Six out of Seven Gargolyes

The meeting he had just left was running late, his afternoon had been disrupted and the chaos he had yet to dispel was surely about to be unleashed on some unsuspecting intern.

"I've worked here far too long for superiors to still be unable to summarize a damn meetinggg~" Gojo hummed around a mouthful of croissant he had stolen from the client table. The editor that typically sat beside you would have flinched at Gojo's current gesticulation mid-rant.

You missed the peace she brought you when Gojo came around. Crumbs fell as the man licked his fingers. "Wasting my time like that, someone's gotta let them go."

You spun in your chair, looking back to see if Yaga, the company's publishing editor-in-chief, the very man Satoru Gojo was badmouthing over a sip of smoothie, was hearing his insults.

You didn't even blink when the very 'superior' exited from the conference room, waving Gojo off. The interns seemed even more worried. "The office doesn't revolve around your snacking schedule, Gojo. If you want perfect synchronicity, you might as well quit."

The apprentices looked between each other and you smiled them off, silently telling them to get back to researching the projects they were supposed to be putting together.

"You would like that, wouldn't you?" Satoru squinted, judging your very existence with his gaze.

He sighed theatrically, lounging himself across an open swivel chair of the empty editors cubical as if sitting through an assembly was the greatest waste of his precious- "They should know how important my time is-"

You roll your eyes, cutting him off, "Oh yes, so terribly important that you're spending it eating and bitching to me."

If you were being wholly honest, the shareholders in that meeting should be grateful. You'd never say it aloud, but Satoru Gojo wasn't just a writer. He was a cultural phenomenon. In his early twenties, he had already been revered for his reporting and interviewing skills, his name had graced more publications post-grad than you had even after building your portfolio.

His rate per word was outrageous as well as his schedule: a true nightmare. The Tokyo Times was beyond lucky to have been able to keep him on the team for as long as they had.

He sighed, rolling his eyes, the drama queen. He reached across you, stealing one of your pens and spinning it around amidst his fingers. "'The only reason I haven't jumped ship is because it brings me." He glided out of the chair and leaned against your cubicle, sliding the pen along the decor you had there, observing it, "so much pleasure", you wince at his seductive tone, "to bring you…annoyance." You smack his hand before he can poke the fat of your cheek with the writing utensil.

Satoru grins, spinning away with your pen, scraping up a donut before making the way back to his office. His very own, if you were curious.

One of the trainees from earlier was watching this interaction. He had a look of shock on his face as if he couldn't imagine someone smacking The Satoru Gojo.

You'd like to imagine he just couldn't fathom such a well-revered writer being so immature, but alas, that was less likely.

If it was possible for someone to be more critical than yourself when it came to work, it was Satoru. He had this sadistic urge in him that made it impossible to not call out the mistakes of others. It stung. That was the truth, but you would rather he tell you his thoughts then lie to your face and laugh behind your back.

Working with him was more of a challenge than a motivation most days. The salary was a great motivation, though. Yaga and his team paid you well. More than that though, was the rage to outlive that white haired tantrum of a man.

You could see it in the way he smirked at you, in the way his eyes found yours when you would slip up, the way he never seemed to take you seriously. This might just be the worst aspect of your personality; you just couldn't help but want to impress people, even if they didn't respect you.

"He seems like fun to work alongside." One of the interns had left the side of his fellow novices. Making small talk, telling a joke.

You shrug at the young man, "Most can't tolerate him for longer than a fiscal quarter. I hope you have what it takes."

He looked down at his shoes suddenly, "Me too."

He was tall, or taller than you at least, sweet, and earnest. He dressed up for every day at the office, he was never late, and he greeted every employee by name - to put it simply, he made a good impression. You turn your chair to him, "How are you liking your internship, is it the experience you hoped for?"

He smiled again, and his eyes practically twinkled. "I'm very grateful for the experience, I'll continue to work hard."

"I have no doubt." You nodded encouragingly at him and turned to face the screen before you. You figured he would move onto his fellows, go work on his project maybe, but he stayed standing there for a moment too long.

He heaved a breath as if steeling himself to say something risky. "Actually, there's something I wanted to ask you."

He looked suddenly shy, "I've read a lot of your stuff, you've been a real inspiration to me, and being able to work here has been-"

You know where this is going, you give him an understanding nod. Reading off the name on his chest, you lean in conspiratorially, whispering "I'm sorry, I won't be able to sway the decisions on who gets offered jobs after your program is up. But you're a hard worker, I'm sure y-"

He startles suddenly, waving his hands frantically, "No! Oh, no, no, I'm not... asking for anything like that... I'm sorry I came off that way, I was just... well," He swallows, and you attempt to track his eyes as they wander, confused about what he could possibly want from you.

"I just... I admire you a lot. You're bright, and...you're beautiful...and I was actually wondering if I could buy you a meal sometime?" He sounded so unsure of himself but he was standing up straight, breathing through his nose.

You weren't sure what to say. You knew you weren't unattractive but to be completely frank, people didn't ask you out. You chalked it up to being intimidating or perpetually busy, or a control freak. Whatever the cause, you were not accustomed to people liking you in that way.

You flush.

"Oh..." You had to replay his words over and over again. Your mouth opened and closed, and you tried to weigh what he was asking. He was cute, but also… he was an intern at the company you worked for.

Before you could even formulate a response, you were jerked back to reality when the gentleman who had just so adamantly confessed his feelings made an "aagh!" noise.

Yaga was tugging him by the ear. "You, young man, better get back to work before I deduct points from your final presentation for fraternization."

He looked overcome with embarrassment, rubbing the back of his neck while apologies spilled from his mouth. Yaga flicked him gently before he could bow anymore and rolled his eyes your way.

Dumbstruck, you stared at the screen of your computer for a long while. A dozen tabs were open, your task bar was still full of items you needed to get to today, even so, you found yourself cupping your cheeks, feeling the blood that had pooled there.

"Please don't tell me that was your type."

You're not sure when he appeared, but Gojo Satoru was staring at you with discernment. He had a judgmental eyebrow raised and he was tongue-ing at his cheek.

"Jesus." You huff, stretching your jaw, trying to brush off the flush you felt atop your ears. "What on earth are you doing?"

You made a brave attempt to type something onto a notation sheet. Dispelling the embarrassment that came with someone actually liking you.

"What am I doing? Look at yourself, you're all sheepish over some kid hitting on you."

You choke, "He's not a kid! He's graduated."

Satoru squints at you now, moving even closer. "Oh my gosh," he pulls a 'I'm-grossed-out-by-you-but-intrigued-all-the-same' face and continues, "are you actually into younger guys?"

"No!" You pant, your hands spread. He wasn't even that much younger than you, but being pressed about anything romantic, especially from Gojo was embarrassing.

"What's with this face you're pulling then?" He tapped the pen he had so rudely stolen earlier atop the wall of your cubicle, "I've never seen you all-" he fake gags, "-shy like this."

You huff, trying to find the words. "I'm-" you scoff, trying again, "not all of us are so used to...that sort of thing."

He straightens up suddenly, pulling his lips together, "Are you saying like... being flirted with?" He chuckles at the idea and you grit your teeth.

Breathing in, you try to laugh, trying to sound nonchalant, but it comes out annoyed. "Yes, Gojo, not everyone has people falling at their feet all the time."

Have I mentioned that Satoru, on top of being an incredibly talented creative, was a painfully striking individual to look at? Well, sure, he was very symmetrical. And tall. And he had...nice teeth. Veins too. It’s fair to say he wasn't lacking when it came to attention.

"So...you like him then." Somehow, he seemed offended at the idea.

"No, not necessarily." Was he trying to insinuate you were some kind of creep? He couldn't have been more than two years your junior. "But he was nice..."

"Nice?" Satoru wheezed. You didn't move. This whole interaction was ticking you off. Gojo's guffaws continued until he noticed you were just silently staring at him. "Are you serious?" He wiped a faux tear.

Why this was so upsetting for you, you couldn't quite place. "Yes, Gojo." You had a bit of an insulted tone to your voice, you wondered why he didn't seem to care about wasting his precious time with you suddenly.

"What... that's all it takes with you?"

Gears began to turn in Satorus' brain as he observed you now, taking in the new information.

"Normal people like niceness, Satoru, crazy, I know." You refuse to meet his gaze but he stands infuriatingly still, arms crossed, before his head canters to the side as if considering the concept for the first time.

"hmm..."

He shifts on his feet. You grow more tense by the second, waiting for his next snide comment. He clicks the pen a few times before slowly, setting it back on your desk. And then he was finally gone.

Looking back you always knew what he was before you ever loved him. That was the problem…….Satoru didn’t trick you nor did he ever pretend to be normal. He told you, gently, almost sweetly….

“I don’t share.”

You laughed back then, care free, young, naive…. you even thought it was romantic. 

You don’t laugh now.

୨ৎ ───────────────────────────────────────── ୨ৎ

The house is quiet at night. Too quiet. It’s the kind of quiet that exists because nothing is allowed to disturb it. There was nothing to disturb it….. no neighbors, no friends, no people. Satoru made sure of that! He made sure to buy a house that was isolated from any other people. His reason was 

“Its more romantic when its only the two of us here” 

You knew what he was! you knew that his charming smile, that grin that turned heads, his playfulness were all a mask he wears for the world to see. His true nature was much more obsessive, more possessive with the certainty that you would either belong to him forever or to nobody at all!

And yet you stayed…. could you have escaped? you never really tried to and its too late to find out now. You hate that you let him come too close and let him build this cage around you. 

And now there is a child…. your son. You sit on the edge of the bed, watching him sleep. White hair. Blue eyes. Bright. Identical.

When he was born, the nurses joked that he was a copy-paste of his father. Satoru had smiled like he’d won something. You had almost thrown up. 

୨ৎ ───────────────────────────────────────── ୨ৎ

You love your son, you truly do… but sometimes, when he tilts his head just slightly…when he smiles too knowingly and says 

“Daddy says you worry too much” Your stomach turns.

He doesn’t mean anything by it, he can't mean anything by it. He is just five years old. He is young and he loves his parents. Satoru is gentle with him…. playful, warm and never yells. He is a great father and in many eyes he was also a great partner. He never raises his voice, he is very loving, affectionate and clingy so clingy it's almost hard to breathe. 

୨ৎ ───────────────────────────────────────── ୨ৎ

Thinking back, you never choose this life. You loved Satoru you truly did but you did not choose this life. He removed your choices one by one. You fell out with your family, friends moved away and job offers disappeared. Your apartment lease was unexpectedly terminated and when you tried to book a hotel room, your bank account was frozen. You had no choice! You could only go to him…. he was the only "choice" you had left. And Satoru couldn't have been any happier. 

You tried to leave once. Before your son was born, you tried to leave this godforsaken house but you didn't make it far before he appeared in front of you. Not angry.. he was very composed, like he knew he would always find you 

“You didn’t even say goodbye,” he said quietly and took your hand to lead you back to the house. The next day, security gates were installed and cameras inside the house he thought you didn't notice or he simply didn't care .

୨ৎ ───────────────────────────────────────── ୨ৎ

But this time is different! You were determined to leave now. You’ve been planning for a year. Small things like keeping left over money from grocery trips, copied keys, a hidden phone inside of your old winter jacket, learned the cameras blind spots, hell you even studied his sleeping patterns. 

The hardest part isn’t escaping him. It’s deciding about your son. You stare at him at night and feel split in two. If you take him, Satoru will hunt you. He will dismantle the world to find you. If you leave him. You are abandoning your child with a man who believes love means ownership and isolation. But Satoru would never hurt him. Right? Right?

୨ৎ ───────────────────────────────────────── ୨ৎ

One afternoon, your son looks up at you.

“Mommy?”, he says while innocently looking up at you. 

“Yes, baby?”

“If you ever try to leave, Daddy will bring you back.”

Your blood goes cold and you freeze.

“Why would you say that?”, you say with a shocked expression. 

He shrugs.

“He said families don’t separate. Ever.”

He smiles. Just like him. At that moment you made your decision! If you don't leave now… your sun might become just like him. And you would rather die than allow that ever! 

୨ৎ ───────────────────────────────────────── ୨ৎ

That night, Satoru wraps an arm around your waist.

“You’ve been distant,” he murmurs against your neck.

Your body stiffens automatically.

His hand tightens.

“Are you unhappy?”

It’s not a threat. It’s a question he expects you to answer correctly.

“I’m just tired,” you say softly.

“Is that so…..”

୨ৎ ───────────────────────────────────────── ୨ৎ

The night you choose is raining. Storm heavy enough to interfere with some surveillance. You wake your son gently.

“Put your shoes on,” you whisper.

He rubs his eyes.

“Mommy….are we going somewhere?”

“Yes.”

He tilts his head.

“Does Daddy know?”

Your hands shake, of course he would ask about him. 

“No.”

He studies you.

Blue eyes glowing faintly in the dark.

For a moment……You see Satoru looking back at you.

You reach the back gate. Heart pounding and with shaking hands you input the code you stole months ago. It beeps.

Red. Denied.

A soft voice speaks from behind you.

“You really thought I wouldn’t notice?”

You don’t turn around. You can’t. Satoru approaches you, his footsteps are unhurried, Almost amused.

“You were doing so well, I must say, I am quite impressed ” he says gently. “The hidden phone was clever.”

Your son looks between you.

“Mommy?”

You finally turn.

Satoru isn’t angry, it's even worse He’s hurt.

“I gave you everything” he says quietly.

“You took everything! I never asked for this! I never asked for him!” you shoutout. Your son flinches slightly, just enough that you notice but you brush it off. 

Silence. The rain continues to pour.

Your son looks up at his father, with tear filled eyes. 

“Daddy?”

Satoru kneels ,while smiling softly. 

“Mommy’s confused right now” he says calmly. “But we’ll fix it.”

We.

Your stomach drops. Your son nods slowly.

And that’s when you realize the most horrifying truth of all:

He doesn’t just have you. He has your son, a legacy, a mirror…….Someone who will understand him.

୨ৎ ───────────────────────────────────────── ୨ৎ

Years have passed since that awful night. You have all but accepted your fate now….. you didn't even dare to think about escaping again. 

Your son is sixteen when he first says it.

“I know you’re unhappy.”

You freeze……..Satoru is out on a mission or a meeting, you didnt really care as long as he isn't home and breathing down your neck. You and your son are alone in the kitchen.

“I don’t know what you mean,” you reply carefully.

He doesn’t smile, he just looks at you with his bright blue eyes that looked like his fathers. 

“I’m not stupid,” he says quietly. “I see how you look at the gates.”

Your throat tightens, but you try to keep your composure. You've been careful. So careful.

“You don’t have to pretend with me,” he continues softly. “I’m on your side.”

And for the first time in sixteen years……. Hope flickers.

୨ৎ ───────────────────────────────────────── ୨ৎ

Your son starts helping in small ways. He tells you where the cameras are upgraded. He warns you when Satoru changes passcodes and he even distracts his father when you need privacy. He listens when you whisper, 

“I can’t do this anymore.”

And when he takes your hand and says, “I’ll get you out,”

You believe him, because he’s not Satoru, he's your son, he's yours.

୨ৎ ───────────────────────────────────────── ୨ৎ

“You should leave during one of his overseas assignments,” your son says one night.

“He’ll be gone for at least twelve hours.”

You stare at him.

“That’s enough time.”

His tone is calm and logical, just like his father’s when he’s planning something. You notice it but you ignore the similarity.

“Will you come with me?” you ask and he hesitates slightly. 

“I’ll follow after.”

Your chest tighthens “You’re staying with him?”

“It’ll be easier if he doesn’t suspect.” He says and squeezes your hand.

“I promise.”

୨ৎ ───────────────────────────────────────── ୨ৎ

The night comes.

Satoru leaves with a kiss to your forehead.

“Don’t miss me too much,” he teases. You force a smile. 

Your son meets your eyes across the room and gives you a subtle nod.

It’s time.

୨ৎ ───────────────────────────────────────── ୨ৎ

You move quickly! You’ve memorized the blind spots, know about the emergency exit your son showed you and have the backup key he “stole.” Still your heart pounds so hard you feel dizzy but it doesn't stop your movements and your excitement to finally be free and to leave this place behind.

The gate opens. For the first time in years, It opens. You step through and you almost laugh, almost cry, almost collapse. You turn to look at your son one last time. He’s standing just inside the property. Not moving, not following just watching. And then

Clap. Clap. Clap 

Slow, mocking.

You know that clap. You’ve heard it behind you too many times before. Satoru steps out from the shadows of the driveway. Untouched and unbothered.

“You made it farther this time,” he says pleasantly.

Your blood runs cold. and you look at your son, who was now walking out of  that house and making his way to you.  

“No,” you whisper.

Your son doesn’t look ashamed, he doesn’t look guilty, he looks… curious. Like he’s studying your reaction.

“You told him?” your voice breaks.

Your son tilts his head just slightly, the same way Satoru does when he’s amused.

Satoru laughs softly.

“She thought you were helping her.”

“I was,” your son replies calmly. “It was interesting.”

Your knees nearly give out.

“I needed to see if she’d really go through with it,” he continues. “You said she always tries eventually.”

Satoru hums approvingly.

“And?”

“She did.”

He looks at you. Not with anger. Not with love. With something you didn't recognise 

“You were willing to leave me too.”

The words stab deeper than anything Satoru has ever done.

His voice isn't loud, it isn't angry, it's worse, it's steady. I open my mouth to argue, to deny it but something in his expression stops me. He isn't guessing nor is he lashing out. He is remembering…. And Suddenly so are You… 

The gate.

The rain.

Your shaking hands, your voice breaking as you screamed words you didn’t mean, words thrown like weapons because you had nothing else left.

“I never asked for him”

You hadn’t even looked at him when you said it. You were looking at Satoru. But children don’t understand direction, they only understand impact.

Your son had gone quiet that night. Not crying, not screaming, just quiet.

You thought it was fear…… God, it wasn’t fear, it was something settling inside him, something sharp.

“I was five,” he says softly now. “I didn’t understand everything. But I understood that.”

“I didn’t mean-” you tried to argue but he stopped you. 

“I know,” he replies immediately. And that hurts more because he isn’t accusing me. 

You see it now…. the distance, the control, the precision in the way he speaks. The way he watches your reactions before responding. The way he calculates instead of feeling. 

No.

He does feel, he just learned not to bleed openly. The way you did. The way Satoru never does.

At the gate, you were desperate. Trapped. Angry. you threw words like knives because you couldn’t stab the cage. But he was standing right there. And you cut him instead.

“You didn’t ask for me,” 

He repeats quietly, not bitter, not cruel, just factual. And in that moment you understand something that makes your knees weak:

He didn’t become this way because of his father, he became this way because of you.

Because love, when twisted by fear, still wounds.

Because even desperation can leave scars.

Because children don’t forget the moment they feel unwanted.

you thought Satoru was the only one shaping him, you thought you were the safe one, the gentle one, the one who loved correctly. But standing here, staring into eyes that mirror his fathers but are shaped like yours, you realize the truth was uglier. Your love was frantic, shaped by fear and his father’s love was possessive.

And neither of them were harmless…….

A slow, sick understanding settles in your chest.

Your love may have hurt him, just like his father’s love had hurt you.

And maybe that’s the cruelest inheritance of all.

୨ৎ ───────────────────────────────────────── ୨ৎ

As they walk you back inside. Satoru’s arm around your waist. Your son walking slightly behind, you realised another truth. Satoru wanted to keep you. Your son wants to keep the family intact and he is willing to become worse than his father to do it.

୨ৎ ───────────────────────────────────────── ୨ৎ

Everyone is still. There’s no more sound, no more silence. The vase is kept in the air. He can no longer taste the cherry on his tongue. He has become nothing but his Eyes. 

It barely lasts five seconds. 

The chatter is back. He can taste the cherry. He can feel his arms and feet, and his skin.

The vase smashes onto the ground. 

The servants carried on as normal. The girl is berated for her clumsiness, his clan continues onward as though nothing happened. 

He sits on the steps until the cherry burns his throat, and then he tosses it away. 

He is sixteen. The second time it happens. 

He’s bigger now, stronger. He doesn’t need the strength of the Gojo anymore, not when he is Gojo. 

But when he’s with Suguru, it becomes easier to be Satoru. 

Riko and Misato splash each other in the water. He likes the smile Riko has. It’s bright, bright enough to light an entire room. It makes her look younger, like her life isn’t being stolen right in front of their eyes. 

Suguru sits next to him, quiet and thoughtful as always. He doesn’t feel the need to break it, unlike his usual urges. Satoru is content to sit right alongside of him, feeling the wind tickle the hairs on his skin. 

When he steals a peek, Suguru is staring up at the sunset. When the stars come out, they’ll have to pack it up. He knows that all too well. 

The world freezes, and he becomes his Eyes. 

He’s stuck staring at Suguru, but he strangely doesn’t mind. The secret glances mean nothing compared to this. He maps Suguru’s serene face. Pretty flowy hair, he knows is soft to the touch. 

Satoru has always been told he has beautiful blue eyes. At this moment, he feels that purple is the better color. 

He knows the world came back when Suguru blinked. 

“Did you see it, too?” He asks, his voice featherlight, the wind nearly blows it away. 

“What?” Suguru smiles. In the background, Riko cheers. 

Satoru doesn’t deflate. It doesn’t matter. He knows he has forever with him anyway. There’s no need to feel understood, not at this time. 

When Satoru is twenty-eight years old, he finally meets the person doing this to him. 

Shibuya is teeming with human bodies. He can hear and see and See the panic all around. Dozens of people have died already. 

He wishes he were faster in killing the curses, but their advantage was his downfall. 

The volcano fucker is grinning as though Satoru didn’t just massecre his comrade right in front of him. He can hear moans of transfigured humans all around him. The curse Yuji fought was laughing, getting louder and louder.  People were screaming. People were dying. 

He knew time was running out. He had to act. 

And then, he becomes nothing but his Eyes. 

He’s not as annoyed as he was the first time. He’s a little relieved, all things considered. Now, he was finally given a moment to think. Volcano-head would go down first, then he would destroy the scar-faced curse as well as Pigtails. He wanted to gut them, rip them apart limb from limb, but the transfigured humans were also something he needed to–

He sees movement. 

At first, he thinks the world has melted, but he is still his Eyes, none of the other humans have moved. Their mouths are open in prolonged horror. He can’t hear screams. He can’t even hear footsteps. 

He just sees you. 

He doesn’t expect you. He doesn’t expect someone like you. You’re normal, down to the cheap Halloween costume you wear. But he knows it’s you because of your walk. It’s slow and measured. And that easy smile you have on. He recognizes it because he’s had the smile on for a decade now. Like you’re untouchable. 

Like you have all the time in the world. 

You reach the volcano-head first. Your hand reaches out–it’s smaller than his–barely touching the curse’s skin. 

His body ripples, like he was made out of paper that was flushed down the toilet. A special-grade curse disappeared with barely a tap. 

The same thing happens to Stitches. Pigtail disappears too. It looked painful, if he wasn’t just his Eyes, he would probably hear the bones cracking as they shrunk into nothingness. 

You watched it all, barely even blinking. Unphased. 

This was the longest you’ve ever frozen time. He was counting every second, lingering on every minute because he didn’t want this to end. He wanted to watch you eviscerate them all. 

Twenty-three minutes and thirty-seven seconds pass before every curse and transfigured human is gone. You’re back in his sights, brushing away your hands.

It was just coincidence. You looked up. You looked down. You looked up again. 

You Saw him, just like he Saw you. 

You stare. He wants to open his mouth, but he is just his Eyes.

Hell is waiting for you to reach him. Hell is seeing you tilt your head, a laugh coming from your mouth, but he can’t hear it. 

You lean forward, never breaking eye-contact with him. You’re so close, he could almost reach out and touch. Your lips move. 

“You can see me.” 

It’s not a question, he knows it, you know it. The world is still. 

Your lips curve into a delighted smile. If he had a heart, it would be quickening right now. You look at him like he’s a marvel. 

A minute passes. Your awe of him fades. 

You must have realized he is just his Eyes. 

Disappointment. It’s an odd feeling. He’s never had anyone disappointed with him before. 

You stand up, brushing imaginary dirt off your skirt. You’re looking down as you’re saying this, but he catches your lip move. 

“Oh, must be too weak.” 

You never look back at him once as you walk away. 

Thirty-six minutes and fifty-two seconds later, his senses return. He hears the murmurs of the living again. 

He doesn’t care who sees him, he’s immediately gone. 

He searches everywhere for you: the tunnels, the crowd, the other humans. Once or twice, he thinks he sees you, but it’s never quite you enough. 

It takes him twenty minutes to realize he lost you. 

Ijichi finds him standing on the subway ledge. You must have killed whoever set up the veil too. 

“What?” Satoru asks. 

“Did you defeat them?” Ijichi repeats. 

It’s a stupid question. Gojo always wins. Gojo always fights. 

Until today. 

Today, he was still. Today, he watched as you wandered around the subway, killing anything you came across. 

You were inches away from him. If you had reached out, if your hands had ever so gently nicked his neck. He would have seen his death coming miles away, but he would be unable to do anything. He would’ve been helpless to stop you. He would simply stand there, waiting for you to do your horror. 

You were simply Lovecraftian. 

And Satoru was in love with it. 

“Yes.” He replies, his smile bordering on mania. “I did.” 

“…yes,” you whimper.

“Then fucking arch it.”

You sniffle. “Okay.”

He breaks character and huffs out a laugh as he watches you continue to helplessly stretch and squelch around him, making a creamy mess all along his shaft. He straightens his back, big hands now firmly grabbing your hips as he picks up the pace.

“Yeahh—stay right there,” his chest rumbles as he lets out a low, drawn-out groan. The smack of his hips growing louder, driving himself right into that little spot that won’t stop screaming for his attention.

It has his attention now.

The new angle had you whining into the pillow, absolutely reeling from how good he was at this, despite his complaints. He knows how to be rough. Nearly lifting you off the bed once he starts pulling your hips back, heavy balls smacking against your sensitive clit as he makes you meet each and every rough thrust he delivers.

“F-fuckk!” you choke out, barely able to form a coherent sentence as you start babbling out a bunch of words.

“So fuckin’ spoiled.” He complains, but just barely. “C’mon brat—you’ve been working me like a fuckin’ dog, give it to me already.”

“I know, I’m sorry.” He doesn’t believe you. You sound like you’re in heaven right now. “Mmhh—I love you so much.” His scowl deepens. “So, so much—you’re so fucking big.“

“Tch.” He grabs a handful of your hair, then yanks you back until you’re up against his chest, lips grazing your ear while muttering in it. “I don’t want an apology. What I want is for you to cum on my fuckin’ cock already. Or should I just stop?”

“No, no don’t! Please! I’m trying, I swear,” you begin to plead with the man.

“Try harder.” Then he smiled, because he felt you squeeze around him. “Jesus Christ—you need to me talk you through it too? The chocolates supposed to make you horny, sweetheart. Not useless.”

“It’s not my fault,” you whimper, and squeeze around him again, pulling a condescending huff out of him.

“You poor thing,” he hums. “Probably spent the whole day waiting for me to come home so I could make you feel better, huh?”

His breath tickles your ear and you nearly moan. “Mhm—I thought about it all day.”

“Well aren’t you sweet,” he mutters, tone as condescending as ever. “You got what you wanted, too. I’ve been taking care of you for a while now. How many times have I cum in you now?”

“I… I don’t know—“

“Of course you fuckin’ don’t.” He cuts you off, unamused by your answer. “Want me to do it again? Fill you up, make you feel all nice and warm?”

“Please.”

“Give me what I want then. If these sheets aren’t soaked by the time I’m about to cum again, I’m pulling out and finishing on your face,” he lets go of your hair and begins to laugh. You don’t get much of a chance to react before you feel the pads of his fingers on your clit, pulling a gasp out of you once he starts rubbing little circles on top of already fucking you. “Heh—let’s see if playing with this cute little clit saves you.”

And he knows you don’t deserve it—any of it, honestly. Unfortunately, he can’t help himself, not with the reactions he gets out of you. He married you for many reasons—getting to spend the rest of his life with a squirter was one of them. The moment your breathing grows labored and you sound like you’re gonna start to cry, his lids grow heavy and he starts saying all the things he told himself he wouldn’t say today.

"Yeahhh, that’s it, baby—fuuuuck—takin’ it so good.” He is fucking gone. Voice thick, filled with nothing but lust and awe as he presses against your lower belly. “C’mon, you want it here, right? Yeah, you know what to do—don’t let some fuckin’ asshole finish on your sweet little face.”

Yes. Your husband just degraded himself. And you just egg him on without meaning to. You were already whining about how it was too much, the incoherent “want it inside,” just made it better worse.

“I will, I’ll give you so fuckin’ much if you just give me one—just one. Easy. Shit—I’ll fill you up as much as you want afterwards.” He doesn’t know what he’s saying, but that doesn’t matter when it’s what has you crying and trembling and finally gushing around his cock.“Yeah, that’s it. That’s it, that’s—fuuuuck yeah. Good job, sweetheart—good fuckin’ job. Fuck.”

Funny enough, he came right after you, which was a relief because that meant his job was done and he was finally able to give his dick a fucking break after hours of feeling like he was working for free, when he had already worked a regular eight hour shift prior. The biggest relief of all was seeing you lie limp in bed, after slightly worrying if you ever actually would.

He leans over you with a smug smile, already having forgotten how much you pissed him off earlier as he moved some hair away from your face. Checking to see if you’re actually asleep or not, then feeling a deep sense of peace when seeing that you are. He presses a kiss against your cheekbone, and in the most loving way hopes you stay that way because he cannot do that again. Then finally, he gets up to use the bathroom.

The peace is only lasts four steps until it’s completely shattered again when he hears your weak voice.

“Are you ready to go again?”

Suguru had sat you down on a Sunday, which you had thought was cruel timing. Sunday mornings used to be yours, slow and warm, coffee and his records and the particular blue light that came through the windows of his apartment on the Shimokitazawa side of the city. He had used that gentleness of his—the kind that had hooked you in the first place, the kind that made you feel like he was doing you a favor when he broke something in you.

"I feel like I'm suffocating you," he had said, which you both knew was not quite what he meant. You're suffocating me. He was too kind to say it plainly.

You had held it together long enough to get out the door.

That had been seven months ago.

You have, in those seven months, become a person you do not entirely recognize. You are aware of this. You are a fashion student, after all—you are trained to observe, to analyze, to understand aesthetics and composition and the way things are put together and taken apart. You apply this skill now to Geto Suguru's life in your absence from it.

It started small. The way these things always do.

You had kept his Instagram followed, of course. His main—@suguru.ink—which he kept public for his work. Clean grids of tattoo photos, the occasional candid shot from a coffee shop or a bar. Easy enough. You didn't even have to try.

But then he'd switched his personal account to private.

@its.suguru. One hundred and twelve followers. A lock icon.

You had made the alt before the thought had fully formed. It took you maybe twenty minutes: a new email, a new account, four weeks of posting photos stolen from Pinterest—aesthetic city shots, some food, a carefully curated collection of jazz album covers—and then a follow request sent to his personal from @mn.archives, a faceless account that looked like any other twenty-something whose personality lived entirely in film photography and good coffee. Two hundred and sixteen followers, because a number too low looks suspicious.

He accepted within a day.

You tell yourself this is just so you know he's okay. That it's concern, residual and tender, the way you might still check the weather in a city you used to live in. You scroll through his grid at eleven PM with your knees pulled to your chest and you look at the photo he posted last Thursday—some bar you recognize, neon light catching the silver of his earrings, Haibara's arm slung around his shoulder—and you feel something so complicated you can't name it. Not grief exactly. Not quite anger.

Want, maybe. Plain and embarrassing.

The tattoo was not your best idea. You will admit that freely, in the privacy of your own thoughts.

You had passed by his work plcea approximately forty-seven times in seven months, which you know because you have routes home that all bend toward this specific block on purpose. You had a habit of slowing down outside the window—frosted glass, the clean black font of the shop name, sometimes the amber glow of light inside—and telling yourself you were just walking. Just passing through. Just appreciating good signage, actually, as a design student.

The appointment you booked under a fake name—Watanabe Mika, which you chose because it felt forgettable—was a small floral piece. Lower back. Simple. Classic. Something you could attribute to a late-night Pinterest spiral rather than the slow, spectacular unraveling of your dignity.

There is one flaw in this plan, one thing you had somehow managed not to factor in.

You are terrified of needles.

You sat in the chair and stared at the ceiling and told yourself it was fine, it was fine, it was—

"Breathe."

His voice, right behind you. Low and unbothered, the way it always was.

You had not accounted, in all your meticulous planning, for the fact that you would have to talk to him. That the fake name would crumble the second he walked into the room and said it like he'd never heard it before in his life.

"Watanabe-san?"

You had turned, and his expression had done something complicated for exactly one second before settling back into professional neutrality. His hair was up—messy bun, a few strands loose around his face—and he had new ink on his forearm, something geometric you didn't recognize. Which meant he'd had it done after you. The thought sat in your chest like a splinter.

"Hi," you said. Brilliant.

"Hi." A pause. "Small piece?"

"Lower back. Florals. I have a reference."

He had nodded and reached for his gloves and you had spent the next forty minutes lying face-down on the table with your back exposed and his hands steady on your skin and tried very hard not to make a sound that wasn't about the needle.

You managed. Barely.

The tattoo healed beautifully. Sometimes you twist in front of your mirror just to look at it.

His favorite coffee shop is a place called Kōhī to Yoru—coffee and night—that operates out of a narrow building near the university. He started going there maybe three months into your relationship, the two of you sharing a corner table and his headphones, and you have continued going there with the particular audacity of someone who has decided they were there first, actually, in some cosmic sense, even if that is not strictly true.

You go on Tuesday mornings and Thursday afternoons, which are the days his alt account has, on multiple occasions, shown him holding an iced coffee that matches the shop's specific shade of pale green cup.

You bring your sketchbook. You work on your thesis collection. You sit with your back to the door and wait for the sound of it opening—the particular way the bell above it chimes—and when he comes in, which he does, not every time but often enough, you feel your whole body go still and warm and stupid. You look down at your paper and draw the same seam line you have been drawing for six minutes without noticing.

He always orders the same thing. You know his order the way you know the smell of his apartment, the exact pressure of his hands, the specific timbre of his voice when he's half asleep.

You don't look up.

You're very good at not looking up.

The club situation, in retrospect, requires more explanation.

There is a bar-club hybrid in the entertainment district called Sable that Suguru frequents. You know this because Satoru has a fully public account and zero impulse control regarding location tags, which means you have a near-perfect record of their Saturday nights without ever having to try very hard. You don't follow Satoru. You don't need to. His posts are public and his captions are aggressive and he documents everything.

You do not go to Sable every Saturday. You're not insane.

You go maybe twice a month. On weekends you've verified—through Satoru's stories, through a brief and agonizing scan of his tagged photos—that Suguru will be there. You get ready carefully, the way you used to when you were going to see him, and you tell your friends, who know nothing, that you just feel like going out. That you love this place. That the DJ is good.

The thing is, you're not lying about the DJ. The DJ genuinely is good.

And you are, by any objective measure, devastating when you make the effort.

You keep your distance. That's the important part, the part that keeps this justifiable. You don't go near him—too obvious, too much—and you have what's left of your pride to protect. You position yourself well, and you dance, and you drink, and you exist in the same airspace, and you watch, peripherally, the way you've gotten very good at watching things peripherally.

What you also do—and this is the part where you stop being able to fully justify yourself—is notice the women.

There are always women. Suguru is—you don't need to describe him to yourself. You know exactly what he looks like in a room, what he does to it without meaning to, that particular quality of his presence that functions like gravity. You know because it pulled you in and kept you there for sixteen months and you have not yet figured out how to get far enough away that it stops working on you.

So. The women.

You don't interfere directly. That would be messy, obvious, humiliating. What you do is more surgical than that. A girl drifts toward him at the bar—you're there first, materializing at his elbow under the pretense of ordering, smiling at the bartender, turning just enough that your body language reads as occupied space. A group approaches the table where he and Satoru are sitting—you're walking past right then, somehow, and you catch Gojo's eye (Gojo who knows you, Gojo who looks at you with an expression you have learned not to examine) and you smile like you ran into him by coincidence, and the moment breaks before it can start.

You are very good at this.

You have gotten very good at this.

You think you're slick.

This is perhaps the most important thing to understand about the last seven months: you have constructed, in meticulous and loving detail, the story of yourself as someone who is merely adjacent to Geto Suguru's life. Someone who passes through the same spaces by coincidence, drawn there by taste and habit and not by anything more embarrassing than that. Someone who has moved on cleanly and simply no longer intersects with him—except in these small moments that don't count, that you are careful to keep deniable.

You believe this story.

You are, perhaps, the only one who does.

Geto Suguru notices everything.

This is not vanity—it's fact, the baseline condition of someone who has spent years being precisely observed and has therefore learned to observe in return. He notices patterns. He notices the particular quality of attention a room gives a person. He notices when something stops being coincidence and starts being something else entirely.

The first time he saw you at Kōhī to Yoru, he thought: oh.

Not with surprise. With something more like recognition. Like finding a word he'd been looking for in a language he already spoke.

You had your sketchbook open and your head down and the line of your shoulders had that specific tension you always got when you were pretending to concentrate on something other than what was in front of you. He had ordered his coffee and taken the table by the window—not your corner, deliberately not your corner—and watched you not look at him for eleven minutes straight. And he had felt something settle in his chest like the click of a lock finding its latch.

There she is.

He had not broken up with you because he stopped wanting you. He needs to be clear about this, at least to himself, in the space where honesty costs nothing. He had broken up with you because wanting you and watching you want him back had started to feel like too much weight in a place he didn't know how to hold. He is—he will say this plainly—not good at being needed. Something in him retreats when it feels cornered by someone else's love, some reflex toward distance that he's never fully understood and never fully fought. He had watched you learn his rhythms and bend yourself around them and he had known, somewhere underneath the warmth of it, that he was shaping you into something that orbited him, and you deserved better than a center like him.

He had thought, in the careful logical part of his mind, that breaking up would free you. That you'd pull yourself out and go build something that didn't require making yourself small.

He had not, apparently, accounted for yoy.

@/mn.archives had followed him about two months after the breakup. He noticed because he got the notification at 2 AM on a Tuesday, which was exactly when you used to lose sleep to your phone.

He had looked at the profile for a long time.

The photos were too curated. Jazz records and film photography and that particular aesthetic that looked like a constructed personality rather than an actual one—assembled from the outside in, like a mood board rather than a life. No face. No name. mn.archives. He had scrolled back through their last few conversations once—just once, he told himself—and found a message you'd sent months before the end, mentioning a vintage archive account you'd been thinking about making.

He had accepted the follow request.

He still posts to that account knowing you're watching. Sometimes he tags places he's about to go, just to see if youll show up. You always do.

The tattoo appointment had required real effort not to laugh.

Watanabe Mika. He'd seen the name in the book when he was reviewing the day's schedule and he had known before he walked into the room. He doesn't know exactly how he knew—maybe the handwriting, you always pressed too hard with pens, like you were trying to leave a mark on whatever you touched—but he had known, and when he said the name and watched you face do that thing where you're trying to hold it perfectly still, he had felt something he'd classify, if he were being honest, as pure delight.

Forty minutes. His hands on your back. The way you'd gone absolutely rigid when the needle started and then forced yourself still through what he knew, because he knows you, was genuine fear. You hadn't made a sound. He'd been almost proud of you.

He wanted to say: you don't have to do this.

He wanted to say: I already know.

He said neither. Because there is something he enjoys—something he is not proud of but does not particularly want to stop—about watching you work this hard. About being watched this carefully. About being the thing someone builds an entire architecture of ordinary life around.

The club thing is his favorite.

He sees yoy every time. He spotted you the third Saturday you came to Sable—across the room, dancing with that particular careless ease you put on when you're trying to look like you're not paying attention to anything—and he had taken a slow drink and thought about how long you'd been doing this without knowing he saw. He had done a rough calculation. Yiu'd been at it for months.

The girls you redirects: he lets you. It would be simple enough to close the gap, to make himself reachable, to let someone else in just to see what you'd do. He doesn't.

Satoru, who is not an idiot and has never pretended to be, had said once, watching you materialize near the bar at precisely the right moment: "You know she's here."

"I know," Suguru had said.

Satoru had looked at him for a long moment. "And you're just going to let her keep doing this."

It hadn't been a question. Suguru hadn't answered it anyway. Satoru had made the face he made when he thought Suguru was being spectacular and specific kind of idiot, which was fair. Satoru was usually right about these things.

He still has your key.

This is the part he doesn't examine too closely, doesn't turn over in his hands and look at straight on. He still has the key you gave him fourteen months into their relationship—the little silver one with the small scratch near the head from when you'd dropped your keychain down a flight of stairs and laughed so hard you couldn't breathe, had grabbed his arm for balance and left half-moon marks in his jacket. He had kept it after the breakup, which he had told himself was oversight. He'd meant to return it. The moment had never arrived, and the key had stayed on his ring, and here they are.

He goes, sometimes, when he knows your out.

He knows your schedule the way he's always known things about you—not through tracking, not through architecture and alt accounts, but through the simple accumulating weight of attention. He knows you have studio hours Monday and Wednesday evenings. He knows you go to your mother's on Sunday afternoons and usually doesn't come back until after seven.

He lets himself in quietly. He moves through the apartment and he moves things—small things, careful things. A mug shifted slightly on the counter. Your desk chair at a different angle. The throw blanket refolded. Nothing you could be certain about, nothing that couldn't be chalked up to your own distracted hands in a busy week. He just wants you to feel it, in some wordless way you can't name. He wants to leave a shape in your space.

He also takes things. He is aware this is not something he can justify cleanly. Small things—a note torn from your sketchbook, a hair tie from the bathroom counter, once a grocery list written in your handwriting that he'd found tucked under a bottle of wine. Things you might not notice. Things you'd never be sure about.

The first time he went to the drawer beside the bed—just to look, he'd told himself—he had found his hoodie. The charcoal one you used to steal, folded near the bottom like you'd put it somewhere you didn't have to see every day but couldn't bring yourself to throw away. And underneath a novel you was reading: a photo strip from a machine in Harajuku. The two of you, making faces, the particular light of that afternoon still somehow caught in the paper.

You hadn't thrown any of it away.

He had stood there for a moment and felt something so complicated that he hadn't tried to name it. He had taken the photo strip. Replaced it with a different photo—same machine, earlier in the same day, just you, mid-laugh, caught without knowing—so the space wouldn't feel empty if you looked.

He keeps the photo strip in his wallet.

He does not call this obsession. He doesn't call it anything.

It's a Thursday night when he finally goes back, and this time he doesn't have a reason.

Not to rearrange anything. Not to take something. No careful justification assembled in advance. He doesn't know what that means and he has, tonight, decided to stop caring.

The city is quiet the way it gets past midnight, that particular held-breath stillness. His key makes no sound against her lock—he knows the angle by now, the specific lift-and-turn that keeps the mechanism from clicking too loud. The door swings open onto darkness and the particular smell of her apartment, warm and layered, something floral and underneath it something that is just you, unchanged across seven months, the thing that had always made the back of his mind go quiet.

He moves through the space without turning on a light. He knows it better than you might expect. He knows the creak of the second floorboard from the hallway and steps around it. He knows to angle left around the ottoman you perpetually fail to put back in the right place. He knows the bedroom door sticks slightly at the top corner and needs gentle pressure to open without a sound.

It gives way.

You're asleep. He can tell from the doorway—the slow, even rise and fall of you breathing, your hair against the pillow, one hand curled loosely near your face. The window lets in just enough city light to see you by. Gold and still.

He leans against the doorframe.

He watches you breathe.

There is something terrible about this moment. Something tender underneath the terrible. He knows that. He is not without self-awareness—he has spent years being precisely, painfully self-aware, and it has never once made him behave better. You have been watching him for seven months from what you believed is a safe distance. He has been watching you from what he knows is not one. And maybe that says something about both of you, about the particular shape of whatever this is, two people who were never going to fall cleanly out of each other's gravity no matter how carefully he tried to cut the line.

You shift in your sleep. A small sound, something that almost forms a word and dissolves before it arrives.

He is still there.

There she is.

He stays until his shoulder starts to ache from the doorframe, and then he stays a little longer.

The city light filters through the half-open blinds in thin silver bars across your bed. Suguru stands in the doorway a moment longer, letting the quiet settle into his bones. Your breathing is deep, slow, the kind that only comes after exhaustion has finally won. He crosses the room without sound, shedding his jacket onto the chair by your desk. The hoodie you still keep is visible when he glances at the open drawer—charcoal, folded like a secret.

He sits on the edge of the mattress. The shift of weight makes you stir, but you don’t wake. Good. He wants this part slow.

His hand finds your ankle first, thumb brushing up the bare skin of your calf. You’re wearing an oversized t-shirt—his, he realizes with a low pulse of satisfaction—and nothing else. The hem has ridden up to the curve of your ass. He traces higher, palm warm against the back of your thigh, then slips under the fabric to rest at the small of your back, right over the fresh ink he put there himself. The skin is still slightly raised, healed but sensitive. He presses lightly.

You make a soft, wordless sound, shifting onto your stomach more fully. Your face stays buried in the pillow.

“Suguru…?” The name is barely shaped, thick with sleep, more breath than voice.

He doesn’t answer. Instead he leans down, lips brushing the shell of your ear. “Shh. Go back to sleep if you want.”

His hand slides lower, between your legs, finding you already slick. A low hum leaves his throat. Even asleep, your body knows him. He circles your clit with two fingers, unhurried, coaxing. Your hips twitch once, instinctive, pushing back against his hand.

You whimper into the pillow, still half-gone, thighs parting just enough to let him in. He takes the invitation, pressing one finger inside you, then two, curling gently. The wet sound is obscene in the quiet room. Your breathing changes—shallower, quicker—but your eyes stay closed, lashes fluttering against your cheeks.

He works you open like that for long minutes, slow thrusts of his fingers, thumb stroking your clit in lazy circles. Every time you clench around him he feels it in his own cock, already straining against his jeans. When you start rocking back against his hand in tiny, unconscious movements, he withdraws, ignoring the protesting noise you make.

Clothes off. He doesn’t rush. The belt buckle clicks softly; the zipper sounds louder than it should. He strokes himself once, twice, spreading the bead of pre-cum over the head before lining up behind you.

You’re on your stomach, legs spread, t-shirt bunched at your waist. Perfect.

He pushes in slow, one long glide until he’s buried to the hilt. The stretch makes you gasp, eyes flying open for a heartbeat before they flutter shut again. Your walls flutter around him, hot and tight and so fucking wet.

“Fuck,” he breathes against your nape, staying still for a moment, letting you adjust. Or not. He doesn’t ask.

He starts moving—deep, measured rolls of his hips that press you harder into the mattress. Each thrust drags against that spot inside you that makes your toes curl. You moan, low and broken, still sounding half-asleep, face turned to the side now so he can see the flush on your cheek.

One of his hands slides under you, finding your clit again, rubbing in tight circles while he fucks you. The other braces beside your head, caging you in. He drops his weight more fully onto your back, lips at your shoulder, teeth grazing skin.

You push back against him, needy even in your drowsiness. “Suguru…” His name again, softer this time, wrecked with pleasure. Your hand reaches back blindly, fingers brushing his hip, urging him deeper.

He gives it to you. Harder now, the slap of skin on skin filling the room. He angles his hips until every thrust makes you cry out—short, breathy sounds that go straight to his cock. Your pussy clenches rhythmically around him, fluttering, pulling him in.

“That’s it,” he murmurs, voice low and rough. “Let me feel you.”

He fucks you like he’s memorizing you all over again—slow drags followed by sharp snaps of his hips, grinding deep when he bottoms out. Your breathing turns into soft, desperate pants. You’re dripping down his cock, onto the sheets. He reaches down and spreads your ass with both hands so he can watch himself disappear inside you, the obscene shine of your arousal coating him.

You come without warning, sudden and shuddering, a broken moan muffled by the pillow as your walls clamp down hard. He doesn’t stop, fucking you through it, drawing it out until your thighs shake.

Only then does he pull out, flipping you onto your back with easy strength. Your eyes are open now, heavy-lidded and dark, but still hazy with sleep and orgasm. You look at him like you’re not entirely sure he’s real.

He doesn’t give you time to wake up fully. He hooks your legs over his elbows and slides back in, folding you nearly in half. The new angle makes you keen, nails digging into his shoulders. He sets a punishing rhythm—deep, relentless, the headboard knocking softly against the wall.

Your t-shirt is pushed up to your collarbones. He bends his head and takes one nipple into his mouth, sucking hard, tongue flicking. You arch into him, gasping. The other hand finds your clit again, rubbing fast and firm.

“Come on,” he growls against your skin. “Again. Want to feel it.”

You do. The second orgasm hits you harder, back bowing, a sharp cry tearing from your throat as you pulse around his cock. He fucks you through every wave, hips stuttering only when your nails rake down his back hard enough to leave marks.

He pulls out at the last second, stroking himself roughly over your stomach. Thick ropes of cum paint your skin, your tits, the underside of your chin. You watch with dazed, half-lidded eyes, lips parted.

For a long moment the only sound is both of you breathing.

He leans down and kisses you—slow, deep, tasting sleep and sex and the faint salt of your sweat. You kiss him back like muscle memory, one hand sliding into his hair, holding him there. When he finally pulls away, he rests his forehead against yours.

You don’t speak. Neither does he.

He reaches for the t-shirt you’re wearing—his t-shirt—and uses the hem to wipe his spend from your skin with surprising gentleness. Then he tosses it aside, pulls the blanket over both of you, and tucks you against his chest like no time has passed at all.

Your breathing evens out again within minutes, slipping back toward sleep. He stays awake longer, fingers tracing idle patterns over the floral ink on your lower back, feeling the steady beat of your heart against his ribs.

Outside, the city keeps breathing. Inside, the two of you fit back together in the dark like pieces that were never meant to stay apart.