#tsah

By the time you and Satoru finally came home from months of traveling, when summer had rolled over into late August, the foundation of your new house had already been poured. The framework stood tall and bare against the sky, smelling of sawdust and promise, with ladders leaning against beams, and buckets of nails scattered like confetti in the dirt.

It wasn’t much yet, just a skeleton of wood and dreams, but it was yours.

Until it was finished, though, you were back under your grandparents’ roof, living in the familiar creak of the old house, sharing meals at the kitchen table, sneaking kisses on the same porch where you and Satoru had first started to fall in love.

Every day was some variation of the same routine: wake up covered in your husband’s drool, lace your boots, and work on the land until your limbs ached. You mended fences, mucked stalls, sanded boards, hauled buckets of nails while Satoru teased that you were “the prettiest damn foreman he’d ever seen.” It should have felt satisfying to get so much done, and in a way it did. But lately…

You’d been dragging.

Everything felt harder.

The smells of the ranch—hay, manure, leather polish, even the smoke from your grandpa’s old pipe—turned your stomach at random. You were so drained before noon that you could hardly lift a hay bale, like someone had tied weights to your ankles. And thrice in one week, you’d excuse yourself to the hedgerow just to retch while Satoru shouted after you, panicked, “Was it my cooking? Baby, tell me if it was my cooking!”

At first, you blamed the jet lag. Too much wine in Italy, maybe. Too much walking, too much rich food. But weeks had passed, and the fog hadn’t lifted.

It was Satoru, actually, who insisted you go see Shoko in town.

“Honey, you don’t look so good,” he said one afternoon, leaning his hip against the fence rail as you gagged through cleaning a stall. His white hair was damp with sweat, shirt clinging to him from work, worry written plain across his face. “You’ve been draggin’ your feet for days. Somethin’ ain’t right.”

“I’m fine,” you lied, waving him off with the pitchfork. “Just tired.”

“You’re always tired,” he pressed, frowning now. “And pale. And you almost keeled over this morning just smellin’ the feed. That ain’t normal.”

You gave him a flat look. “Are you my husband or my doctor?”

“I’m both,” he shot back without missing a beat, crossing his arms over his chest. “And this husband-doctor says you’re marchin’ into town tomorrow to see Shoko, before I hogtie you and take you there myself.”

You wanted to roll your eyes, but truthfully…you didn’t have the strength to argue. And he looked so genuinely worried, beneath all that usual cocky bravado, that you gave in with a sigh. 

“Just to make sure it’s not somethin’ serious,” he said, frowning as he brushed a sweaty lock of hair off your forehead. His palm lingered on your cheek, “Don’t like seein’ you worn out like this.”

Which was how you ended up in Shoko’s little office above the pharmacy the next day. It was cool and clean, the lingering scent of antiseptic sharp in your nostrils. You perched on the paper-lined exam table while she flicked through a clipboard.

“So,” Shoko hummed, not looking up yet, “tell me what’s going on.”

You folded your hands nervously in your lap as you listed off your complaints. The queasiness, the fatigue, your sudden inability to stomach the smell of horses. You joked that maybe you’d picked up some kind of bug while traveling. And that Satoru was convinced you were dying.

Shoko listened to everything without interrupting, pen scratching slowly across her clipboard. But when you finished, she arched one brow, the corner of her mouth quirking in that sly, almost knowing way.

“And…you haven’t thought about taking a pregnancy test?”

Your words stuttered to a halt. “A what?”

Shoko gave you a look that was half exasperation, half amusement, her lips tugging into a knowing grin. “You’ve been married, what, almost a year now? Spent all that time running around Europe? You really haven’t considered the possibility?”

You blinked at her, dazed. 

Pregnant.

Your mouth opened, closed, then opened again. The thought hadn’t even crossed your mind. You’d been so wrapped up in Satoru, in the wedding, in the new house and the future that you were building plank by plank. But now, hearing the word out loud, it was like a bird startled into flight in your chest.

You swallowed, fingers curling nervously into the paper crinkling under you. “I—no. I didn’t think—”

“Relax,” said, already setting her clipboard aside. “We’ll just check now. Won’t take long.”

And it didn’t. She walked you through it like it was the most ordinary thing in the world, leading you to a small side room with its neat counters and whirring machines. She took a blood sample, quick and deft, and set it aside for the lab, then handed you a sterile cup pointing toward the bathroom. 

The minutes stretched endlessly after that, blurring as your pulse thrummed in your ears. The toilet flushed, the warm weight of the cup trembled in your hands as you set it carefully back down on her tray. She gave you one of those rare soft looks, reserved for moments that actually mattered, then disappeared into the lab alcove beside her office.

You sat there on the exam table, knees bouncing, eyes glued to the clock until the seconds stretched unbearably. Every possible thought collided all at once. What if it was true? What if you weren’t ready? What if you were, and it was everything you’d ever wanted? You tried to picture Satoru’s face. Tried to imagine saying the words: I’m pregnant. They felt huge in your mouth, heavy and miraculous all at once.

When Shoko finally returned, she didn’t make you wait. She held the slip of paper in one hand, but her eyes found yours first, warm despite her usual flat tone.

“Well,” she said, “looks like you and Gojo brought back more than souvenirs.”

The world went very still.

Your lips parted, but nothing came out, just a shaky breath, your vision blurring with sudden tears. You clapped a hand over your mouth, trying to contain the little laugh-sob that broke free anyway. “Oh my god…”

Shoko squeezed your shoulder as you blinked through tears, utterly overwhelmed. “Congratulations, mama,” She murmured. “I guess the honeymoon was productive.”

You laughed wetly, pressing the heel of your hand to your eyes, cheeks aching from smiling so hard.

Pregnant.

The word pulsed through you, warm and impossible and so, so right. A little piece of you and Satoru, growing quietly inside you already.

Shoko pulled you into a hug, and for the first time in weeks, you didn’t feel sick at all. Just dizzy with happiness.

You thought about telling him outright.

Just blurting it across the dinner table in front of your grandparents, or while brushing your teeth, or while the two of you were sprawled in bed the way you told him most things. Simply, casually, without ceremony. 

But this felt…different. Bigger. You wanted it to be special.

So you spent the next few days thinking. Scheming, really, cycling through idea after idea. Because telling Satoru he was going to be a father wasn’t something you wanted to toss off in the middle of mucking stalls. He deserved a moment. Something fun, something sweet. A memory you’d keep forever.

Little booties in a gift box, maybe? Too obvious.

A note tucked in his hat where he’d least expect it? Too risky, especially with how sweaty he got working.

You even considered stitching something onto one of his bandanas or the sleeve of his shirt, until you remembered you couldn’t sew to save your life.

In the end, you settled on something simple. Something foolproof.

Pie.

Nanami’s bakery smelled like butter and cinnamon the second you stepped through the door. His brows lifted only slightly when you placed the order, his expression as steady as ever. But you didn’t miss the softness in his eyes, the faint tug at his mouth when he murmured, Congratulations, before tucking the slip into his order ledger.

You left with a smile and a fresh apple pie, decorated with a careful swirl of cream cheese frosting across the top: We’re having a baby. The box was tied neatly with twine, and every glance down at it as you carried it home made you giddy. You hugged it close all the way, as if the secret might spill out if you weren’t careful.

When you got back, Satoru was already waiting on the porch swing, boots kicked up high on the railing, hat tipped low, hair still damp from a shower. He was reading the paper like some kind of sixty-year-old rancher instead of your twenty-something husband. But the second he saw you, he sat up, eyes alert.

“Well?” he asked immediately, voice casual but a tad sharp with concern. “How’d it go? Shoko say what’s been goin’ on with you?”

“It went well,” you said, a smile tugging at your lips. “Turns out it’s not a cold. Or a stomach bug.”

His frown deepened, almost puzzled, but before he could say more, you set the box gently on the swing between you, pushing it toward him with both hands, your pulse hammering. You tugged the twine loose with fingers that trembled with anticipation.

He looked at the box. Then at you. Then back at the box.

“…This from Nanami’s place?” His voice went flat.

“Yes,” you said slowly, narrowing your eyes.

His mouth twisted into a pout. “Tch. Guy thinks he can out-bake me…”

“Just open it,” you urged, biting down on your smile.

But Satoru was…well, Satoru. Which meant that before you could open your mouth to warn him, he flipped the lid, took one cursory glance, and immediately grabbed the plastic fork. Instead of pausing long enough to register there was a frosting message across the top at all, he dug in like he hadn’t eaten in weeks.

“Satoru!” you hissed, horrified.

“What?” His words were muffled around a giant bite, crumbs sticking to his lips. “You bought me pie! Why wouldn’t I eat it?”

You could only stare, dumbstruck, as he shoveled in another forkful, the words disappearing bite by bite beneath his enthusiasm.

It was gone in minutes. Not a single letter survived.

He leaned back, sighing in satisfaction, licking the apple filling off his fork. “Mmm. Not bad. Bit heavy on the crust, though.”

You pinched the bridge of your nose, torn between laughter and utter despair. This man. Your husband. The one who had once put your grandfather’s reading glasses on Ollie because he thought it looked “distinguished.” The father of your child. An absolute idiot.

Satoru, who had just wolfed down what should have been the most important pie of your lives like a man possessed.

And now you had to recalculate. Back to the drawing board. Because apparently, surprising your husband was going to take more than sugar and pastry.

You started simple.

A mug.

White ceramic, glossy, with bold black letters: World’s Best Dad. You’d left it right where you knew he’d see, beside the coffee pot waiting to be discovered, handle turned just so. The whole night before, you’d pictured the moment: Satoru wandering in, hair a mess, yawning and shirtless, rubbing at his eyes. He’d reach for the pot, pour himself a cup, and there it would be, your quiet announcement, sitting in his hands.

A perfect reveal. Foolproof.

Except by morning, it wasn’t Satoru drinking from it at all.

Your grandfather had beat him to it.

You froze in the doorway, half asleep yourself, only to find him rocking on the porch in his flannel and slippers, the mug tilted towards his lips. World’s Best Dad stared back at you as he sipped happily, newspaper balanced across his knee. 

“Morning,” he said without looking up. “Coffee tastes good today.”

And there was Satoru, just a few feet away at the kitchen table, already shoveling down eggs and bacon next to your grandmother. Not even a flicker of suspicion. You stood there, dumbstruck, staring between them both until your heart sank like a stone.

So much for foolproof.

The next attempt seemed even sweeter.

A tiny pair of boots.

You’d found them in town, leather and scuffed enough to look authentic, no bigger than your palm. They made your heart flutter the second you saw them.

This was it.

He had to get it this time.

You set them carefully on his workbench in the barn, right where his hands always landed first thing in the morning. A clear sign even he couldn’t miss. And when you saw him come in, wiping his forehead with his sleeve, your pulse climbed. He would smile, realize the meaning, and sweep you off of your feet.

Instead—

“Baby, you got Ollie some new shoes?” he hollered, lifting them up with an approving grin.

You blinked. “What? No, they’re not—”

“Damn, he’s gonna look sharp as hell.”

Before you could stop him, Satoru was scooping the boots up and marching across the barn towards his horse like some kind of lunatic. Ollie snorted, ears twitching back in disapproval as Satoru crouched to hold one up against his hoof.

“Honey, they won’t even fit!” you shouted, exasperated.

“They’ll stretch,” he said confidently, as if that settled it.

You nearly pulled your hair out watching him try to convince a thousand-pound animal to wear baby shoes.

The locket was supposed to be the one that worked.

It was elegant. Meaningful. Something he couldn’t possibly misinterpret.

One side held a small photograph you’d tucked inside—you and Satoru on your wedding day, his arm wrapped tight around you, both of you laughing at something out of frame. The other side, deliberately left blank. A space waiting to be filled.

You gave it to him after dinner, your hands warm with nerves as you fastened the chain around his neck. He’d looked genuinely touched at first, brushing a kiss over your knuckles. “Ain’t nobody else I’d wear jewelry for, y’know,” he’d murmured, and you felt certain this time.

It might have worked. Really, it might have.

Except two days later you caught him showing it off to Suguru at the fenceline—

“…see? Got my two sweethearts with me now.”

And when he flipped the locket open, there was your photograph on one side…and Suguru’s face on the other, tucked neatly where your baby’s picture should have gone.

You nearly cussed him out.

Suguru just raised a brow, unimpressed. “You’re an idiot.”

Which, frankly, you already knew.

By that third failed attempt, you were half out of your mind with frustration. Each try had started with that giddy rush of hope, your little secret sitting right there in his reach, and ended with your husband trampling all over it with his obliviousness.

You loved him. God, you loved him. But he was hopeless.

And unless you wanted to spend the next month watching him bulldoze every thoughtful plan you came up with, you were going to have to do the unthinkable.

Just tell him.

By late afternoon, the skeleton of your new house rose from the ground in uneven lines, with bare beams and half-finished walls, the shape of a home that wasn’t quite real yet. Your palms were blistered, your back ached, and everything in you felt frayed.

Which meant your patience was about as thin as the nails Satoru kept accidentally bending while he hammered.

“Careful, honey,” he called drawled from the other side of the frame, squinting at you under the brim of his hat. His shirt clung damp to his back and chest, hair plastered to his forehead. “You’re lookin’ awfully mean with that hammer.”

You clenched your jaw, hammer striking a little harder than necessary. “Maybe if someone did it right the first time, I wouldn’t be.”

“Ouch. Someone’s cranky today.” He tipped his hat back, looking smug as ever. “You need a snack? A nap? A kiss from your sexy husband?”

You turned back to the beam, gripping the hammer so tight your knuckles went white. You were tired. And hungry. And nauseous again from the smell of old wood shavings and horses. Mostly though, you were trying. Trying to find a way to just tell him what Shoko had told you. Trying to give him something special, something he’d remember forever. Instead, every heartfelt attempt had blown up in your face. Eaten, misplaced, misunderstood.

And he was just smirking, like he thought it was funny.

“Go away, Satoru…”

“Aw, don’t pout. I’m just teasin’,” he came closer, nudging your arm with his elbow. “You know you love me.”

Apparently that’s all it took. The crack in the dam. The tears came hot and sudden, blurring the grain of the wood in front of you before you even realized they were there. You ducked your head, wiping furiously at your cheeks, but he’d already seen.

“Hey…” His voice changed instantly, soft and worried. The hammer dropped from his hand, forgotten as he reached for you. “Woah, woah. What’s wrong? Did I—shit, did I say something? I was just—baby, I was just messing around—”

“It’s not that,” you choked out, swiping at your eyes, only to make them sting worse. “It’s—it’s you!”

“Me?” He looked stricken, hands hovering uselessly in the air like he didn’t know where to touch.

“Yes, you!” Your chest heaved, every word barely tumbling out. “I tried so many times to tell you, and you just—you kept ruining it!”

“…ruining what, sweetheart?”

And then it broke out of you, sharp and wet and furious all at once.

“I’m pregnant, you moron!”

The silence that followed was unbearable.

Dust floated lazily through the beams. A meadowlark sang in the distance. And Satoru Gojo just stood there with his mouth open like the dumbest man alive. You thought he might’ve not heard you, or maybe that he just didn’t believe what you said.

“You…” His throat bobbed, eyes wide. “You serious?”

Your tears slowed into hiccuping breaths as you nodded miserably. “Yes. Shoko confirmed it when I went in. I tried the stupid pie, and the mug, and the boots—”

His mouth opened and closed again soundlessly. You could see the gears turning in his head. The pie he’d devoured in three bites. The mug your grandfather had stolen. The tiny boots he’d tried to strap on Ollie. The locket with Suguru’s stupid face.

“Oh my god…” he whispered, and then it hit him all at once. He laughed. A big, helpless sound that broke into something close to a sob. He swooped forward, hands catching at your waist, and before you could stop him he’d swept you clean off your feet.

“Satoru!” You yelped, hands flying to grip his shoulders. “Put me down. This can’t be good for the baby—”

But he only spun you once, twice, breathless laughter spilling against your hair, before setting you carefully back down. His hands framed your face, kissing you like he couldn’t bring himself to stop. Over your cheeks, your forehead, the tip of your nose, the corners of your mouth. Everywhere. His eyes were glassy, and his grin stretched so wide it almost looked like it hurt.

“Holy shit…You’re really—there's really a baby? Our baby?”

You huffed through a watery laugh, brushing at the tears slipping down his cheeks with your thumbs, “No shit. I’ve been trying to tell you for days.”

“I’m gonna be a dad…” he breathed, pressing his forehead to yours. “You’re carrying my kid. Right now. In there.” He touched your stomach like it was something sacred.

“That’s the idea.”

“I ruined every single one of your surprises,” he groaned suddenly, burying his face into your neck. “God, I’m so sorry. I’m such an idiot.”

“Yeah,” you agreed softly, smiling despite yourself. “But you’re my idiot.”

He laughed again, shaky and sweet, pulling you into his arms so tightly you felt the thud of his heart against your own. The unfinished house framed you both, beams reaching up into the open sky, and you let yourself imagine the future taking root here. Walls, a roof, a crib in the corner, his voice echoing through every room.

A home. A family. Yours.

He sank down in front of you, letting dust cling to his jeans as his knees hit the unfinished floorboards.

“Satoru—” you started, but your words fell away when he pushed up the hem of your shirt with trembling hands.

His head dipped, pale hair brushing your skin, and then he pressed his lips worshipfully to the curve of your stomach. Another kiss followed, and another, scattered across where your child was growing.

“I’ll take care of you,” he murmured, voice muffled against your skin. “Both of you. Always. I swear it.”

You threaded your fingers through his hair, tilting his head up just enough that he met your gaze. “You already do,” you whispered.

He smiled and pressed his cheek against your stomach like he couldn’t bring himself to move. “Guess I better start building faster, huh? Baby’s gonna need an actual room to sleep in.”

“Yeah, probably,” you laughed, tugging his arms gently until he rose back up and kissed you once more.

Pregnancy suited you in ways you hadn’t expected. It made you tired, sure. More nauseous and achy in every way possible. But it also blurred your days in a strange new glow. Or maybe that was just your husband, who seemed determined to make the next nine months into the happiest of your life.

If you’d thought he was insufferable before, fatherhood turned him into something even worse. And better. He was ecstatic, unstoppable, vibrating with pride. He talked about the baby constantly, to you, to the chickens, to whoever just happened to be within earshot. He worked dawn till dusk on the house with a manic sort of determination, bullying Suguru, Shoko, even (begrudgingly) Nanami into hauling lumber, helping with shingles and boards, swearing that the house had to be finished before the baby came. He even sketched clumsy plans for the nursery on scrap paper, covered in doodles of rocking horses and stars, proudly showing them off like he’d just drawn out blueprints for a castle.

And your grandparents’ house began to look less like a farmhouse and more like the storage wing of a baby boutique. Tiny onesies piled up on the dresser. Stuffed horses peeked out from baskets. He brought home blankets soft as clouds, toys, a rattle shaped like a carrot he’d bought at the farmer’s market. Every time you sighed about the mess, he just grinned and said, “Baby’s gonna need options.”

But it all came together faster than you expected. The house stood finished, walls painted and roof sealed against the sky. He took your hand and led you through it, room by room, wall by wall, unveiling the rest of your life. The kitchen smelled faintly of fresh cedar, cabinets stocked, sunlight spilling across the floorboards you’d both bled and sweated over.

There were framed photographs that hung across the halls, mismatched but full of memories. Your wedding, the honeymoon, snapshots your dad had taken of the two of you together when you were just kids, laughing, sunburned, covered in dust and straw. 

But the nursery is where your breath caught.

He led you in with both hands over your eyes, laughter in his voice as he nudged you past the threshold. And when you finally looked, you just about melted. The wallpaper was a soft cream color, with pale green vibes that bloomed across the room, one you’d picked out together. An old rocking chair sat in the corner, worn from your grandmother’s years of use, waiting to be used once again. A delicate mobile spun slowly above the crib, with tiny felt horses and clouds stitched by her careful hands.

The crib itself was his surprise. It was hand cut wood, sanded smooth, carved with simple lines and steady love, built by Satoru alongside your grandfather in secret. It wasn’t perfect, one rail sat a little crooked, and the stain had bled in some places, but it was yours. A promise you could touch. A safe haven for your baby.

Your eyes stung as you stepped closer to trace the wood. You could almost picture it already: the tiny fingers curled around the railing, small giggles filling the room, sunlight painting it all gold.

He wrapped his arms around your waist from behind, chin resting on your shoulder. “Not bad, huh?” he whispered, soft with pride.

You let your hand drift over his, the other resting against the swell of your bump, and smiled.

“It’s perfect.”

Divider by: @v6que

If someone had told you two years ago that you’d be here—halfway across the world, living in a tiny London flat, studying your ass off—you would’ve laughed in their face.

And yet, here you were.

The city pulsed outside your window—all double-decker buses and blaring car horns, the glow of storefronts flickering across damp cobblestones, the endless hum of life moving, moving, moving. 

You sat cross-legged on your narrow little bed, a chipped mug of tea balanced on one knee, your laptop glowing faintly in the dark. Your textbooks were stacked in neat, color-coded piles on the desk. Your coursework calendar was filled to the brim. And yet, for the first time in forever, you were…happy.

Not just surviving. Not just scrambling to keep up. But actually finishing. Actually doing it.

Your program was honestly a bit brutal—early mornings packed with lectures, late nights full of study sessions, projects that made you want to tear your hair out and scream into a pillow, papers that bled you dry of every clever word you had left. 

But you were nearly at the end of it, though—the same one you’d nearly blown to pieces two years ago when you’d been kicked out, arrested, and shipped off to the ranch like a punishment. 

And now? You were passing all of your classes. You’d found your footing. You were figuring yourself out.

No arrests. No academic probation.

Growth.

Sometimes, you caught yourself smiling when you thought about that—about how proud your grandparents sounded on the phone when you called to tell them about your final grades, how Satoru’s voice lit up when he said, “I told you, baby, you’re a genius,” even though you knew he’d never once read any of the essays you’d panicked over.

If Satoru could see you now, he’d be grinning so wide his face would split in two. Hell, he’d probably tease you about going all “city girl” on him again—even though every time you FaceTimed, he made you turn the camera around so he could see the horses’ photos still taped to your wall.

You talked to him nearly every day.

FaceTime calls between classes, watching him from your little kitchen table as his smile filled your entire screen. He wasn’t very tech savvy; sometimes the connection froze halfway through, and you’d laugh at the blurry mess of his face. But you loved it anyway. He’d tell you about the latest ranch mishap or how he’d left you a surprise at the post office—usually a dumb little care package with socks (because you complained about the lack of heat during the winter) or a mixtape burned into a CD like it was 2007. There were blurry selfies sent at midnight (sometimes scandalous ones), voice messages when the time zones didn’t line up, shirtless photos of him in the barn like an idiot.

And every break you had, every long holiday, you flew home. 

And he was there waiting—arms open, grin wide, scooping you up into his chest, planting kisses all over your face like no time had passed at all.

You helped fix fences, brushed down the horses, sat curled in Satoru’s lap by the fire pit while Suguru and Shoko heckled you both for being sickeningly sappy.

You slipped back into the ranch like no time had passed—like you’d never left.

And when you had to fly back to London again? He kissed you like it might be the last time, like he was memorizing the exact shape of your mouth, the taste of your breath, the curve of your cheek under his hand.

It never was the last time, though.

And you both knew it.

But here, in the middle of the city, you were someone else, too.

You’d made new friends—girls from your classes, boys from the flat upstairs, a whole little circle who took you out to pubs and cafés and tiny bookstores on the weekends. Occasionally, you’d stumble drunk through trivia or a karaoke night that ended with you singing way too loudly and eating greasy “chips” on a bench at 2 a.m.

They’d tease you for your accent. (“Say y’all again, it’s so cute!”)

And oh, god—the number of times some essex guy had tried to hit on you at the pubs—charming smiles, lazy winks, leaning way too close over pints—only for you to flash the gold ring on your left hand with a grin and say, “Sorry, boys—I’ve already got a cowboy waiting for me back home. And he’d absolutely fly over here and deck you if he saw you looking at me like that.”

And they’d laugh, roll their eyes, raise their hands in surrender.

Every time, without fail, your friends would hoot with laughter.

Because you weren’t available.

Not even a little.

Not even for a second.

You were his.

Always.

And yet, no matter how far you leaned into the adventure, no matter how much you threw yourself into this new life—a piece of you always tugged quietly toward home.

Because no matter how much you loved the city, the people, the challenge—it wasn’t the ranch.

It wasn’t the dusty smell of hay and leather.

It wasn’t the golden stretch of fields under a wide, cloudless sky.

It wasn’t Jasper’s soft snort against your cheek or your grandma’s voice calling you in for supper.

And it sure as hell wasn’t Satoru.

Some nights, you woke with a soft ache in your chest, half expecting to feel the heavy drape of his arm over your waist, his drooling mouth pressed clumsily into your shoulder. You’d roll over, half-asleep, reaching for him across the empty sheets—only to jolt softly and remind yourself, no, not yet. He’s back home.

You missed him.

God, you missed him.

Sometimes you swore you could still feel the shape of his hands on your waist, the way his laugh rumbled low against your ear, the way he called you princess in that teasing drawl that made your chest ache with longing.

But you were doing this.

You were nearly there.

You were proving—to him, to your parents, to yourself—that you could finish what you started. That you could go out and chase your dreams without losing the pieces of yourself you wanted to come back to.

Your eyes drifted to your phone, sitting face down on the bed.

Satoru had sent you a text earlier. You hadn’t opened it yet.

But you smiled faintly to yourself, heart thudding.

Almost done, you thought. Just a little longer.

And then I’m coming home.

Graduation day arrived faster than you ever expected—

and passed like a blur.

A hectic, sweaty, dazzling, overly photographed blur.

Your parents had flown all the way to London for the ceremony, and you barely remembered flashes. You could recall the heat and stiffness of the graduation gown pulling at your shoulders. The way your cap kept slipping too love over your forehead. The muffled sound of the applause as they called your name and crossed the stage, your heart hammering like it was going to rupture from your chest.

You’d done it.

You’d actually done it.

Your mom was the first to catch you after the ceremony—her arms wrapped around you in a tight, slightly teary hug, her perfume clinging to your gown as she squeezed you over and over, laughing breathlessly, “I knew you could do it, I’m so proud of you!”

David was right behind her, giving you an awkward but firm squeeze on the shoulder, looking a little stiff in his blazer but smiling nonetheless. “Knew you’d pull through, kiddo. Proud of you,” he said in his best awkward-stepdad way, and you felt it, even if he wasn’t the best at showing it.

Your friends were next. 

They swarmed you in a flurry of shrieks. Someone passed you a small bouquet of flowers, pressing them hastily into your hands. Someone else handed you a glass of champagne, pulling you into selfie after selfie, their laughter ringing loud and bright.

“Look at you, Miss Fancy Degree!”

“You’re officially smarter than all of us!”

“We have to get drunk tonight, it's non-negotiable.”

You laughed, dizzy and glowing, letting yourself get pulled into photo after photo, your cheeks sore from smiling. Your mom and David lingered at the edge, amused, a little bewildered, but they didn’t rush you.

Dinner happened almost by accident—someone shouted, “Pub!” and before you knew it, you were crammed into a booth at a corner pub near your flat, pint glasses clinking together, plates of fish and chips passing hands.

David, to his credit, paid the tab without much complaint (even when your friends toasted you again with tequila shots that made him visibly wince). Your mom just laughed, elbowing him and whispering something you didn’t catch, her shoulders relaxed in a way you hadn’t seen in years.

It was strange, this blending of worlds—London and New York, ranch and city, old and new. But somehow, it all worked.

It wasn’t home.

But it was a little slice of something you’d built here—your people, your memories, your tiny chaotic corner of London.

And you were proud of it.

You’d carved something new from the mess you’d left behind.

You FaceTimed Satoru when you stumbled back to your flat late that night, cheeks flushed, hair a little wild, tassel still dangling from your cap. He answered on the second ring, looking rumpled and sleepy, wearing an old flannel shirt, hair sticking up in every direction, grin blooming wide the second he saw your face.

“Holy shit,” he said softly, voice thick with pride. “Look at you, all smart and fancy—God, you’re a mess.”

You laughed and flipped him off through the camera, telling him about everything—the ceremony, the photos, the pub, your friends, your parents, the ridiculous speeches, the champagne, the laughter. You tried to cram every detail into the call, breathless, half-giddy. 

He just watched you with that soft, fond look you knew by heart. And when you finally ran out of breath, he said softly, “I knew you’d do it. I never doubted you, baby. Not for one second.” And, “Come home soon, yeah? I’m already counting down the hours.”

After the call ended, you stared at the half-packed suitcases littering your floor. Your gown was draped over a chair. Your diploma case was propped on the desk, alongside empty hangers, and little scraps of your life here—postcards from friends, a stack of well-worn notebooks, a frame photo of you and Satoru, one he’d printed and mailed to you from home.

You folded shirts with careful hands, brushed your thumb over the embroidery on your school sweatshirt, the hem of your favorite jeans. You glanced around the room, feeling the weight of it press in—these walls that had held so many late nights, so much laughter, so many whispered FaceTime calls with Satoru.

Every inch of space mattered.

And it hit you, sharply and suddenly, that this chapter was done.

You were going back.

Not just for a visit. Not just for a break.

But for good.

You exhaled slowly, leaning back on your hands, glancing at the plane ticket tucked into your passport on the nightstand.

Tomorrow, you’d board the plane.

You’d cross the ocean.

You’d land in the arms of the guy you were going to spend the rest of your life with.

Tomorrow, everything you’d worked for—everything you’d dreamed about, fought for, bled yourself dry to achieve—was waiting for you.

And you were ready.

The cab rumbled softly beneath you. The faint hum of tires blended with the muffled sound of the country radio station playing through the driver’s speakers—Harvest Moon by Neil Young—one of Satoru’s favorites. He always told you it reminded him of you. 

The afternoon sun slanted low across the horizon. You pressed your forehead to the window, watching the familiar shapes blur past—the swaying grass of the fields, the crumbling fence lines, the weathered barns leaning tiredly into the sky, rows of crops blending gently under the weight of the summer wind.

It all looked the same.

And yet, somehow, it didn’t.

You smiled faintly to yourself, heart hammering faster with every familiar landmark, fingers tapping nervously against your knee. The long drive up to Ashford stretched ahead, the trees bowing slightly over the narrow road. You could feel the weight of the ring on your finger, the soft ache blooming in your chest. Every twist through the land brought you closer, every mile ticking down like the final stretch of a marathon. 

He was waiting for you.

Your cowboy.

And then—

There it was.

The end of the driveway. That old, familiar stretch of gravel winding up toward the ranch house.

The cab slowed to a stop at the end—the same one you’d been dropped at over two years ago now, dragging a battered suitcase behind you, unsure of what you were even coming back to.

Back then, you’d been angry, messy, lost.

Now?

You were someone new.

Someone who had fought, and learned, and finished what you started.

Someone who knew exactly what you wanted to come home to.

You thanked the driver, heart thudding wildly, fingers tightening around the handle of your suitcase as you climbed out. The gravel crunched beneath your boots, taking in the air that smelled like earth and sunshine, hay and horses. You stood there for a moment as the cab pulled away behind you—suitcase by your side, wind tugging at the hem of your jacket—and then you saw it.

A figure, cresting the far edge of the field.

Ollie’s dark shape moving fast, Jasper trailing behind on a loose lead, ears pricked forward. And atop him—

Satoru.

Grinning, wild, beautiful Satoru. Tall on the saddle, pale white hair glowing bright in the sunshine. 

You let out a breathless laugh, heart leaping, feet shifting nervously on the gravel as you watched him close the distance, watched the way Ollie’s hooves kicked up little clouds of dust, watched the way his grin stretched so wide you could see it even from here.

And the second he spotted you, he yanked the reins sharply, pulling Ollie to an abrupt stop, feet kicking up dust. Before you could even blink, he was off—

Swinging off the saddle (practically throwing himself), nearly tripping over his own feet, sprinting toward you at full speed, covering the last few yards in long, desperate strides. His boots pounded against the earth, face lit up with wild joy. You barely had time to squeak out a laugh before he was on you—

Strong arms scooped you up off the ground, spinning you once, twice, until you were dizzy with laughter, squealing as you clutched at his shoulders. His mouth pressed kisses across your cheeks, your jaw, your forehead, his voice breathless between every touch.

“God, I missed you—”

“I missed you so much, baby—”

“Never—never leave me this long again, swear to God—”

You half-sobbed, half-giggled into his shoulder as you clung to him. You buried your face against his skin, threaded your fingers into the soft strands of hair at the back of his neck. You could feel his breath stutter out in warm, shaky exhales. His arms wrapped tighter around you, keeping you impossibly close, broad and firm and solid. His hands splayed wide across your back, like he was afraid you might slip through his grasp.

“You’re here. You’re really here…” he murmured, voice rough, mouth pressed to the curve of your throat. “You’re home.”

You pulled back just enough to look at him—his flushed cheeks, his shining eyes, the soft, lopsided grin that tugged at his mouth.

And then you kissed him.

Hard and sweet. Making up for every second you’d been apart.

“I missed you, too, stupid.”

For a long, perfect moment, you just stood there, wrapped in each other, breathing each other in—the familiar smell of his cologne, the sun-warmed leather of his jacket, the quiet rasp of his breath brushing the curve of your throat.

Eventually, when you could both pull back without crying (or maybe just pretending you weren’t), he let you slide gently back to the ground, though his arm stayed looped around your waist, letting his thumb stroke over your hip like he couldn’t quite let go.

With a soft, crooked smile, he leaned in, bumping his forehead against yours. “C’mon, princess,” he murmured, voice low and fond, “let me take you home.”

He reached down and hoisted your suitcase onto Jasper’s saddle with practiced ease, then reached for your hand, tugging you toward Ollie. “Ride with me,” he grinned, pulling you flush against him as he swung easily up into the saddle, reaching down to help you up.

And just like that—you were back where it all started. This time, Satoru was behind you, his arms wrapped snug around your wasit, chin tucked on your shoulder. His voice was warm and soft in your ear, “Welcome back,”  he murmured, kissing the side of your neck as the horses started down the long, familiar path toward the house.

“Christ, I’m so glad you’re home.”

You closed your eyes, smiling, feeling the sun on your skin and the easy sway of the horse beneath you, the steady beat of his heart against your back. The wind whipped softly around you both, carrying the scent of dirt and straw. And there, just ahead, like Grandpa promised—the porch lights glowed warm against the falling dusk, waiting to welcome you back.

You thought—as Satoru tipped his head back with a laugh, as his hand found yours over the saddle horn, as the horses carried you both gently, steadily, toward the life waiting ahead—

This was it.

This was the place you’d been riding back to all along.

You were finally home for good.

Fourteen | Chapter Index | Epilogue

Divider by: @v6que

Author's Note: So I literally already said this last chapter but...SCREAMING, CRYING, THROWING UP. I'm going to miss them so much. Cowboy Gojo is literally my actual husband.

As always my lovelies, if you enjoyed, a repost is always appreciated! <3