and desperate. He looked at you like he was already apologizing. Like he was asking for forgiveness without knowing how to say the words out loud.

“I told her today,” he said quietly, voice rough. “I meant to tell you last week. I just—” He swallowed. “I didn’t know how.”

You didn’t answer. Your mind felt numb, lagging behind the moment.

Instead, you reached for your phone with shaking hands. There it was. A message sent hours ago.

So small it felt cruel.

We’re moving. Don’t text me, don’t respond to this. Lose my number. I’m so sorry.

Your chest tightened painfully. All that history, all those promises, reduced to a handful of words that did not explain, no goodbye. It felt almost insulting, how little context he’d given, how easily it could be misunderstood. Like he’d erased you with a single message.

You looked back up at him, your throat burning. And for the first time, you couldn’t tell whether he was asking you to stay, or letting you go.

His eyes were wet again, long lashes heavy with tears, his gaze unfocused like he was trying not to break in front of you. In his mind, he had already lived a hundred futures with you. He saw himself marrying you after college, fumbling with the ring because his hands would be shaking too badly. He saw himself buying you your first car, your first apartment, something small and imperfect, but yours. From the day he held you while you sobbed about your father, your body trembling against his, he had known it wasn’t just love. It was a responsibility. It was devotion. It was forever.

“I’m so sorry,” he said, voice cracking. “I…”

He couldn’t finish.

Instead, he looked away.

He stepped out of the doorway with a large cardboard box in his arms, jaw clenched, shoulders tight, walking past you like it physically hurt to do so. He didn’t meet your eyes again. That hurt worse than anything else.

“You’re a distraction to him,” his mother said sharply, stepping forward. “I think it’s time you leave.”

Her words landed like a shove.

Your cheeks were wet. You weren’t even sure when you’d started crying. Your feet felt rooted to the pavement, heavy, sinking, like the ground itself was trying to swallow you whole. Time stretched thin and meaningless as you stood there, folding inward, shrinking the way you always had when things became too much.

Then your legs moved on their own.

You ran.

You sobbed as you ran home, breath hitching painfully with each step, the wind slicing against your face like punishment. Your chest burned, your heart aching so fiercely it felt like it might split open. Tears blurred your vision until the world became nothing but streaks of light and shadow, grief pressing in from all sides.

How could she do that?

How could he let it happen?

No explanation. No chance to speak. Just cruelty. Sudden and sharp, like he hadn’t kissed you only a week ago, or as if you were the last girl alive.

Like none of it had ever mattered.

Your mother had always loved Satoru like he was her own son. You didn’t spend much time together at your home; there were too many reasons for that, but the few moments she had shared with him were enough. She saw how careful he was with you. How he listened. How he made space for you without ever asking you to shrink. That was all she needed to know she could trust him.

Now, she held you while you cried, arms wrapped tightly around your shaking body, one hand rubbing slow circles into your back. You stared down at the ring on your finger, the diamond catching the light like a cruel joke. Her grip tightened when she noticed it, a quiet sound breaking from her chest.

Even she had believed the two of you would be together forever.

–-

About eight months after everything fell apart, you made the mistake you’d been avoiding for far too long: you checked his Instagram.

You’d texted him more times than you cared to admit after he moved. Messages sent late at night. Messages deleted and rewritten. Messages that went unanswered until, eventually, they stopped delivering altogether. He’d changed his number without telling you, leaving you suspended in silence. He never blocked you on social media, though, whether out of forgetfulness or mercy, you didn’t know. It felt like both a blessing and a curse.

It was the night before a party your friend was throwing, her parents out of town, the house meant to be loud and distracting. You don’t know what possessed you. Maybe it was the quiet. Maybe it was the way his name still sat in your chest like unfinished business. Whatever the reason, you looked.

And there it was. The answer you’d been dreading.

Had he moved on already?

If the feed was any indication, the answer was yes.

Picture after picture filled the space where you used to be. A pretty girl with long, dark hair and an easy smile. A ring on her finger, too similar to yours to bea coincidence. Photos of them kissing, holding hands, leaning into each other, as it came naturally. Photos of them on set together, bathed in professional lighting, playing roles that bled too easily into real life. They were starring in the new television show he’d been filming together.

Your stomach twisted violently.

You scrolled even though it hurt. Even though every image felt like a deliberate erasure. You felt sick with jealousy, with grief, with the humiliating realization that the future you’d imagined had been replaced so seamlessly. You closed the app too late, nausea rising in your throat, heart pounding like it was trying to escape your chest. For a moment, you wished your mom would come home from work early.

You stared into the abyss for so long you didn’t even hear the front door open.

“Hey, are you ready?” your friend called out, keys jangling as she stepped inside. “I asked Shoko to stop somewhere for food before we go back to my place to set up.”

You didn’t respond.

She paused, finally really looking at you. At the way your shoulders slumped, at the distant glaze in your eyes. She let out an exaggerated sigh and rolled her eyes.

“Oh, come on,” she said, already impatient. “You seriously need to get over him. Yeah, okay, he was your childhood best friend, and sure, he was probably the only rich guy you’ll ever be with.” She waved a hand dismissively. “But there’ll be more guys like that. Trust me.”

There was no softness in her voice. No attempt to understand. Just annoyance, thinly veiled as encouragement.

Before you could protest or explain that it wasn’t about money or status, she grabbed your wrist and tugged you toward the door.

“Let’s go,” she said. “You’re not staying home tonight.”

–-

The party swallowed you whole.

Music blared so loudly it rattled your ribs, bass thudding against your chest until it felt like your heart might give out. The house was packed, too many bodies, too much heat, too many voices shouting over one another. Someone pressed a cup into your hand. Then another. Liquor burned down your throat, loosening something reckless inside you.

You drifted through the night in fragments.

Dancing too hard with friends you barely registered. Laughing until it hurt, then crying without warning. Stuffing handfuls of potato chips into your mouth on the kitchen floor, salt sticking to your fingers. Kissing strangers whose names you forgot the moment they pulled away. Everything blurred together in sound, touch, and light.

You just wanted the pain to stop.

But it didn’t. It pulsed beneath everything, relentless. Every image of him with her replayed behind your eyes, bright and merciless. You could still see the ring. Still hear his voice in your head. The ache in your chest refused to dull, no matter how much you drank.

You told yourself you needed to move on as he had. So when a familiar hand belonging to a boy from your class tugged gently at your wrist and guided you toward the stairs, you didn’t resist. When he led you into a quiet room away from the noise, you didn’t stop him. You immediately pushed him against the wall, kissing your classmate deeply, whimpering into his mouth, ripping his shirt off, and unbuckling his pants. You played along, hoping that if you leaned into the moment hard enough, it might finally drown out the ghost of Satoru. Deluding yourself intimaginingne each thrust of his hips was really Satoru’s. That his fingers igniting fires beneath your skin belonged to your true love.

It wasn’t long before you found out you were with child.

The realization came quietly. A missed cycle you tried to ignore. Nausea that lingered too long to be a coincidence. When you saw those two lines on your pregnancy test, it felt unreal, like something that had happened to you rather than something you were living through. You were terrified. Ashamed. Certain that this was the moment everything finally collapsed.

Telling him was worse.

The boy, the one who’d fucked you through your drunken stupor, went pale when you said the words. He stammered excuses, promises that unraveled almost immediately. He said he wasn’t ready. That it couldn’t be his responsibility. That he had plans. Within weeks, he’d moved neighborhoods and changed schools, his mother calling you every name but your own. He didn’t look back.

It was his brother, Toji, who stayed. Toji was his older brother, about five years older than him, and he truly hated his brother’s irresponsibility and their mother’s decision to aid it.

Toji wasn’t gentle, not in the way people expected comfort to look like. He didn’t sugarcoat anything. He didn’t pretend this would be easy. But he showed up. He drove you to appointments when your mother couldn’t leave work. He fixed the things around the house that had been broken for years. He handed you grocery bags without comment and money without pride, making it clear you didn’t owe him gratitude, just honesty.

“This isn’t your fault,” he told you once, blunt and unyielding. “And you’re not doing this alone.”

Your mother, though… your mother was your anchor.

When you finally told her, voice shaking, she didn’t yell. She didn’t cry. She pulled you into her arms and held you like she had when you were small, like the world hadn’t already taken too much from you. She told you she was proud of you for telling the truth. Proud of you for surviving. From that day on, she went with you to every doctor’s appointment, kept track of your vitamins, and cooked when your body ached too much to stand. She talked to your stomach softly at night, like she was welcoming someone she’d been waiting for all along.

You were seventeen when you gave birth. The peak of your teenage years was already reaching a fever pitch before it could begin.

Meanwhile, Satoru’s seventeen looked a lot different.

At seventeen, he was everywhere. His name is climbing, his face unavoidable. Interviews. Roles. Praise that felt endless. His relationship with a girl named Mio was announced publicly, with carefully curated photos flooding the internet. They looked flawless together. Young, talented, untouchable. The kind of life people earn.

You watched it all from a distance, your life already ruined, wondering how two lives that once fit so seamlessly together could end up so impossibly far apart.

He was becoming everything he was meant to be.

The neighborhood you were in was seedy as hell. Worse than usual, even for this side of town. It was polluted with graffiti-tagged shutters, broken bottles glittering under the streetlights, guys posted up on corners who watched every car like they were pricing parts. You could practically taste your bad decisions in the air. That was the after-session glow, after all: regretting every single decision. Would you do anything for money? Even ruining your dignity and esteem? You answered that question an hour ago.

They’d promised you $2,000 cash for one video. One particularly extreme scene with two guys who already had decent followings, big enough that their names alone would pull views. You’d seen their pages before the fuck; they were rather professional despite how rough they were. Two grand could fix a lot. It could fill the fridge, pay the electric bill before they cut it again, and maybe even let you breathe for a week without panic.

Before you left home, you were staring into a freezer that was basically a graveyard: half a bag of freezer-burned chicken thighs you could not trust anymore, a single lonely ice pop, and that weird block of ground beef you swore you’d use three months ago. Pantry wasn’t much better. A couple of instant ramen bricks, those little seaweed snack packs Mari liked to pretend were chips, an almost-empty bag of rice, and the steel-cut oats you bought for what was supposed to be oatmeal cookies. Breakfast had been pathetic: plain rice with torn-up seaweed sheets on top, packed into the scratched-up bento box you’d had since high school. You’d kissed her forehead, told her it was “special sushi,” and sent her off to her grandma’s with a smile that felt like it might crack your face.

Jesus fucking Christ, you felt like the worst mother on the planet.

The guilt sat heavy, like wet concrete in your chest. For the last week, you’d been surviving on gas-station energy drinks and whatever was cheapest on the McDonald’s app. Mari’s dinners had been Happy Meals or ten-piece nuggets with fries almost every night, plus those little bags of pre-cut apples or baby carrots when you remembered to grab them so you could at least pretend there was “a vegetable.” You kept telling yourself it was temporary. You kept telling yourself the overnight bar shifts would end soon, that the scouting email would be the one, that you weren’t slowly poisoning your kid.

You were so goddamn tired. The kind of tired that made your bones ache, that turned simple shit like remembering to buy milk into an impossible task. You’d come home at dawn, reeking of spilled beer and cheap perfume, collapse for three hours, then drag yourself up to scroll through porn booking sites while Mari was at school. Grocery shopping kept getting pushed. Always tomorrow. Always after the next shift. Always after the check that was supposed to clear last Tuesday.

You needed that deposit to arrive. Two thousand dollars for one scene you finished in an hour. One night of letting two men use you in ways that left you here, sore and sticky afterward, cum drying uncomfortably between your thighs, sweat matting your hair to your forehead and neck, the faint metallic taste lingering in your mouth long after you’d rinsed. Now, perhaps, you could finally walk into the grocery store pushing a real cart instead of clutching a handbasket and mentally tallying every item against the pennies left in your account. Perhaps the slow, grinding feeling that every decision was costing pieces of you, and worse, pieces of Mari, might loosen its grip, even just a fraction.

You wished the money would come already.

You stood on the corner with your phone and car keys in hand, thumb hovering uselessly over your bank app, refreshing it as it might magically change if you stared hard enough. The men allowed you to stay as long as you wanted, but if you spent another hour in that apartment, you would be considered to have committed serious self-harm. The fresh air was a necessity. You were too focused to notice anything else… the rush of wind, the shadow of a bird cutting across the pavement, the way the street felt suddenly too quiet.

Then it happened.

Rough hands slammed into yours without warning, fingers closing around your keys with brutal precision. A shocked gasp tore from your throat as your attention snapped violently away from the screen. Across the street, your car sat waiting, the shitty old minivan you’d bought after months of saving from your first job at eighteen. The car that smelled like fast food and baby wipes. The car that carried groceries, late-night drives, and your daughter’s laughter.

One man stood beside it, eyes wide and panicked, while the other sprinted past you with your keys.

“Hey—!” you screamed, but it was already too late.

The doors unlocked with a sharp click. He jumped inside. The engine roared to life.

For a moment, you were frozen, shock pinning you in place as the van peeled away from the curb. Then your body caught up with reality. You ran. You screamed. Your feet pounded against the pavement as tears streamed down your face, blurring everything.

“Get back here!” you sobbed. “You evil fucks! How dare you!”

Your voice broke apart with each step. That car held nearly as many memories as your home. You needed it to get Mari to school, to get to work, to survive. When the van disappeared down the street, moving too fast and too far to chase, your legs finally gave out beneath you. You collapsed to your knees on the concrete, shaking, gasping, wrecked, and you didn’t care who saw.

They might as well have run off with your fucking heart.

You stayed there on your knees, the pavement biting into soft flesh, uncaring. You were sure you looked like hell. Smelled like it too. You’d filmed one scene, multiple takes, too many props, too many hands. Now you felt like a disappointment to your entire bloodline. You folded forward and sobbed into your palms, the world around you fading into noise and movement you barely registered.

Barely.

“Ma’am?” a voice cut through the haze. “Ma’am, are you alright?”

A masculine hand settled on your shoulder, warm and steady, gripping gently but firmly, real enough to anchor you. After a moment, he helped pull you to your feet. You swayed, then lifted your hands from your face, eyes burning, vision blurred with tears.

He was staring at you with such warmth. Such openness and patience. 

The silence stretched. His expression shifted, confusion giving way to something softer, something unsettled. His cheeks warmed, color rising as if he’d suddenly realized the intimacy of the moment.

“Can I help you?” he asked, concerned. “I don’t feel right leaving a crying woman on the ground like that.” He could swear he recognized you. 

Your breath hitched painfully as your gaze traced him. He was taller, broader, and impossibly composed. White hair styled carefully now, instead of perpetually messy, catching the streetlight like it always had. Sterling-blue eyes, unchanged in color but sharpened by years of distance and experience. He was beautiful in a way that felt unreal, like the kind of man people stopped for. Not to mention the jawline that could slice bread on it, he was a God to mortal eyes. Even when he was a stupid sixteen-year-old boy, he was beautiful. 

Satoru.

He looked at you like a stranger. Polite concern where familiarity should have been. That was what finally broke you. Not the car. Not the night. Him.

A sob tore out of you before you could stop it.

You hadn’t stalked his Instagram or watched his shows since you were twenty (you’d learned the hard way how much that hurt), but that didn’t mean the world had let him go. Coworkers talked about him. Friends pointed him out on screens. His name surfaced constantly, casually, like he wasn’t something that had once been yours.

And still… still, you could never forget those eyes.

They were the same oneswhot had once looked at you like you were everything. Intense and unyielding, but warm, protective, enveloping. The eyes that had memorized your face in childhood, that had promised you forever without hesitation.

Now they searched yours for answers he didn’t even know he was missing.

And you stood there, unraveling, staring at the man who used to be your home.

“Satoru,” your voice rasped, broken and unfamiliar even to you. “Fuck, of all nights, this could happen. Why? Why are you here?” The words tumbled out through tears as you dragged your sleeve across your face, smearing wetness you couldn’t keep up with.

He froze.

For a split second, he looked genuinely confused, eyes narrowing as he tried to place you. At first, you could see it: the assumption. A fan. Someone who recognized him in the wild. But then your words caught up to him, sharp and unkind in a way admiration never was.

His expression shifted.

He stepped back, instinctively, guarded. An awkward smirk tugged at his mouth, defensive rather than amused. “Look, ma’am,” he said carefully, a hint of irritation slipping through, “I was just trying to help. But if this is a problem, I can leave.”

You noticed it then, the details you hadn’t let yourself see before. The black hoodie was pulled low, barely hiding his white hair. The sunglasses perched uselessly on his head, like he’d forgotten them in a hurry. His eyes were wide, alert, darting too often down the street. He looked like someone who didn’t want to be recognized. Someone in a rush. Someone hiding.

And suddenly, you felt small.

You apologized almost immediately, the word tumbling out thin and useless. But the hurt lingered, heavy and sharp. He didn’t recognize you. Not your face. Not your voice. Nothing. He was everything you’d ever loved, everything you’d lost, and to him, you were just another stranger. Another mess on the sidewalk. A woman crying too loudly, too openly.

You didn’t explain or defend yourself. You only said one thing. Your name.

He didn’t react at first, just taking in the words he’d heard. He was hanging onto a different version of you for years. How could he have known? How could he recognize you? You were so mature now, skin tighter, eyes darker, stressed.

Your name hung between you, fragile and exposed, like you’d set something precious down in the dirt and were waiting to see if it would be crushed.

He blinked once and then again.

You watched it happen in real time, the way his brow furrowed, the faint crease forming between his eyes as something shifted behind them. His mouth parted slightly, like he meant to say something and couldn’t find the air for it. The irritation drained from his face, replaced by a strange, hollow stillness.

“…What?” he asked quietly.

–

At the police station, the fluorescent lights buzzed overhead like they were judging you. A kind-faced officer, older, with tired eyes that had probably seen worse, led you to a small bathroom in the back. They handed you a plastic bag of basics: travel-sized wipes, a cheap comb, a packet of tissues, even a spare hoodie from lost-and-found that smelled faintly of laundry detergent and someone else’s life. You told them a half-truth: the men who took your keys had gotten rough when you tried to grab them back, shoved you hard enough to leave you winded and shaken. You left out the rest, the dried sweat and cum still clinging to your skin, the ache between your legs from the afternoon’s work, the way your body still felt borrowed and returned in pieces. They didn’t need that part. No one ever did.

Satoru sat on the hard plastic chair beside you in the waiting area, elbows on his knees, hands clasped so tightly his knuckles blanched. He looked like he was fighting a war inside his own head. Every few minutes, his gaze slid toward you, quick, searching scans that lingered on your face, your hands, the way you kept tugging the borrowed hoodie sleeves over your wrists. You could almost name the emotions flashing across his features: guilt like a fresh bruise, fear that tightened his jaw, regret that made his shoulders curve inward, and something softer, deeper, that might still have been love if you let yourself believe it. He didn’t speak while you gave your statement, license plate number, make and model of the van, vague descriptions of the two men (one wiry, one stockier, both moving fast and practiced). He just listened, silent and coiled, like he was holding his breath until the room stopped spinning.

“Thank you, sir,” you murmured when the officer finished, voice small. He nodded, promised they’d run the plate, put out a BOLO, and do everything they could. You nodded back, numb. At least Mari was at her grandmother’s for the week. You could go home, lock the door, and fall apart without an audience. Cry until your eyes swelled shut, scream into a pillow, stare at the empty fridge,e and wonder how the hell you were going to fix this. One more curveball in a life that already felt like a bad joke.

Your phone buzzed in your pocket. You pulled it out, glanced at the screen, and let out a long, shaky breath. The deposit had finally cleared. Two thousand dollars, sitting there like it was mocking you. Relief hit first, sharp and stupid, then the groan followed right behind it. Great. Money for groceries and bills, but no car. You were already running the math in your head: how long it would take to save for another vehicle, how many more scenes you’d have to take, how many nights you’d spend walking home in the dark because rideshares were a luxury you couldn’t afford anymore.

Satoru’s eyes flicked to the phone, then to your face. He stayed quiet for a long beat, the silence stretching thin between you. When he finally spoke, his voice was low, careful, like he was afraid the wrong word might shatter something.

“How’s your life been?”

The question landed softly, almost hesitantly. Not demanding answers. Not accusing. Just… asking. Like he was testing the water after years of drought, unsure if it would burn or soothe. His eyes held yours, those same piercing blue that used to make everything else disappear, and for the first time since the sidewalk, you saw the boy you used to know buried somewhere beneath the man he’d become. Waiting. Maybe even hoping.

You let out a dry, humorless chuckle, holding his gaze longer than felt safe. The fluorescent lights caught the exhaustion in your eyes, the faint smudges of yesterday’s makeup that the wipes hadn’t fully erased. “Look at me, Satoru,” you said, voice low, careful not to let the bitterness crack through too hard. “I’m pretty sure you can guess how my life’s been.”

He was sitting there in that black hoodie, hair still somehow perfect despite the late hour, skin clear, shoulders relaxed in the way only someone who hadn’t spent years scraping by could be. Clean. Polished. Untouched by the kind of dirt that stuck to you, no matter how hard you scrubbed. The contrast burned, quiet and vicious, right under your ribs.

The ghost of a smile touched his lips, small, almost sad. “Right,” he murmured, running a hand through that white hair, pushing it back only for it to fall forward again in that careless way it always had. “What did they say about the car?”

You exhaled through your nose. “What they always say. They’ll do what they can. Run the plate, check for cameras, and put out alerts. But until something turns up… until someone sees it or they catch a break, there’s nothing.” Your fingers tightened around your phone. You opened the messaging app, thumbs moving automatically to text your mother: Car got stolen. Can Mari stay a few extra days? I’ll explain later. You hit send before the guilt could fully settle. At least your daughter was safe, warm, and probably eating real food instead of whatever sad scraps you’d been cobbling together.

Satoru shifted beside you, restless. You could feel how badly he wanted to fill the silence, how desperately he was grasping for any thread of conversation that wasn’t this cold, sterile waiting room. Like if he could just keep talking, the years might fold back on themselves.

“How’s your mom?” he asked quietly. Then he stopped, eyes dropping to the scuffed linoleum between his sneakers. “Last time I…” He swallowed. “Fuck. I’m so sorry.”

You waved it off with a quick, sharp motion of your hand. Last time he’d seen her had been after he slipped that thin promise ring onto your finger, a glistening diamond that felt like everything. She’d pulled him into a hug, told him she trusted him with your life, her voice thick with the kind of hope mothers carry for their daughters. You didn’t want to revisit it. Not here. Not now.

“Look,” you said, sharper than you meant to, stomach twisting from sitting so close to the only person who’d ever made you feel like the center of the universe. “I don’t want to talk about anything that isn’t a car that can get me home tonight.”

He went still for a second. Then he stood, his frame unfolding until he loomed over you, lanky and tall in a way that still made your pulse skip even after all this time. The hoodie did nothing to hide the familiar lines of him: the long limbs, the easy grace that used to make every room feel smaller when he walked into it.

“Then let me give you a ride,” he said, voice more pitched, but careful. His eyes bore into yours, awaiting an answer. And it’s not like you had a car of your own at that moment…

–

The entire ride was suffocating. The kind of quiet that pressed in from all sides, thick and uncomfortable, broken only by the low purr of the engine and the occasional soft click of the turn signal. Satoru kept trying to talk. Small things at first, like he was dipping a toe in hot water to see if it would burn.

"You still live in the same city?" he asked after a few blocks, voice careful. He immediately felt like such a question was tone-deaf, because, unlike him, you had no reason to leave that shitty city. No reason, no desire, no funds to do so.

You stared out the passenger window at the passing streetlights. "Yeah."

He nodded once, like that answered everything. A minute later: "Your mom still working overnights?" Fuck, another tone-deaf question.

"She's retired now." You didn't elaborate.

"Right. That's... good." He swallowed audibly. "She always worked too hard."

No response. The silence stretched again.

About thirty minutes from your complex, the low-fuel light blinked on. He pulled into a brightly lit drive-thru without asking, the same cheap burger place you two used to hit after school when money was tight for you and bountiful for him. He ordered without hesitation: double cheeseburger (no onions), large fries, vanilla shake. Your exact old order. When the warm paper bag landed in your lap, the smell of grease and salt hit you like a tsunami of unwanted nostalgia. You weren’t a foolish fifteen-year-old girl head over heels for someone out of her tax bracket anymore. You were a woman face-to-face with reality on the regular.

You stared at it for a long second. "Thanks," you muttered, pulling out a few fries to nibble. The burger stayed wrapped; motion sickness was already creeping in from the late hour and the car's smooth glide.

He glanced over as you ate, eyes flicking between the road and your face. "Given all the chaos tonight... you look great," he said quietly at first, almost like he was testing the words. Then louder, trying for confidence, he repeated himself. "Seriously. You do."

You gave him a flat "Thanks," again, voice dry. Inside, something bitter uncoiled. You were still right where he'd left you. Same neighborhood. Same, if not worse, struggles. Same invisible weight. Meanwhile, he rolled up in this absurdly expensive car, butterfly doors that lifted like wings when he'd helped you in earlier, interior glowing with soft ambient lights, custom coasters etched with some minimalist design, and a stupid center console drawer still crammed full of sweet gummies and some hard candies. 

He tried again after a few more miles of silence. "I really did miss you," he said, softer now, shoulders visibly tense under the hoodie. "Seeing you tonight... I froze up. I'm sorry I didn't recognize you right away. Fuck. My brain just... it blanks out a lot of stuff from back then.”

He eased the car into your apartment complex, following the clipped directions you'd given him earlier. The headlights swept across faded brick and cracked sidewalks as he pulled up in front of your unit.

His words hung there, fragile and useless. Your head throbbed harder, a dull pulse behind your eyes.

"You wanted to forget about me," you said, voice low and edged. "I get it. Loud and clear."

He flinched as if you'd slapped him. "That's not what I meant.”

You were already unbuckling, yanking the door handle. The butterfly door rose with a smooth, expensive hiss, letting in a rush of cool night air that smelled faintly of garbage bins and rain.

"Don't," you cut him off, grabbing the fast-food bag and stepping out. Your sneakers hit the pavement with more force than necessary. "Don't explain. Don't apologize. Just... don't.”

You didn't look back as you walked to your door, keys jingling in your shaking hand, the paper bag crinkling against your side. Behind you, the engine idled for several long seconds, headlights still washing over the building like he was waiting for something; permission, forgiveness, a glance… anything.

The second the door clicked shut behind you, the dam broke. A raw, ugly sob ripped out of your chest as your knees buckled. You slid down the wood, back pressed hard against it, until you were sitting on the cold floor with your face buried in your trembling hands. Tears poured hot and endless, soaking your palms, dripping onto the hardwood beneath you. The apartment felt too quiet and small, like the walls were closing in to watch you fall apart.

Who was going to help you now? The police had barely looked up from their forms. A broke single mom from the wrong side of town. They probably filed your report in the same pile as every other lost cause. No car meant no way to pick up Mari, no way to get to the bar, no way to book another shoot without begging for rides like some helpless kid. The bus could take you to work, but getting Mari to school would be a problem.

And then, on top of everything, Satoru. The one person you never wanted to see you like this. Your stupid heart had still fluttered the moment those blue eyes locked on yours, like your body hadn’t gotten the memo that he’d shattered you eight years ago. Like it still remembers how gently he used to hold you, how those pale hands once traced your skin like you were something precious. You hated it. You hated him. You hated yourself most of all for still feeling anything.

A soft buzz from your phone snapped you out of it. You wiped your face on the sleeve of the borrowed hoodie, blinking through swollen, stinging eyes to read the screen.

Just got here. Coming up the stairs now.

Shit. You’d completely forgotten it was your night. Once every couple of weeks, you and Toji made it work. He dropped his son off with his ex, you left Mari with your mom, and the two of you just… existed together. A few years ago, after too many beers, things had almost gone further. You’d been kissing, clumsy and laughing, his hands warm under your shirt, but you’d pulled back fast, heart pounding with old memories. “I can’t,” you’d whispered. He’d just nodded, no questions, no hurt feelings. “It’s okay, beautiful,” he’d said, and that was that. The tradition remained after.

Three soft knocks sounded at the door, right by your ear. You froze.

“Hey,” Toji called through the door. “It’s me.”

You swallowed, forcing your voice to steady. “Yeah. I know.”

You pushed yourself up off the floor, legs trembling slightly as you reached for the door handle, bracing yourself. You didn’t have the energy to explain everything tonight, but you also didn’t want to be alone.

The door swung open, and you stepped aside to let him in.

Toji didn’t need an explanation. One look at you told him everything he needed to know, or at least, everything he thought he knew. He was aware of your work that night, had known where you were headed and why. In his mind, that alone was enough to explain the hollowed look in your eyes, and the way your shoulders sagged like you’d been carrying too much for too long.

But the dried tear tracks on your cheeks nearly did him in.

“Fuck,” he muttered under his breath, eyes narrowing as he took you in properly this time. “Was it really that bad?”

He set the case of beer down by the counter and dropped a Ziploc bag of loud, unmistakably pungent weed onto the coffee table like it was routine. Like this was just another night you needed numbing.

You opened your mouth to answer, but your face betrayed you first. Fresh tears slipped free, blurring your vision all over again. You didn’t even have time to apologize before Toji was already there, arms wrapping around you, solid and grounding. He didn’t say anything, didn’t rush you, didn’t ask questions. He just held you while your body shook, letting you cry it out into his chest.

For a moment, the world narrowed to that.

Then there was a knock on the door. The sound snapped through the room, sharp and unwelcome. You both stiffened. You pulled back instinctively, brows knitting together as confusion cut through the haze. Toji reacted faster, swearing under his breath as he reached for the coffee table and hastily slid the zip of weed out of sight, shoving it beneath a cushion.

“Of course,” he muttered. “No damn peephole.”

He stepped in front of you before you could protest, one hand lifting slightly as a silent command to stay back.

“I’ve got it,” he said, voice calm, confident, and protective. “I’ll handle this.”

Before you could argue, he opened the door.

Satoru stood on the other side. A paper bag hung loosely from his hand, the unmistakable scent of greasy fast food drifting into the apartment. He looked out of place against the dim hallway, too clean, too polished, even now.

The shift in Satoru’s expression was instant and brutal.

One heartbeat, he was still wearing that careful, apologetic mask he’d walked in with, all soft eyes and lowered voice. The next, something cold and sharp slid across his face like a shadow crossing the moon. His gaze flicked from the greasy bag in his hand, to Toji filling the doorway, to you standing half-hidden behind Toji’s broad shoulder, eyes swollen, cheeks blotchy, hoodie sleeves tugged over your knuckles like a kid trying to disappear.

His jaw locked. The blue of his irises seemed to deepen, darken, until it looked almost black under the harsh hallway light. It wasn’t anger exactly. He was understanding that someone else had been the one holding you while you cried tonight, just like someone else had to be around to hold you every night since he’d left.

The polite concern he’d worn on the way up the stairs cracked, revealing something colder underneath. Jealousy, maybe. Or hurt. Or the sudden, unwelcome realization that eight years had passed and you hadn’t waited in some frozen shrine to his memory. Even though he was literally on his way to getting engaged.

Even if he had no right to feel any of it, the way his eyes darkened said he did.

Toji noticed too. You could feel it in the way his stance shifted, shoulders squaring a fraction more, chin lifting just enough to exude domination. 

Hello! My name is Mani, thank you for reading.

The first chapter includes implied child abuse and references to bruises and depression, so please be mindful of the trigger warnings. The story will also contain time skips, an age gap later on, darker themes, and eventual smut. Please review the tags before proceeding. My update schedule may be inconsistent. I’m currently in university and working full-time, so chapters may be released every couple of weeks or once a month. Thank you so much for your patience and understanding.

I hope you enjoy :3

CHAPTER ONE: Seasaw

You and Satoru Gojo grew up dreaming of the same things. Fame, escape, and a future bigger than the lives you were born into. For a while, it felt like you might reach it together, but the world is kinder to some dreams than others. When Satoru lands his first major role, he’s forced to leave, and your relationship shatters due to the impossible distance and his mother's influence. Your first love. Your first best friend. Eight years later, you’re struggling just to survive while Satoru has become everything the world promised him he would be. When your car is stolen one night, fate forces you into an unexpected reunion with the man you haven’t seen since you were sixteen, and drags every buried feeling back to the surface.

18+, child abuse, implied abuse, domestic violence, harsh language, mentions of sex, pregnancy

CHAPTER TWO: Unwanted Visitor

A night already spiraling out of control only gets worse when your car is stolen, forcing you into an unexpected reunion with Satoru Gojo, your first love, whom you never truly healed from. Old wounds resurface as he insists on helping, reopening the distance between who you were, who he became, and everything left unsaid between you.

18+, angst, reader has a reunion, sex work, crying, mentions of mild violence

CHAPTER THREE… tba

CHAPTER FOUR… tba

CHAPTER FIVE… tba

CHAPTER SIX… tba

CHAPTER SEVEN… tba

CHAPTER EIGHT… tba

CHAPTER NINE… tba

CHAPTER TEN… tba

do not copy, repost, plagiarize, edit, or translate any of my works.

dividers by: @sweetmelodygraphics