— hiatus

You’re more of a sunflower who basks in his sunlight and greedily soaks up all his affection. You’d hate to be the moon, for this meant you’d only rise when Phainon is gone – you prefer staying right by his side, a sidekick he can always count on. 

A sidekick wearing your heart on your sleeves, shy but never quite ashamed of the sincere feelings you’ve held for him growing up. A flower bud that slowly unfurls into a full bloom.

As your mother would lovingly refer to you both, you are: “Two birds of a feather!” 

Your childhood memories of Aedes Elysiae, blurry some of them may be, are bathed in everlasting gold. While Phainon dragged you off to go play heroes or look through Cyrene’s cards together, you remember dropping pollen of your romantic affection, scattered across planes of time like trails of breadcrumbs left for him to decipher. 

While the sun dipped into the horizon, you inched closer to him day by day, the fluttering in your heart evolves into a palpitation you can never stop, and small gifts handcrafted to show your admiration all gently whispered to him to ‘please, take the hint’. But reminiscent of an immovable stone, Phainon remained blissfully oblivious to the signs.

Cyrene certainly got them; her narrowing eyes and poorly hidden giggles as she sent you and Phainon away were enough of a testament. “I’m not feeling well today, you two can go on without me!”

You’d linger at the edge of her front yard, unsure how to proceed with her help. At Phainon’s call however, you move to follow him – “okay, phai!” – trying to contain the dandelion seeds dancing around in your stomach when he leads you by the arm, not letting go despite arriving at your destination. You didn’t want to let go either, even with the sweat building up in your palm. 

High school sprouts in your backyard as a tall and looming beanstalk that would force you both to grow up even more. 

Phainon’s high-pitched voice starts cracking like eggshells, making way for a deeper tone yet still carrying that warm lilt he always had. You grow taller, still incomparable to Phainon’s own growth spurt, but a good few inches nonetheless. Your sense of style reshapes itself, old interests thrown out for newer ones, and the patch of land where you’d all play heroes together becomes forgotten, the trampled blades of grass outgrowing their original length. 

You start favouring the comforts of your room over the blazing heat of the sun, beginning to find sweat as something you can’t stand and only coming out when Phainon pleads with you to do so. 

He shines brighter in High School – his presence a beaming beacon of light as he walks through the hallways and enters classrooms. Being the sunflower that you are, you faithfully stayed by his side. Fawning crowds come and go, you don’t. 

Your infatuation is exposed to those who aren’t Cyrene; childish people who never grew past the mental age of twelve tried to pick on you for always ‘Sticking to phainon like some damn leech! Don’t have any other personality traits or something?’ – the teasing didn’t last after Phainon punched one of them square in the face. His heroic act only dug your cove of feelings a little bit deeper. 

He’s your best friend and first love, a pillar of comfort you grew up with – you can’t imagine your life without Phainon. You pick up more hobbies, he joins more clubs he never expected he would, and you share your new life experiences with each other during lunch. Sometimes separated, but never for too long. 

Several months flicker by, and during one of your high school Valentine’s, you received gifts from men who aren’t just Phainon. 

Despite his locker overflowing with pink, glittery love notes and heart-shaped chocolates handmade out of sincerity, his gaze was pinned to the white envelope and bouquet of flowers you carried - neither of them is from him. His own gift is already hanging off your backpack, the cute sunflower keychain that it is. 

“From a friend?” He asks, finally closing his locker before he risks more glitter explosions on the ground.

“I doubt it,” He’s the only friend you have in this school, embarrassing it is to admit. Cyrene studies elsewhere. “But they’re cute.”

You see his tongue in cheek, and you dare let a seed of hope plant in the root of your heart. Is he… jealous? That makes you giddy. Tentatively, you ask, “You think so too, right, Phainon?”

He grimaces, glancing one last time at the items in your embrace before smiling, “Yeah, they are. Anyway, done with your locker? Let me carry your bag now.”

You nursed that seed of hope from then forth, slowly but steadily hoping more and more for the plausibility that he returns your feelings. It wouldn’t be too far off, surely – even if you’re not meant for each other in the end, you still want to try with him. You water that seed by dropping more subtle hints to Phainon, and you fertilize it by observing your best friend like an animal in a zoo, analyzing his minuscule actions and trying to correlate them to the mannerisms of ‘a guy with a secret crush on his best friend’.

To be young is to be naive. 

You didn’t need much. A simple ‘you should go for it! I’ve been rooting for you two since we were all children!’ from Cyrene carved out your decision to confess to Phainon near the end of high school. 

In the end, ripped straight from the dramas you watched out of curiosity, you confess to Phainon at the height of spring after getting your high school diplomas; the scent of flowers in full bloom makes you sick with nostalgia and nerves simultaneously. Your family is off conversing with his parents, while you dragged him to a secluded spot in the school. 

“Uhm… I’ve liked you for a long time now, Phainon. I’m not expecting you to return my feelings but…” You leave it open-ended, too afraid to settle your confession definitively. You love him, actually - but love is a strong word that some don’t like to acknowledge. For his sake, you won’t either. 

A warm, gentle spring can never stay for too long. In the same breath, you, too, are forced to abandon the sunlight you’ve known for several years at the sound of his discordant chuckle – the awkward smile etched on his face as his eyes could only look down at you in what you assume to be pity. You avert your gaze from his blue eyes, opting to stare into his birthmark instead. 

“Hey, of course I like you too - you’re my best friend! But we can always stay as friends, (Y/N). You’re dear to me, you know  – maybe not… like that, I just don’t want things to change between us.”

You experience the first and biggest heartbreak of your life just hours after graduating from High School. Your best friend Phainon does not reciprocate your feelings and instead wishes for your relationship to stay the same, locked into the tight box of ‘close friends’ he never plans on breaking. The seed-turned-plant of hope in your heart withers down to a sad, pathetic, dried-out flora. 

That’s okay. You’ll be attending the same college as him, located far, far away – even if it’s not, you have to be okay. 

After a few tense seconds of utter silence, you smile – the most carefree smile you can muster in that moment before enthusiastically nodding at him, “I get it! Don’t worry, Phainon. I totally get it. Uh, hey, I think Cyrene’s calling me. I have to take this phone call for a bit, okay? Let’s meet again later!” 

You bury that confession six feet under in your backyard, covered and only seen by inches of soil as you maintain your close friendship with Phainon. Best friends, close friends, friends - you are not to cross these labels unless you want to lose your close companion. 

The months of free time leading up to college are nothing unusual, you spend it as you would in the past: Phainon picking you up on the front porch to spend the entire day together. It’s either his or your room where you’ll pour sweating buckets over study materials and banter over multiplayer games on his console.

Your heart still beats like drums just being in his vicinity alone, and it took you days of preparation to act like you’re unbothered when he invites you to his room – the walls and shelves containing time capsules from years before. Pressed white daisies you gifted him on his 10th birthday peeks out as his bookmark, and your kindergarten doodle of him as the sun proudly hangs above his bed, displayed as if it’s an artifact from the Belobog museum. 

The most heartwrenching item is the printed photo sitting on his desk: it’s little him kissing little you’s frosting-smudged cheek at your 10th birthday party. The shock on your face is captured and frozen in time, a memory you both laugh about every month or so. 10th birthday… It’s the same age you realized you see him as more than a friend. 

Seeing it for the umpteenth time never fails to steal the air from you; the ache never gets easier. You wish you could truly put these romantic feelings to rest in a coffin and seal it shut with a lid, never to be opened again. 

“Phainon, next time… let’s spend the day in my room.”

Seeing bits and pieces of you scattered around his room hurts more than him verbally rejecting you. 

He grins, all teeth and gums, “Sure!”

Even branches grow into a tree of their own, just as a fledgling must leave its nest. 

Spring came and went, high school a chapter closed, and you’re now faced with attending school – college, you remind yourself  – an ocean away from the familiar warmth of Aedes Elysiae. The wheat fields that were once taller than you, and Phainon’s house right next door, are all left behind momentarily. You can’t pocket your hometown to bring with you in Penacony, but at least you still have Phainon. 

“Everything all settled?” He gently lets go of your dorm’s wooden table, finally in its correct position, “This layout is fine, right?”

“It is,” You hand him a towel, itching to help with wiping off his sweat, “Thanks, Phainon. You didn’t have to.”

“I wanted to, anything for you.” Anything for his dear best friend. He bumps your side before sitting down on the living room couch. You wanted him to stick around for a while longer, but he’s already out your door the moment he hears knocking – (‘Oh, your roommate is here! I need to go now, remember to call me if you need help, okay?’ he pats your shoulder on the way out). 

The patch of skin he briefly touched is still tingling when you see someone walk into the living room, luggage trailing right behind. A tall man with shoulder-length gray hair and kind yellow eyes bows at you in greeting. He’s wearing a white cardigan with a blue sweater layered on top, the color alone reminds you of your best friend despite the difference in shades.

“Hello, pardon my sudden entrance.”

“...Hi.” You don’t know how to talk to people beyond Phainon and Cyrene - standing around here is making you shy. “Uhm, my name is (Y/N)... And you are…?”

“I am Sunday,” His hand extends for a handshake, and you hesitantly follow suit. “It’s nice to meet you. I sincerely hope we get along.”

You nod, staring back into pools of liquid gold while shaking his hand,  “...Yeah, let’s. And please don’t mind the succulents on the windowsill.”

II. A close-knit friendship withers in winter, in its place is a new one.

Much to your relief, your late-night fears of college drifting you and Phainon apart never come to fruition. It has the opposite effect, to your surprise. While not overdramatically countries away, Phainon’s dorm room is located a floor above - a notable difference from when he lived right next door to you. The added distance often has him visiting your dorm room unprompted (you kindly gave him a spare key in case of emergencies) and easily greeting a confused Sunday who just finished his classes for the day.

“Call me your third roommate – don’t worry, I help around!” He’d joke. Using your headband to push his hair back, wearing a baggy tee and gray sweatpants, he makes himself at home. Sometimes doing his own homework or brings his gaming laptop along. 

After the initial surprise, Sunday doesn’t mind his company – you certainly don’t. 

Phainon waits for you outside your room to walk you to your class. He makes sure you sit next to him in the classes you share. He insists you join the same org as him, and predictably, you do. 

You thought you buried your less-than-platonic feelings in your backyard; you truly did. But Phainon has your heart racing in excitement, rekindling the dying plant of hope. You still like him – truthfully, you never stopped liking him. But he’s closer to you now, a feat you previously thought to be impossible. The distance of just one floor away makes the heart grow fonder. Dare you say, clingy? 

But he still remains your best friend. A clingy, touchy one – but your best friend. 

Sunday discusses the topic on a slow, school-less night. You’re in the living room finishing up the last plates needed to be washed when he suddenly chimes in, tone so sure of his words, “Ah yes, I remember now. Please tell your boyfriend to stop entering our dorm past 11 PM. The faculty recently deployed a curfew; it’s best we follow it.”

The ceramic plate in your grasp almost crashes headfirst to the floor. Out of embarrassment, you refuse to turn around and face your roommate. Boyfriend. Boyfriend – only one person is a repeat visitor in your dorm room, and he’s nowhere near being your boyfriend.

Meekly, you set the plate down and correct him, “I’ll inform him, but… Phainon isn’t my boyfriend.”

The silence that wafts through is more humiliation added onto your person. What is Sunday’s facial expression right now? Shocked? Ashamed? 

He answers it for you: “I see… This is quite mortifying, my sincere apologies.” 

But he continues, “You’re both seen together, and he visits you so often, not to mention the look you give him, I got the idea that…– I’ll be sure to be more observant in the future. Again, my apologies.”

You’re wiping the table clean when you reply, still angling your face away from his eyes, “It’s cool, don’t worry! No harm done! He and I are best friends, yes… the bestest of friends!”

You feel him raise a brow at that, “I don’t mean to pry, however…”

Cyrene always chided you for being a pushover to those around you. In this instance, you hear her disapproving frown when you fold like a wet blanket, “Whatever it is you’re thinking –! I-it’s probably right.”

Wilted sunflower that you are, you mournfully face him with your eyes cast to the floor. 

“Ah. You like him?”

You slowly nod, a small part relieved that you now have someone other than Cyrene and Phainon to confide in. “Don’t tell him, please…”

“I won’t.”

His bird-patterned socks enter at the edge of your vision. You slowly look up. Sunday is smiling at you, although a bit tense. 

“Perhaps it’s a bit presumptuous of me considering we’ve only known each other for months, but… They say I’m a good listener. If you don’t mind, could you tell me more?”

Sunday is a Borage you unknowingly planted, only just now peaking when you need him most. Sitting side by side on your dorm’s small couch, you gain an outsider’s perspective on your years-long pining toward your best friend. He hears of your rejection and your still-persisting feelings. In the end, the advice he offered to you is:

“He may not be stringing you along, but you still foster optimism in your heart. So long as you have it, you will never move forward past him. If you ask me… confess your love a second time; see if his opinion has changed.”

You gulp, “And if it doesn’t?”

He smiles, gentle as clouds, “Broaden your horizons permanently. Distance yourself if you must; your friendship will pick up once you settle your feelings.”

Winter break is soon; you’ll need to go back to Aedes Elysiae in a few months’ time. However…

“If it’s not too much. A-and I understand if you don’t want to! But, could I ask you to…”

Sunday’s words continuously ring in your mind, repeating circles of “confess your feelings” and “move on,” bouncing off of one another. Coincidentally, Sunday is out for the afternoon when Phainon barges in a week later. Something about groupmates and ‘I wish you were in my group’ going one ear and out the other as you nod at him in autopilot. 

He picks up on your unusual behavior not even ten minutes in: brows raised to the sky and eerily getting close and personal with you, surveying your face like it’d shed off all the information he wanted. He retracts a few seconds later, less joking when he inquires, “Something on your mind? Missing Aedes Elysiae?”

Hanging out in your small room like this, laptop opened to play some pirated action movie, and his class notes scattered around your bedsheets like autumn leaves… 

You shake your head, feeling the moment to follow Sunday’s advice is now. This is the perfect timing – no one else around to see your heartbroken face for a second time, and no Cyrene to find out you’re still hung up on him. 

“Phainon, I…”

He shuffles closer to hear you better – traitorously, your heart clenches in affection. 

“Yeah?”

You take a deep breath, screwing your eyes shut, “I think I still like you.”

You downplay your feelings for the sake of self-preservation.

His breath hitches, “Ah, that’s–”

“I’m sorry.” You apologize, remorseful at how uncomfortable he must be right now, “I really tried, but…” A deep breath, “I’ll move on from you soon, I promise.”

“Oh,” He pauses, staring anywhere but you, “Uhm… sure… I’m glad to have you, you know?”

You nod, too fragile to face him. 

“...You’re my first and dearest friend. I truly, really liked you, Phainon.” You love him so, so much.

“You’re dear to me too, (Y/N). Forever and now.”

You’ve heard of an overseas concept where a person in an unrequited love begins to sprout flowers from within. You feel like that’s happening to you right now with how unbearable heartbreak is – yellow carnations form from your bleeding heart, wormwood seizes your lungs in a tight embrace, and pink roses mix with your innards. You’d cough out the feeling if you could; empty your stomach from all the flowers and be done with it.  

Predictably, he’s quiet for the rest of the movie – immediately coming up with an excuse to leave your dorm room once the end credits begin rolling in. You break down into tears the moment the lock clicks in place. You cry for hours, long enough for Sunday to come knocking on your door, just knowing you managed to do it when he readily offers you one of his giantmoa pudding tarts. 

Eyes puffy and snot stubbornly running down your nose, you take a bite and thank him through a mouthful of pastry. It’d taste better if you weren’t so heartbroken. He gently rubs your shoulder in comfort. 

“It’ll be alright.”

He’s right– But Phainon has always been by your side, rain or shine. The following months of his absence from your life will be akin to traversing a dark forest with no light source.

But there’s light at the end of the tunnel; a rainbow at the end of the storm. When Sunday bans you from helping with chores that night, you know your heart will heal in time.

“Thanks a lot… sunny.” 

He sighs in mock exasperation, “I see you’ve picked up on that nickname too.”

The sun: Hey

The sun: I came by to pick you up, but for some reason, your roommate’s lying?? He said you’re not going back to aedes elsysiae this winter break??? And even denied me entry??? 

The sun: crazy right

The sun: I’m right outside waiting for you rn

The sun: do you need help packing up? :) 

You: No

You: He’s telling the truth.

You: I won’t be visiting for now. Maybe next semester break?

The sun: what

You haven’t read his one-word reply when your phone screen transitions to his contact photo with the text ‘The sun is calling…’ displayed below. You sigh, reluctantly sliding to accept.

Even with speakers turned off, you hear him without pressing your phone against your ear: “What do you mean? Did something happen? Don’t tell me you and Auntie got into a fight…! Don’t worry! I’ll act as the middleman like usu-”

“Uhm, Phainon.” You cut him off. 

“Yeah?”

“It’s nothing like that, please don’t worry.”

He makes a sound of confusion, painfully close to a whimper, “So then… why aren’t you visiting our hometown with me?”

‘Because you’ll be there’. “I’m busy with some personal matters here, don’t worry about me. Say hi to Snowy for me, okay?”

“No, I’m absolutely worrying about you – why not? We can visit them next week instead if you’re busy! Why… why miss out on the entire winter break? Won’t you be lonely here?”

“No need, really! Enjoy aedes elysiae for me. And I won’t be lonely… so stop worrying so much, you softie. I have sunny with me.”

“Sunny…? Your… roommate? Sunday? He’s staying here for winter break, too?” He sounds choked up from disbelief; you’d laugh if you weren’t battling against your resurfacing feelings from talking to him on the phone. “Sunday?”

“Yes, he’ll take care of me. I swear!”

“...”

“...Phainon? Hello?” Did the call end already? You glance at your screen, frowning in confusion when you see that the call is still ongoing. Is he lagging on his end? But he’s outside of your dorm. 

“If you need anything,” He suddenly speaks up, “Anything – call me, please. If your roommate makes you sad or uncomfortable, tell me right away, okay? I’ll call you again the moment I’m back in aedes elysiae. Stay safe, I love you.”

You flinch at his admission, knowing he didn’t mean it like that. “I know… safe travels, Phainon.”

“Phai.”

“Huh?”

“Call me Phai. Isn’t that what you used to call me when we were kids? Why’d you stop? Let’s bring it back.” 

You lie on your bed, pondering. Why did you stop? Perhaps since it was a nickname from childhood, you let go of it and hoped Phainon would see you more than just… his friend since diapers. It didn’t work, clearly. So you don’t mind calling him that shortened version of his name again. 

“Okay… Safe travels, Phai.”

Despite your emboldened decision to ask Sunday to stay with you for winter break, you are still, at your core, a floundering, unsociable person. You have your moments of being bold and talkative, but it’s covered by leaves of quietude and slight stutters. Socializing is not your strong suit. You’re not at the stage of being totally buddy-buddy with your roommate, but you’re slowly getting there. 

You’re glad you met Sunday. Had it not been for him, you’d still be stuck hopelessly waiting for a day that’ll never come: a phantom of the past who’s deathly afraid of the future. 

In the span of your one-month winter break, you get to know him better. Your roommate, who’s a good listener is also an older brother to an idol trainee, has a trio of friends who roomed together a floor below, likes sweet treats, and ran away from his adoptive home after graduating high school.

Your profound respect for him only continued to grow, stalking across your shared living space like vines. While Phainon’s frequent messages, consisting of photos of Snowy and with your family, make your heart twinge in longing, you start ignoring them for the sake of progress. He’ll understand why a year from now, and you’ll both laugh about it like the pair of best friends that you are. 

It’s not college that severs you and Phainon – it’s you yourself, but cutting off a branch from your tree does not mean it’s not allowed to grow a new one elsewhere. 

III. Regret burgeons when everything is said and done.

Phainon: I feel like you’ve been ignoring me lately

Phainon: did i upset you?

Phainon: :( 

The Gen Ed courses you took unfortunately landed you in some shared classes with Phainon, the ‘sunny’ side is that they’re coincidentally shared with Sunday and his friends too. While anxious to meet them, he thoroughly reassured you that they’re nice people.

“Just a bit… loud sometimes, I hope you don’t mind.”

You don’t – anything to physically get away from Phainon. The one-month winter break may have taught you to rely on him less, but seeing his face again might cause you to fold like paper. You see his unanswered texts when you close your eyes, and you hear his voice right before falling asleep. You miss him, but you know what must be done. When he visited you on the day he left Amphoreus, you and Sunday worked together to pretend that no one was home when he came knocking. 

He stayed for hours before going up to his own floor. 

Sunday sits on your left, and Stelle (A kind woman who is equal parts loud and quiet) on the other. Your new acquaintances, Dan Heng and March, are a row ahead. 

“I’m telling you, (Y/N)! His nickname really is cold dragon young!” March cackles in glee, making sure to point at Dan Heng in case you mistake him for someone else.

He sighs, pushing down her finger, “That was years ago, ignore her.”

Stelle chimes in, lazily putting her arm around your shoulder and whispering, “Because he had a gachalife phase.”

Cold dragon young hisses at her to shut up, only to serve as fuel for their cackling. Entertained, you let out a few quiet chuckles at their display. You can never be happy for too long – the classroom door soon creaks open, familiar tufts of white hair peeking in not a moment later. The realization that it’s undoubtedly Phainon has you clammoring in your seat, sitting rigidly in attention. 

Sunday gently rubs your back, eases you back to your current circle,  “Sorry…!”

“It’s okay,” Sunday whispers back, sharing a glance with you. 

“Ah, (Y/N)! There you are! …And everyone too, hello!” Phainon greets from up front, hastily picking up his pace to approach your group. Facing you, he wastes no time firing question after question, “Where were you yesterday? I waited around and tried the key you gave me, but it never worked. Did your phone break? I couldn’t contact you at all, I was so worried!”

You smile at him, “Phai, it’s nice to see you again. Sorry, we replaced our door lock with a new key for uhm… security reasons, I’ll try to get you a copy sometime. And no… my phone isn’t broken, I was just busy, that’s all!”

He audibly sighs in relief, “...Really? That’s good, I’m glad – I missed you a lot, you know?” Adjusting his bag strap, he nods to the unoccupied seats in the first row, “Come on, let’s sit.”

Stelle speaks for you, “Oh, she’s sitting with us.”

“Hm? Right! Thank you for taking care of my best friend, but we’ll get going now–”

“No, I mean she’ll be sitting with us for this class.” 

Phainon cocks his head, “Sorry, can you repeat that?”

You meekly affirm, “I’m… sitting with them. Uh, they’re really nice people, Sunny introduced me to them!”

“Huh?” He looks like a lost puppy on the verge of being abandoned, “...But our seats?”

“I’ll try to sit with you next class!”

You never do: you sit next to Sunday in every single one of them and ignored the bewildered look on his face each time. 

He beelines for you after dismissal, blue eyes so eager and pleading when he asks you,  “Let’s get dinner together – my treat? It feels like I haven’t seen you in centuries.”

Only for you to scratch the back of your neck while shyly glancing at Sunday, “Uhm… we already made plans after school. Sorry, Phai.”

“Oh.” He steps back, letting you and Sunday pass by him to exit the room. His blue eyes follow you until they can no longer. He’s left with himself when he mutters a bitter:

“I get it.”

“Let me carry that for–Ah, Sunday…?”

He’s a second too late, but Phainon stubbornly clings to your bag’s front pocket, the very bag that the other man is already carrying. You’re still in the bathroom when the professor dismisses the class.  Wanting to do his usual duties, Phainon intended to carry your bag, but… someone already beat him to it. He smiles at him, polite, “Thank you friend, but this is my thing, if you’d kindly–”

Sunday’s lips curve into what seems to be a subtle mocking smile. He adjusts the bag closer to him before replying in a composed manner, “How chivalrous of you, Mister Phainon. However, it’s not needed. See? I can carry it for her.”

Phainon sees it as clear as day. 

Childishly, Phainon thinks he can carry it better than he can. It’s what he always did for you since he still had some front teeth missing from his smile; it’s his duty, not your roommate’s. 

He reluctantly lets go when you come up to thank Sunday, blatantly ignoring him just a few feet away. He enthusiastically greets you, but he still exists as an imaginary concept in your eyes. What’s going on? He ponders, watching you chat the world away with Sunday. What happened before that winter break that caused you to grow so tremendously close to that guy? 

You said you’d give him a new copy of your dorm room, but you’re ignoring his texts, his existence, and now – letting someone else do his usual tasks. Seriously, what gives?

Sunday’s like a parasite attached to your hip, it unnerves and angers him. 

Are you… trying to replace him? His heart threatens to drop just thinking about it. 

You are.

You really are trying to replace him. 

Sunday sits next to you, Sunday lives with you, Sunday eats with you, Sunday talks with you, Sunday texts with you, Sunday laughs with you – Sunday, Sunday, Sunday. Every time Phainon is graced with your presence, it’s quick to sour from your notable companion by your side. Your new circle of friends too, Phainon sees it clear as day: you don’t want to be around them all the time, but you’re peer pressured into doing so. If Phainon was by your side… he would never let that happen to you. He’d punch them into blindness should they dare to make you inconvenienced. 

Two birds of a feather – that’s what your mother called him and you; A pair of friends so close you might as well be surgically joined together in the middle. When Seven-year-old Phainon first reached his hand out to you, his brain made the unconscious decision then: you’d be the sole irrevocable part of his life. Flowers bloom and wilt; they experience a death of their own, but under Phainon’s sunlight, he promised that he’d never let a sunflower like you be anything less than thriving.

He leads and you follow, only so he’d be the one to be hurt when braving the unknown. Scraped knees and bruised patches of skin are nothing because you’re not hurt. He shines so you can comfortably hide under the shade – you’re not one for people, he’s fine with the way you are. He adjusts around your existence, a mold of comfort that perfectly fits none but you. He’s your fighter and protector; sword and shield. 

Skipping rocks on a nearby lake, teasing Cyrene together, learning from her cards, and discovering a poor abandoned puppy who’d eventually be named ‘Snowy’ are all flashing strings of gold in his memories. Moments carefully planted in his own backyard and given regular maintenance lest he start neglecting them. 

He loves you, of course he does. There is nothing purer in this world than his love for you; a flower specially nursed and plucked with the greatest care, a beauty unparalleled for it’s fertilized from the attention you give him. 

His room is centered around you; every item given is meticulously stored and given a special place. The polaroids, your kindergarten doodles, the yellow crayon you gave him, your pressed flowers – he still has it, even brought it along to his dorm room, where he’s embraced by your presence every night before sleep. 

He loves you, he knows this well in his heart. But Phainon is simply not worthy of you. His love for you is pure, but he, as a person, is not. A Sun can also be damaging to a sunflower – he is the filth to your pure, the actual darkness to light. 

Is it because he refused your confession?

He preserves you because no one in this world deserves you, but must you go ahead and leave him for dead after finding a different sun to seek sunlight from? Sunday… What does he have that Phainon does not? Is he the better him? Does he treat you kinder than he does? 

Sunday is far from holy. If anything, he’s the snake trying to lure you to ruin. You don’t know any better, hence why Phainon is around to protect you. 

This is the biggest hurdle you’ve ever faced together, and with his heart being torn to pieces by your own gardening tools, he’ll make it right. He always goes. He’ll make it right, he’ll get you back, and you two can go back to the way you were before – just more. Friends, best friends, lovers, and everything in between, he’ll really give it all to you. 

Sunday… he’s poisoned your mind and rotted your pure soul. 

IV. Desperation is a seed planted long, long ago – still, spring has come.

“Thank you for sticking around me, Phai.”

He’s in the middle of starting a pathetic fire using twigs and stone when you blurt out cryptic words beside him. He hums, continuing his work, “What do you mean?”

“Can’t I just say thank you!?” You fluster, quickly standing up and pacing around the edge of the forest you’ve both designated as your ‘camping spot’. “Mama said it’s nice to thank people! So, uhm- Thank you for being my friend, please never stop being my best friend!”

“‘Course I won’t!” Phainon toothily grins, fluffy white hair gaining a slight bounce from his motions, “Actually, I’ll never abandon you. Ever!”

You perk up like a sunflower dancing in the wind, “Really!?”

The fire finally sparks to life, small and flickering, but there. At the same time, he gazes deep into your eyes, only knowing nothing else but sincerity at such an age, “Yeah! I swear!”

A yelp, “Swearing is bad!”

Phainon’s eyes blearily blink open. His dorm room ceiling greets him first thing in the morning.

Phainon stalks and waits like a deep-rooted willow tree. He strikes you when he knows you’re alone. It all falls into place: Sunday’s trainee sister is dropping by a different part of the city over the weekend; logic dictates that he won’t be coming back to his dorm room until then. Your close proximity to Sunday will momentarily halt, and Phainon is free to slither in.

He’s waiting right outside your dorm room when you come walking down the long hallway, body language all languid, even resting against the paint-chipped-off stone pillar while scrolling through his social media feed,

You’d spot him a mile away, and seeing him without Sunday by your side makes you hesitate all the more. Your stupid heart starts speeding up. 

“I just want to talk,” He calls out, pocketing his phone to spread his arms wide open for a hug, “I miss you, is that too much to ask?”

You slowly approach him, “...No, I missed you too.”

You miss him. You miss him. You miss him. You’ve been holding your sunflower keychain as your nightly comfort or else you’d end up calling his number at 2AM. 

Phainon smiles, “Really?”

“Yes… I just got… busy, that’s all.”

He smiles wider, blue eyes turning into blue crescent moons, “Really?”

“...Yes.” His hand gently pries the keys out of your hand; you let him.

You hear Sunday screaming on your shoulder, telling you that your blase facade is quickly falling apart at the seams. Unaffected, unmoved – you’re nothing of the sort right now. You’re a sunflower who’s been starved of sunlight for too long. 

With a click, he opens the door for you and softly murmurs, “You’ve been hurting me a lot, (Y/N). You know that, right? But I understand, it’s not your fault.”

You step inside, letting him lock the door behind you, “Not… my fault?”

He shakes his head, hands firmly grasping your shoulders to sit you down on the small couch, “No, it’s mine.”

Immediately you protest, “That’s not true. We just drifted apart–”

Once more, he shakes his head before dropping to his knees before you. The sudden action makes you flinch, growing more uncertain when he holds your hand in his. Phainon’s eyes remind you of butterfly peas from up this close. 

He’s quiet when he speaks, a deep rasp overtaking his voice, “...You don’t understand: I miss you.”

You understand what he means. Parting from Phainon is disorienting. Sunday and his friends may have managed to fill the gaping hole in your heart, but it’s incomparable to Phainon’s presence. 

Are you a bad person for not finding satisfaction in your new friends? Are you sick in the end to still crave Phainon after being rejected two times? Is this what you get for sticking by his side for so long?

It probably is. 

He continues speaking, “I’m sorry for pushing you away; that was never my intention. I wasn’t lying when I said you’re dear to me – you truly are. I never wanted to pursue a relationship with you because, I– I’m too lowly for you. I would only taint you.”

You run your fingers through his hair, reminiscing on all the nights you spent crying over him – it still bleeds like fresh wounds, “That’s ridiculous, Phainon. I’m not some holy figure to taint. I was just a girl in love with her best friend.”

“I know, but you… you don’t understand. You’re everything to me.”

“You’re everything to me, too, that’s why I loved you.” You still do.

“I think of you first thing in the morning. I brush my hair wondering how I’ll spend the day with you, I eat breakfast, thinking what yours was at that moment, I kept the homework you threw out. I always hate it when I talk to people who aren’t you. I still have the twigs you gave me during our 6th-grade camping trip. The reason the pressed flowers you were planning on giving out during high school graduation went missing is that I stole them – I didn’t want anyone else owning a piece of you. I make sure you’re always too shy to stand up for yourself, so I can save you. I… I hate Sunday for getting into your head – it should only be me. I should be the one you hate and love. I – you’re everything to me.”

His grip tightens, blunt fingernails leaving indents on your own fingers, “I’m sorry, please take me back. I’m unworthy, but I don’t want you to be happy with anyone else. I started cutting myself when you refused to go back to Aedes Elysiae with me – I don’t want to live in a world where I’m not by your side. Please. I’ll kill myself if you leave me. I really will.”

You swallow the saliva pooling in your mouth.

If Phainon is the sun that will incinerate you and your sunflower petals for getting too close, the question it poses is: Do you let it consume you whole? To forgive and forget, starting a new chapter anew in the process?

kill yourself or let (y/n) have friends and move on from you

You shrank in on yourself, finding it impossible to not encroach on the creatures space. You took careful steps closer, not wanting to scare it. You spoke softly.

"Where did you find it?"

Suguru leaned forward in his chair onto his knees, "Oh, just on our mission." The statement fell flat at the end, deliberately unimpressed.

You studied the creature a moment and turned to look at Suguru. "No collar? But the coat is so clean? Surely not a stray..." You turned your attention back on the pair of them. Suguru and Shoko leaned into each other, echoing in turn, "Surely not."

You squinted. "What is it?"

Something was off. You could feel it in the way Suguru's withheld laughter kept threatening to escape, in how Shoko's gaze slid away from yours like it never had before. You should've known better; Suguru would have never just brought back a random animal he had found on a mission.

You slowed yourself, "Why did you bring me here?"

Suguru shook his head, waving a finger in the cat's direction. "What? You don't recognize him?" Shoko smacked his shoulder, and you whipped your head around.

The cat was stretched out all pretty within the sink basin, fur catching the lab light in an almost pearlescent, bluish tinge. A paw was repeatedly reaching out to attempt purchase on the counter's edge, only until it seemed to wobble a bit on uncertain legs. Each time those fuzzy toes found the rim, they would slide on the slick epoxy exterior. A resounding bonk ensued from the effort.

"Oh dear..." You drew nearer.

Cats were typically quite agile; this poor thing certainly seemed to be out of its element. As you came close, you were taken aback by just how luminescent his eyes appeared. You'd never seen anything with eyes that blue...except maybe for one man...

You shudder and whip around. Suguru’s teasing tone stuck in your mind.

What? You don't recognize him?

"No..."

"Oh, yes." Suguru finally allowed himself to laugh.

"You're kidding?" You took a step back, "That's... Satoru?" A loud wail followed from the sink. "Oh my gosh!" Your head bolted to look again, and you staggered back some more.

"Oh, come on, Gojo, you can get out of there." Shoko took a cigarette from her bag and ushered you to sit down.

"What is happening? How did this happen? What...What?" You kept looking around the room in hopes of something making sense, but you were granted no reprieve. You wanted to believe this was some kind of joke, but Shoko looked too serious then, and Suguru never thought himself this funny.

The cat continued to howl from the sink. "I can't answer your questions, not really, at least." Shoko put her face in her palm and looked at you. "Curse. You know that much. I really can't tell if this will last, but I called you here for a reason." She was offering you a cigarette, which you politely declined.

"I... hope that reason was to gawk at him because there's nothing I can do to help...you know that, right?"

"Would you shut up?" Suguru dragged himself up to his feet now to get Gojo to stop with his cries. When he attempted to extricate the furry body from the sink, however, Suguru jerked back with a hiss.

"Ouch... cut that out."

Gojo's newly acquired claws sank into Suguru's knit sweater, puncturing the flesh beneath. Suguru promptly yanked the feline away and dropped him to the floor. The angry red marks on his forearms served as proof of the attack.

If Gojo had been talkative before, that was only exacerbated tenfold in his new form.

"No, no, actually, there is a way you can help." Shoko was then tugging on your sleeve to draw your attention back to her again. "Listen, this is bigger than we realize."

"You think?" Your eyes roll. The strongest sorcerer the world had got had been reduced to a mewling cub, unable to even get himself out of a sink. "What exactly am I supposed to do?"

Suguru had taken the liberty of dragging a chair over to sit with you both. "I'm glad you asked." He grinned, waggling his foot to get Gojo to stop trying to crawl up him.

This was all just a little too much to wrap your head around. You sat, uncomfortably waiting to hear what their plan was.

“Yeah... so, we're gonna need you to take him in."

There was a pause when you huffed a little chuckle in response. That moment of silence passed before you sank into your chair. "Wait....are you serious?"

Shoko waggled the cigarette in your face once more. "I can't do that! I don't know the first thing about turning cursed humans back into sorcerers!"

"Yeah, me neither. And that's my job right now. We just need you to keep an eye on him... you know...while he's... like that." It was a bit comical how you all leaned over to catch a glimpse of the man in question.

Those huge, round eyes were hard to read; he had taken a collection of moments without making any noise, something that had already started to concern you all.

As it would turn out, Gojo didn't like you all talking about him while he was right there with you. In a moment, those tufts of ears were pulled back, his tail swooshing aggressively before he pounced onto the counter you were all seated at.

"Why couldn't you have done that while you were in the sink, huh?" Suguru glared at the cat before he could go back to that ungodly sound.

You all paused to watch him for a moment. Gojo seemed like he just couldn't take up enough space, calling out loudly to anything that would listen, every so often falling onto his side and rolling about for a moment before flipping back up and circling the table's edge again.

"Why...why is this my responsibility?" You didn't want to sound like a pouty child, but seriously, could nobody else cat-sit for a little while? How did this task land on you? You weren't even close with the man.

"Who else comes to your mind? Seriously, if you have somebody you know who would keep him, shoot them a text." Shoko nudged Gojo's face away from her when he started to headbutt her arm before continuing, "I'd ask someone in Kyoto, but you know that's too close to the higher-ups. I don't think I have to explain why nobody can know about this."

You shook your head, imagining what would happen if it got out that Gojo Satoru was incapacitated like this.

"No." You twiddled your thumbs for a moment. Shoko didn’t even look desperate; she looked like it had been settled. No argument passed your lips; none of it had even felt real. "So... what exactly is this going to look like?"

And so they laid out the plan while you wondered quietly how much planning they had done without you, knowing you would say yes.

-Shoko was going to research homo transformation, its effects, and potential reversal with the hope of figuring everything out before she was tasked with her annual report in Kyoto these coming weeks -Suguru was going to continue as usual, taking on the missions Gojo couldn’t while trying to find the curse that was able to cause this and get away -Yaga would be spinning the idea that Satoru was out of the country, a believable alibi for when the higher-ups came knocking -And you, your responsibility would be having the strongest sorcerer locked away in your one-bedroom apartment as you desperately attempted to keep him alive

--

And that is how you found yourself here, sat awkwardly next to Satoru Gojo on your couch, something you would have never guessed could happen, especially not given the current circumstances.

It had taken a lot of coaxing to get Gojo into the cat carrier earlier today. How the two of you wound up at your doorstep awaiting a delivery of cat food, toys, and litter was beyond you.

It was fair to say that the day had not shaped up as you had anticipated at all.

By the time you had dragged everything into your place and unzipped the carrier, it was clear that your guest was not exactly pleased with the situation. Gojo had initially skittered forward, gnawing loosely at your ankles to force your attention down to him.

You two had never been super close, you and Gojo. Not for lack of trying on your end.

Gojo Satoru had always been so friendly and outgoing with others, and it's not that he wasn't polite with you, just that he never seemed to put in the same amount of time into your friendship.

Where he would tease Nanami, he would send you a slight smile, where he would relentlessly bother Shoko, he would spare you a few quick glances, and where he laughed loudly with Suguru, he would occasionally include you in awkward conversation.

It was evident from the start that he didn't think you were important enough for his time.

He wouldn't say that, of course not, he might not even think it, but by the way he became uncharacteristically avoidant around you, it was clear he preferred the company of those stronger, even if they would never be on his level.

You had always been resigned to the knowledge that he just...didn't like you very much.

It wouldn't be wrong to claim you were the weakest among your close circle. Sometimes, you even felt as though you didn't belong in the grade one rank. Gojo would pester Utahime about being semi-grade one, but still turn away when you met his gaze. It seemed you were just that unimpressive to him.

But here he was. Gnawing at your ankle.

He must be terribly upset about all of this. Needing to be in your care, the protection of someone he deemed so beneath him.

"Gojo.." You tried to shake him off. Unsure of how to even begin assessing the situation and handling the new dynamic.

--

Satoru had no idea what was going on. Not really. It was hard to pay any real attention to the words people were saying when he was too consumed with the fact that they were ignoring him.

There was something humiliating about being dragged to and fro without any care for his thoughts. He was sure that if Suguru had just tried hard enough, he would've been able to understand what he wanted to get across.

He was bordering on desperation, trapped within the confines of your living room. You, someone he had known from childhood but hardly knew anything about. Of course, his two closest friends would put you up to the task of being his live-in human, would it have taken that much begging to get Nanami to agree to it?.... Maybe so, but you?!

His neck was hurting, already strained from having to look up so much. He felt practically blind right now, what with his range being 10 inches off the ground. And worst of all, he couldn't even complain about it!

Satoru found himself racing around your apartment. Doing what he could to just get you away from him. Damn Suguru. Of course, he would send him here, to live with you.

The last thing he wanted was for you to feel burdened by his presence, especially considering he had spent the better half of his acquaintance with you in avoidance and the fact that he wasn't even himself at the moment.

"Gojo? Are you...okay? Where did you go?" You shuffled into the room he had escaped to, slowly, perhaps thinking you had startled him or something.

He was hidden beneath a large slab of furniture, pawing at himself embarrassingly, trying to get a feel for this new body he was trapped in.

He looked down, but all he could see were his back legs stretched out. He pawed at the ceiling above him, turning his "hands" before his face, watching as he stroked them down his furry front.

"Umm.." Satoru heard you crouch, "Do you maybe wanna come out? I can show you... around... or like, show you a mirror? Have you seen yourself yet? Do you... even understand me right now?"

You rambled on, squating down to try and see him, but for some reason, that made the whole situation worse. Eventually, by some force he could not control, Satoru scuttled out, something primal calling him to attack your sock.

The moment he took the first nibble, he froze, eyes wide, back feet in the air, attempting to kick you frantically.

What was wrong with him?

"Are you okay? Gojo...what are you doing?"

Your hands tentatively reached out. He was still, in shock, it would seem, but your soft touch lit something in him. You pulled him up into your arms, holding him at an awkward distance.

Never before in his life could Satoru Gojo recall being held. Never before had he allowed it.

Yes, he found himself repeating, yes, I know what you're saying.

"Okay, okay, I'm putting you down, I'm sorry." You retracted yourself quickly, plopping his body on what must have been a mattress. Satoru realized immediately that he must have just been hiding beneath your bed just a moment ago.

"Sorry...sorry, okay." He watched you spin around in your room, mumbling to yourself. He wasn't sure why you were apologizing. You slid yourself to your knees, crouching at his level, resting your chin on your duvet. "Gojo...I'm gonna test this, okay?"

Satoru sighed, paused for a moment to think, and wiggled himself nearer to you, lying flat so your faces were close to each other.

You speak in a hush, "If you know what I'm saying, nod your head."

He sits up. Nods.

"Oh... God, okay, now raise your hand- er..paw..." He follows.

"Gojo... this isn't a prank. You're really in there?"

Yes!! He tried to tell you, but, frustratingly, you didn't seem to hear him.

You leaped up from the ground suddenly, "Oh my gosh... you're talking to me!" You pointed at him, as if it were the strangest thing ever.

He meowed in what you assumed was a very exasperated tone

You really were not sure what to do. At least you knew now that the curse had not erased Gojo's ability to understand human language.

After a short period of trying to communicate, you ushered Gojo to leap up onto your vanity, allowing him to take a good look in the mirror. The yowl that followed was both pitiful and indignant. If you hadn't known this was embarrassing for him, you would have found it more amusing.

--

By evening, you were starting to grow restless with the idea of keeping him. You had yet to be provided with a bed for Gojo, something you weren't sure how to handle. Every time you tried to get him to settle down on your own bed, he would race up again, seemingly upset you couldn't understand whatever he was trying to communicate. His tail would lash, those impossibly blue eyes would narrow, and another series of frustrated meows soon followed.

It had already been late afternoon when you were tasked with his care; now, it was fully dark outside.

Strange as it seemed, you would have never thought to touch Satoru Gojo so comfortably, but in this new body of his, it seemed only natural.

So, in the same way a parent coaxes a fussy toddler to lie down for an afternoon nap by lying down beside them, you eventually wooed Satoru to rest by allowing yourself to doze right next to him.

You did keep a respectful distance, of course, but your presence seemed to calm him. That fear of not being understood eventually subsided with the crickets chirping. And within minutes, his agitated movements slowed, then stopped altogether.

--

When you awoke some time later, there was a dull ache in your side from having fallen asleep sitting up. Your duvet was ruffled cutely around your new visitor, his white fur catching the amber glow of your bedside lamp filtering through the shade. His little furry chest rose and fell in a steady rhythm.

You stopped to study him for a moment, this mighty sorcerer reduced to something so small and vulnerable. It felt wrong, somehow, to see him like this. Wrong, but also oddly precious in a way you didn't want to examine too closely.

--

You had known Gojo in high school; he hadn't changed too much since, but you could still recall a time when the boy would complain about his endless duties, and even then, you knew he hadn't just been dramatic for the fun of it.

"Yeah, they keep getting on my case about mastering Domain Expansion before I'm seventeen," he'd groaned to Suguru one evening. "As if I'm not already the strongest," he rolled his eyes behind those silly circular glasses, "like, I'm some kind of machine they could just program."

The six of you had settled beside each other on the grass the night before winter break. You can recall how cold it had been, the harsh wind freezing you, but you had wanted to come out and see everyone before the new year.

You had been close enough to each other that your knee had almost brushed against his, and everything had been very still. You didn't want to break the spell that was keeping him in your proximity.

"True that it's not fair," Suguru had sighed, leaning back onto his palms, "I doubt the elders see any of us as people," he continued, his voice carrying that particular edge it got when he was trying to console someone without embarrassing them. "So... that's why it's our job to do it for them-" Satoru cut him off with a groan, fingers tangling messily in the grass between you.

When you'd looked over to see your upperclassman rolling his eyes, remnants of the conversation you were missing fading out, he had met your gaze. His eyes, impossibly bright in the dark then, had finally not slid from your own

"At least you guys don't look at me like that," he'd said quietly, almost accusingly, as if the kindness he had been afforded by coming to Jujutsu Tech was somehow more dangerous than all the pressure the clan elders placed on his shoulders.

You had lingered perhaps a moment too long looking at him, missing the context.

"Like what?" you'd asked, and almost immediately felt bad for it. Why would you speak? You barely knew him at all, surely he didn't actually want to talk to you...But you wouldn't be seeing him until the next term started, and you so desperately wanted to be closer.

"Like I'm just... Satoru," he'd sighed, and then immediately looked away to Shoko, who was rubbing his hair and assuring him he was nothing special.

That was the first time you had felt like he really had been speaking to you, and by the next term, those moments between you had remained just as rare.

--

You sat up a bit, you didn't have a guest room, and it felt highly inappropriate to share a bed with Gojo, even in his...current state. The decision was easy, really. You would take the couch. After all, he needed rest to recover, and you really didn't mind taking up less space; if anything, it was your preference.

You slipped off the bed as quietly as you could, tiptoeing toward the door. Just before you left, you glanced back one more time.

He looked so peaceful like this, without that wall of superiority and humor he usually wore.

The living room was cool and dim, lit only by the soft glow of the kitchen stove light. You grabbed a throw blanket from the back of the couch and settled in, your eyes tracing the familiar patterns on your ceiling.

Your mind wouldn't quiet. Today had been impossible, completely, utterly impossible. And yet here you were, with Satoru Gojo sleeping in your bed, trapped in the body of a cat because of some curse neither Shoko nor Suguru knew the origin of.

By the time your eyes finally slid closed, your brain was whispering that all of it had been no more than a dream.

--

Satoru woke to darkness and disorientation.

For a blessed half-second, he thought maybe it had all been some bizarre nightmare. Then he tried to stretch and felt the unfamiliar pull of four legs instead of two, felt whiskers twitch against fabric that was far too close to his face. Felt an extra appendage pulling his lower back...

Right. Of course, still a cat. Still cursed.

He blinked a few times, though his eyes seemed to fail him; his night vision was surprisingly sharp in this form. What he recalled to be your room was quiet, bathed in the purple-grey of late evening. The spot next to him on the bed was empty, the covers barely disturbed where he'd remembered you being.

Well, that couldn't be right....

Satoru stood, his body moving with an unsettling grace he hadn't quite adjusted to yet. He padded across the duvet, hopped down to the floor with a soft thump, and made his way toward the door you'd left cracked open.

The moment he entered the living room and turned the corner, he saw you.

Curled up on that ridiculous excuse for a couch, far too small for comfortable sleeping, with one arm tucked under your head and a thin throw blanket that had already slipped halfway off. You were still wearing your uniform pants and shirt, like you'd been too tired, or too considerate of not disturbing him, to even change.

Something hot and uncomfortable twisted in his chest.

Of course. Of course, you would give up your own bed for a responsibility a fraction of your size. Of course, you would make yourself less important, less deserving of basic comfort. It was so perfectly, frustratingly you that Satoru felt his tail lash in agitation before he could stop it.

He couldn't help but feel the disappointments he always felt, did you really think so little of yourself? Did you really believe that he, even like this, especially like this, deserved your bed more than you did? Or was it that you were just too embarrassed to share?

The thought made him want to yell in frustration, but he bit it back, knowing some unusual sound would replace his normally steady voice. You needed sleep, even if you'd chosen the worst possible place to get it.

Satoru approached the couch with careful steps, his paws silent on the floor. Up close, he could see the slight furrow between your brows, the way your shoulder was already angled awkwardly against the couch cushion. You'd be sore in the morning. You were probably already sore now.

This was absolutely unacceptable.

He gathered himself and jumped up onto the couch, landing near your hip. You stirred slightly but didn't wake. Your couch was narrow, barely enough space for you, let alone you both, but Satoru didn't really care that much.

He toed his way carefully over your side, circled once, twice, and then settled himself firmly in the space between your bent knees and the back of the couch. He pressed his small furry body against you.

This close, he could hear your breathing, steady and soft. Could feel the rise and fall of your form against his head. Could hear, even from his position on your calves, the constant thump of your heart.

It was quite hard for him to not fantasize about it all.

This was so typical, seeing you rearrange your life for what really was the perfect inconvenience. And you were doing it for him. He couldn't even call the two of you close.

You see, to Gojo, after years of not really knowing what to say, it became hard to say anything at all around you. Easier to keep his distance, to stay silent, than to risk revealing just how much attention he actually paid to you.

And now he couldn't say anything even if he had the words, unable to do anything except press himself against you and hope you understood even a fraction of what he couldn't say. Even if it was just,

Thanks for not leaving me to Shoko's smoky apartment...

He knows she wouldn't have shared her comfy bed with him.

Your breathing shifted, and slowly you began to turn in your sleep, moving to face the back of the couch. Satoru unfurled and slowly snuck up to come rest nearer to you. Not quite touching, but close enough that he could feel the warmth of you more.

Satoru tucked his head down and closed his eyes.

If you woke up and tried to move him, he'd make himself as heavy and immovable as possible. You'd taken care of him today, multiple times now, actually. The least he could do was make sure you didn't spend the whole night cramped on this awful couch alone.

Even if he couldn't say thank you.

Even if you'd never know why.

--

Three days into this arrangement, you were...all respect to the honored one, potentially starting to lose your mind.

Shoko had called twice with updates that amounted to quite literally nothing. Suguru had stopped by once with supplies and absolutely zero leads on the curse responsible and had a good laugh. And you had been running yourself ragged trying to maintain normalcy while also keeping the world's strongest sorcerer alive.

On a large scale, it wasn't all that hard, but what had been a successful first night of keeping Gojo asleep ended up being a huge bout of luck because that man. Did not sleep through the night. Ever.

As it would turn out, Gojo was a terrible patient. He refused to eat the cat food you'd bought (you'd resorted to giving him plain chicken, rice, and fish). It was as if he couldn't help himself but knock things off your counters with what seemed like deliberate intent, followed by genuine remorse, and he had this annoying habit of sitting directly in your field of vision whenever you pulled out your laptop, or book, or knitting, or God knows what else.

Do not even mention the 3 AM zoomies.

Worse than all of this, however, was the way he watched you. Those unnervingly blue eyes tracked your every movement, and you couldn't shake the feeling that he was judging you. Cataloguing every mistake, every inadequacy, storing them up for when he got his body back so he could finally tell everyone what a disaster you were.

A bit dramatic, yes, but he had always been so observant of everyone for that very reason.

You hoped he was just deathly bored.

You knew it must be hard. It's not as though you could stay home and entertain him all day; you still had a job to do. Suguru had bought him all kinds of kitty sensory toys, but let's just say, Gojo was not fond of them.

Maybe it was because of how Suguru teased him when he came over to drop them off, maybe it was because he just enjoyed tipping stuff off the counters more then he liked chasing electronic mice. Who is to say?

You knew he needed engagement, some stimulation; you were trying your best.

This day in particular had been especially brutal. A mission that should have taken two hours had stretched into six. The two students who had come with you had quite a bit of trouble and you felt badly enough to buy them dinner. By the end of it all, it was fair to say you were drained.

Finally home, you stumbled through your apartment door well after dark, your body moving on autopilot. Keys on the hook. Shoes kicked off. Bag dropped by the door.

Your uniform wasn't actually that uncomfortable, but after such a long day, all you wanted were your pajamas.

You pulled your shirt over your head as you walked toward your bedroom, already mentally checked out, your fingers working through your hair.

"...Ow," you muttered, almost tripping over yourself to put your socks in the laundry basket, fingers fumbling with your skirt. You were halfway to your dresser, in just your underwear, by the way, when you heard it.

A very pointed, very loud meow.

You froze.

Your head whipped to the side, and there he was, Satoru, perched on your dresser, his white tail swishing in slow, deliberate arcs. Those blue eyes were wider than you'd ever seen them, his stance wide as well, and if a cat could look scandalized, he absolutely did.

"Oh my gosh!" You grabbed the nearest piece of clothing, yesterday's shirt, and held it against yourself, after a moment of realizing it covered little to nothing, you instead decided to throw it at him.

The t-shirt landed, effectively covering him, he spun beneath it, somewhat caught off guard. After a quick escape, he turned his head away sharply, and you could swear his ears were pressed back in what might have been mortification.

Your face was burning as you scrambled to pull on clean clothes, your hands shaking slightly.

How could you have possibly forgotten? "I'm sorry, I'm sorry...just" you heaved, pulling on a long t-shirt, "wasn't thinking and...I just came home and—" You rambled on, "gosh I'm an idiot, I have no idea what—"

Another meow, this one somehow conveying both forgiveness as well as a, "please stop talking."

You pressed your hands to your face, wanting the floor to swallow you whole. Of all the people to accidentally flash, it had to be him. The one person whose opinion of you was already so low that you couldn't afford to sink any further.

At least he got some form of entertainment.

When you finally dared to peek through your fingers, Gojo had turned back around. He spun around a bit on the floor beside the dresser and padded over to you, sitting at your feet. He looked up at you and made a small, questioning sound, his head tilted.

Are you like...good?

The question, unspoken but somehow clear, made your head throb. Wishing you could somehow erase the past ten minutes of your life.

"That was awful," you managed to get out. "I'm...just tired. And mortified. Mostly mortified."

He bumped his head against your shin, once, twice. Then, promptly rolled his eyes at you. Maybe it was only fair for you to shame yourself so, considering he was perpetually on display.

"Jesus, you must be starved..." You realized, shaking your head, and led him to the kitchen.

You hoped and prayed this would be the last of the public humiliation Satoru Gojo got to witness.

--

Satoru had learned many things in the past week of being a cat. Aside from the realization that he had a complete inability to control his impulses, he also learned:

His sense of smell was overwhelming and occasionally nauseating.

The urge to chase anything that moved was both instinctual and deeply humiliating, especially when it caused you to wake up and become concerned for him.

And lastly, you were terrible at taking care of yourself.

It wasn't that he hadn't noticed before, oh, of course he had. He'd always noticed everything about you, filed away every detail like he couldn't help himself. But living with you, watching your routines up close, made it impossible to ignore.

You worked yourself to exhaustion all the time. You apologized for things that weren't your fault. You ate irregularly at best, and sometimes not at all. And you didn't seem to find any issue with these behaviors, which made him want to chew on something. A habit the both of you were trying to get him to break.

This morning was a perfect example.

You'd woken up late (still getting used to sharing a bed, he supposes, though it had come very naturally to him). He'd watched from his spot on the couch as you'd rushed around your apartment in record speed, pulled on your uniform, slipped on your shoes, and grabbed your bag.

You were halfway to the door when he realized you were about to leave without breakfast or a packed lunch.

Again.

Satoru launched himself from the couch and ran directly into your path, planting himself between you and the door. Calling loudly at you.

"Excuse me?" He was straightening his back quite defiantly, he could tell.

Stumbling to a stop, you nearly tripped over his moving figure.

"Gojo! I- I left something out for you- sorry, I don't have time to play, I'm already late—"

He didn't move. Instead, he sat down and looked up at you with the most pathetic expression he could muster. He even added a small, pitiful mew for effect.

"I" You turned back to check, "you've got food and water, you can't be going outside, you know that, I'm sor-"

He clawed at his own head in irritation, turned and walked deliberately toward the kitchen, then looked back at you. When you didn't follow, he did it again. Kitchen. You. Kitchen. You.

"Are you... feeling sick? What is it?"

Finally. He meowed, leaped onto the counter, and pawed at a cabinet.

Are you blind? He wanted to sass.

"You want... food?" You looked confused. "But your bowls are full?"

He resisted the urge to bite his tail in frustration. Instead, he jumped onto the counter (something you'd told him not to do at least a dozen times) and headbutted the cabinet door that contained your cereal.

"That's...mine, Gojo, I think it would probably make you sick."

Yes! Exactly! That's the entire point!

He meowed again, more insistently this time, and pawed at the cabinet.

You stood there for a long moment, and he could see the exact second it clicked. Your expression shifted from confusion to slight indignation.

"Are you... telling me to eat breakfast?"

He hopped down from the counter and wound himself around your legs in what he hoped was an encouraging figure-eight pattern.

"Gojo..." Your voice was disbelieving. "I really don't have time, trust me, I'm not like you, I can go a day—"

He couldn't help it...he didn't mean to... okay, he did.

He bit your ankle.

It had been a while since he had done that, spurred into action, you yelp, "Okay!" and reached down to scoop him up without thinking, holding him against your chest as you grabbed a protein bar from the cabinet with your other hand. "Happy now? This counts as breakfast."

See, this was the hard part; he couldn't "cheek" you into listening to him in this form, because a bar absolutely did not count, and he'd definitely need someone to address it when he turned back, but it was better than nothing. He allowed himself to relax slightly in your arms, rolling those big eyes once more.

"I don't understand you," you murmured, almost to yourself. You were scratching behind his ears now, absently, like you'd forgotten you were holding him. "I thought you couldn't stand me, but now you're just like my mother."

That stopped him short. His ear twitched.

Instead, he just pushed his head more firmly into your palm and purred.

You couldn't stop an almost-laugh. "You're very weird, you know that?"

Oh, you had no idea.

"Okay, I really do have to go now." You set him down gently, and he watched as you shoved the protein bar in your pocket and headed for the door. But just before you left, you turned back to look at him.

This was the hard part. Before, it had consisted of lazing around, waiting for Suguru to kill the damn curse that had caused this and turn him back. Somewhere along the way, it became sitting around all day and awaiting your return.

The door closed behind you, and Satoru sat in the silence of your apartment, tail swishing in agitation.

In all honesty, it had started to get good, living with you. There was a comfortable normalcy to it all; Satoru had even allowed himself to enjoy his new life.

Decent and consistent meals, more sleep than he had ever gotten, a companion to watch movies with, and a chance to be with you. What was there to complain about?

For the first time ever, in this new form, it was easy to be around you, to not be held back by the ever-present thudding in his chest, by the voice that told him he was going to stutter and lose his chill-flirty-guy look simply by attempting to hold your gaze.

When he had first met you, he was still trying to discover himself; he didn't know what kind of a person he was or wanted to be. He liked being the guy people wanted him to be (as much as he would deny it) but he never quite figured out what kind of a person you liked, and so, he found himself delaying your conversations until his confidence came to him.

That day just never really came. He had psyched himself into heart-stilling muteness whenever you were around.

Although now, some days, you would come home late, and that would mean he got to complain loudly while following you around, never truly upset.

It actually felt good to tease you; he had never let himself do it before.

Satoru slid near the window, listening to the mumble of the TV you had left on for him, and impatiently waited for the noise of your car.

--

When your head was clear, you were always worried about how others saw you and how they perceived your weakness. But in moments of desperation like these, you couldn't even seem to bring yourself to care about tripping down the hallway of your apartment complex.

Saliva flooded your mouth as you became frustrated with your door handle. Shaking it with irate need until it finally swung open.

Your whole body should be in pain right now, or at least giving you something, any feeling at all. You feared its impending arrival, knowing the adrenaline could only last so long, but all you could focus on now was how you were getting copious amounts of blood across your carpet.

Wide births of it seem to sink into the flooring below your shaky feet as you toss your bag to the floor along with the rag you had been holding to your head.

You shouldn't have left it at the entrance, but you had dropped it with everything else in your hands, and the front door was too far to go back to now.

Your brain was focused on how you were beginning to come alarmingly close to puking on top of the filth as well, and how your eyes kept getting blurry from the blood.

Clearly, you were not in a headspace of decent awareness because you had not even thought about how your cat might respond to your mess. Of Satoru seeing you in this state.

Wow, this was embarrassing. It shook you for a moment as Satoru circled your ankles.

You know he probably meant well, but in your current state, you could hardly walk without stumbling. Tears of frustration at the whole event prick your eyes. At the blood you know stained your car, your home, your uniform. You couldn't tell if it was blood or sweat that made your jacket stick to your flesh, but you hated how it felt.

You wanted this to stop, to push it away and bother with it in the morning, and you would've, only now, the pain was starting to arise in scarily strong waves.

You would feel bad looking back on it, the force you used. In those moments, it had almost been as though Satoru was trying to trip you with the way he kept blocking your path, his head tilted straight up. In a moment of frustration at everything, the pain, your stupid mistake, at the damn blood slicking your hair to your scalp, you shoved Satoru back rather aggressively with your foot, kicking him so he couldn’t follow you into the bathroom, where you slid behind the door.

Weak, a poor excuse for a sorcerer, and also now mean.

Satoru heard you slump to the floor. He heard your heart pumping. Smelled the festering of your flesh.

And he was useless through it all.

You felt yourself slip a bit, swallowing your own spit repeatedly, attempting to keep the bile down. The tiles of your bathroom floor were cold on your exposed flesh. A distant part of your brain reminded you how gross it was to just be lying here on the floor of your bathroom, but it was such a minute call amongst the alarm bells that were your pain receptors.

You tried to take an assessment of your body. It wasn't actually as bad as you thought, nor as bad as it looked. The long, jerky drive home likely exacerbated the issue. You would have called Shoko, only you knew she was in Kyoto right now.

Today was her report with the higher-ups.

And besides, there were only so many sorcerers who were able to heal others, and with Satoru "on vacation," her jobs were only becoming more frequent.

The one time when you needed to be strong, to stand up for yourself and not fall back on the help of others, you couldn't do it without making a fool of yourself. You really were pathetic.

Gojo's shouts would have been funny had they not been so incessant.

"It’s okay, Satoru..." You wheeze, "I’m alright, buddy." You weren't that convincing, even you knew that. But the torn-up noises he was making on the other side of the door were starting to become somewhat concerning.

Your words, however, did not have a comforting effect on him; had he been able to speak properly, you would have heard his, "You’re not. You’re really not."

On the other side of the bathroom door, Satoru was in a state of complete panic, unable to gauge what exactly was going on. Why the hell were you here, alone on your bathroom floor when you could be in Shoko’s lab? In a hospital, for Christ's sake? Why were you wasting your energy trying to comfort him?

He hated himself. He hated this stupid body. He hated how weak he was. But most of all, he hated those painful gasps of breath you were making. It caused him to wince.

He couldn't even enjoy the fact that for the very first time, you were calling him by his first name.

He needed to get in there.

Eventually, you were able to pull yourself up against the sink cupboard with a sopping cloth pressed messily to your head while your free hand worked on opening a first aid kit you kept handy.

A painful chuckle escaped you when a wild paw slid itself under the bathroom door, swiping at nothing.

Silly boy.

“It’s alright…it all looks worse than it is.”

You were really just talking to yourself at this point, little murmurs of ‘you can do it…’ as you hyped yourself up to using hydrogen peroxide with shaky hands, a great way to blind yourself.

As your blood started seeping into the hand towel beside your skull more and more, you realized you might actually be right.

The wound itself wasn’t that bad. There were just a lot of blood vessels in the scalp...at least that’s what you told yourself as the cap for the antiseptic came undone.

The cloying bile arose in your throat once more, your eyes blurred, and without allowing yourself the chance to change your mind, you slipped across the linoleum tile, leaned back over the shower-bath, and doused yourself.

It was pitiful, the noises you made. It was a sickening cry, the type of pain that made you angry. You had to repeatedly swallow down your gags.

You could barely hear the mewls over the sound of your own hiccups now.

“Almost done. It’s almost done.” You stroked your own neck to self-soothe.

The shocking sting subsided blissfully and slowly dulled into a casual ache. You had a sudden and childish desire to just hold your kitty. To forget all of this and just fall asleep. But you knew you would have to bandage yourself, even if it sucked all of your energy to do so.

Your legs shook as you stood, dropping the sodden and useless towel to the floor, and gripped the sink, looking at yourself.

It was almost scary to see. You flipped the sink on and washed your hands, and after looking for something dry to wipe them (and your sticky face) on, you leaned over and pulled the door open a crack.

Just like everything else, it seemed like Satoru wanted to take part. He was in the bathroom before you could say a word. Those big eyes kept scaling the length of you. His ears were pulled to the sides slightly, and his tail dragged the floor. His limbs appeared to be squatted low, and he just kept pacing around you silently.

“Sorry you had to see this.” You chuckle. Everything was making you a bit delirious, but knowing the worst of it was gone made it strangely easy to laugh.

Satoru did not seem to find it funny, an angry moan resounding from between your legs.

He hopped up onto the toilet seat and, from there, leaped to the sink, likely trying to get a better look at you. With a slightly damp and soapy hand, you stroked his tiny head, a feeling he usually would have disliked, but let slide this time, probably given the circumstances.

You attempted to shush him gently, but that only seemed to fan his anger.

"Shhh, I'm sorry, Satoru, I don't understand you."

You grabbed the towel from before and reached behind him to turn the sink on, allowing it to soak before ringing it out a few times. Satorus's nose scrunched up, probably at the coppary smell of your blood.

Once a bit cleaner, you took the wet rag and started blotting the stains on your uniform, small slashes here and there, nothing as serious as the head wound, but still dripping.

You made an attempt at salvaging your clothes but decided rather quickly to forego the whole endeavor in favor of a sloppy bandaging job and lying down, an idea much more appealing to your weak and dizzy mind.

Satoru cried, mewling a single note every so often when he had to shift to see your face. He jumped from the sink when you gave up with your uniform, the rag left in the sink for when you had a little more energy.

You laughed, something short and sweet, when you tried to lean over to pull your shoes off. His head almost bonked yours, you carefully responded by lifting him up and placing him on the bed. Even the simple movement seemed to hurt, you were usure of the current state of your injuries, but your bandages did not seem to be leaking sticky fluid, so that was a great start.

Your face scrunching up as you sucked in another breath. Slowly removing your clothes, discarding them into your laundry basket, even though you knew they would need to be thrown out in the morning.

When you turned to look for something easy and comfortable to change into, you saw the cat stoutly facing away from you, a large nightshirt having suddenly appeared on the mattress.

"Thanks, Satoru," You sighed, leaning into the bed before pulling it slowly over your head. You took stock of what was of imminent need, and highest on the list before anything else was sleep.

Before you lifted your worn body into bed, you bent over to his hiding form and pressed a kiss to Satoru's forehead.

When he turned to look, you were already trying to get comfortable. There was no use in forcing you to call for help, in keeping you from rest, he knew that. But that didn't mean he wasn't sick to his stomach.

He also knew with startling clarity that he needed you to kiss him again, the real him.

--

You could tell something was different before you were really even awake. It wasn't because you were so painfully sore that you couldn't bare the thought of waking up, or because your head throbbed with the beat of your heart either.

It’s not exactly like you had worlds of experience sharing a bed with someone, but even you could tell in this state that a human arm was heavily wrapped around your upper waist. The warm skin, the corded muscle, and those fingers that were unconsciously curled into your flesh.

Your face was pressed against something firm, your own warm breath ricocheting back in a calming cycle. In your half-asleep daze, you mapped your hands across the smooth expanse of skin and hard muscle that was weighing against you and definitely had not been there when you had fallen asleep.

The duvet was tucked tightly around your legs, along with some other tangled limbs you weren’t accustomed to, far too long to belong to the small creature you had grown accustomed to. Your norm had become a gentler...say, eight pounds of purring fluff on your back or calves, not whatever this was.

You rarely awoke before your alarm, so it was with blinking surprise that you found yourself trying to squirm free, just for Satoru, because of course it had to be him, to grumble something incoherent in his sleep and hold your hip tighter. "Sato, shit, Gojo," You groaned as you corrected yourself, managing to pull your arms free to start pushing him back.

Your sides and lower back still hurt from yesterday; the pain lingered with every movement. In response to your pushes, he simply readjusted instead, moving down to nuzzle his head back into your neck, long white hair splayed out and tickling your cheeks, still too asleep to realize he wasn't the same small kitty anymore.

He groaned a sigh, fully unaware, not able to take note of his body that could no longer simply curl up on you. You wheeze a bit, "You're...heavy-"

And finally, he stirred, his body going completely rigid, the moment of understanding hitting him.

"Fuck." His voice was hoarse and raw, scratching its way out of his throat as though it was a pain to use. Almost like he hadn't used it in weeks...which, technically, he hadn't.

It took him a second to start moving, every motion slow, sluggish, while he untangled himself from you and the blanket.

You tried not to stare, really you did, but as you sat up in your bed, you watched as he jolted, your eyes having a mind of their own, raking over his body, betraying you.

You traced the movement of his shoulders, the line of his spine, and--

He was naked. Completely and utterly nude.

You made a startled-strangled noise, immediately looking away and throwing a blanket in his general direction to cover up. A feeling of deja vu followed.

Both of you were speaking over each other, neither really making sense. You had slipped off your mattress and were pointing him in the direction of your closet when he finally stopped muttering.

"Um, okay, well, I'm, uh, gonna call Suguru so he can get you some clothes," You rambled, covering your eyes with one hand and fumbling for your phone where you could've sworn you left it on the nightstand before you fell asleep. Quickly and without your notice, a warm hand brushed against yours, goosebumps going up your arm as sturdy fingers unintentionally skimmed over your skin. It took you a painfully long second to realize he was holding your phone out for you to take.

"Thanks," You choked out, grabbing it and crawling back to the other side of the room so you wouldn't accidentally bump into him. "You can just, uh, use my closet to sit...or relax or whatever." You were scurrying out before he could reply, clutching your phone like a shield to save you from the sheer awkwardness.

In your hurry, you hadn't realized you'd loosened your pathetic excuse for bandages until you felt something dry and scratchy itching at your forehead as you slammed the door behind you and started frantically thumbing through your contacts for Suguru. "Shit," You muttered, hitting the call button and tucking it between your ear and shoulder, right after you had hurried to the bathroom to clean yourself up, choking down a few more painkillers dry as the phone rang.

"Good morning, I assume you are calling to share some good news?" Suguru's voice sounded annoyingly chipper for once; you could only guess he knew your predicament. He had answered right as you had perched yourself on the edge of the bathroom counter.

Your back and side hurt way more now than they did last night. You ground your molars just replaying the memory of that stupid curse catching you off guard after you thought you had finished it.

There was a sharp knock on the bathroom door, and you forced yourself back on your feet, politely blocking out Suguru's explanation of his evening.

You checked yourself in the mirror, and your soul dropped at the sight of yourself. There was, unfortunately, nothing left for you to hide from your roommate at this point, though, and you eventually pulled open the door.

You couldn't find the words when your eyes met his. Satoru's face was pulled tight, jaw clenched as his intense blue eyes assessed you. He was looking at you in a way he never had before...not to say you often caught him staring, because you really didn't.

Your heart sank. He almost looked angry. Disappointment flooded your mind and drowned you for a moment before the man gently took your wrist, and with a tenderness that did not match his expression, requested your phone.

There was blood all over the bathroom.

You just nodded.

To think, this towering man had been living with you for over a week now, and you had somehow found normalcy in it. When Satoru stepped into the bathroom, you suddenly found the space to be impossibly small. Forced to look up at him now, you wondered where that small, soft creature you'd gotten used to had gone.

"She's hurt," Satoru spoke slowly, interrupting his friend's rehashing of how he had found the curse. "You should be here to help her."

Suguru had not expected that to be a response, but he was put into action quickly by the unusual sternness in Satoru's voice.

Before Suguru had the chance to come and pick you up, Satoru spent the time fussing. You had expected his first day back to be more celebratory, a happier conversation perhaps, not,

"And why didn't you go to Shoko?",

"Do you have any idea how worried I was?",

"You lost practically a liter of blood!",

"And you weren't even listening to me..."

All this was followed by a rustling of a hand through his hair, which proceeded with,

"You're still shaking, Christ, I can see how hurt you are.",

"I have good eyes, you know this, but they were really bad back there, which was really just all the more scary when you literally kicked me from this bathroom!",

"Kicked me!!"

"And then you just went to sleep? There was nothing I could even do to- are you even listening?"

You had made several attempts at breaking his frantic sentences but finally, you put out a shaky hand, motioning for him, "Satoru..."

He paced forward, seemingly concerned.

"You're...in a towel..."

--

When Suguru arrived, you were forced to endure the removal of all his softness, replaced by harsh instructions. You didn't know what sort of face you were making, didn't want to when you were sure it was probably tinged with hurt or worse, something as embarrassing as a blush.

Satoru coming back to himself had always been the plan, but you hadn't considered what that would look like. How might it change the unfamiliar dynamic you had shared?

You were now caught somewhere between devastation and desire when you couldn't tell what new box he'd fit you into now, or if he'd just returned you to the one you'd been stuck in before, barely more than coworkers.

That was what you promised him, all those nights ago, right? That things would go back to normal once Suguru could find and destroy the curse.

But now that it had happened, you wished you had spent more time planning on how to respond. You had kidded yourself into thinking this wouldn't be hard, no matter how much you liked his presence, how much you convinced yourself there was some silent connection you shared, he had always been the same person, too far out of reach.

You couldn't read his face anymore, not now that he was a man.

--

The shoebox was waiting on your desk when you arrived at the school three days later, that Monday.

Plain, unmarked, sitting there like it had always belonged. You approached it cautiously, glancing around the empty classroom as if someone might jump out and explain. When you lifted the lid, you stopped short and turned to find the person who had left them.

Shoes. New ones. The same style as the pair that you had been wearing for years now. The ones that had been destroyed several nights ago by a certain ferocious feline. You can recall sighing at his regretful face, murmuring something like "...those were expensive".

There was no note. No explanation. But you didn't need one.

You had the sudden steam of guilt brewing in your mind. The notion that Gojo might have gone out of his way because he believed he had upset you just made you all the more uncomfortable. Not to mention the two of you hadn't said a word to each other since the day Suguru took him home.

You picked up one of the shoes, running your thumb over the pristine material, and something warm and painful bloomed in your chest. The souls were all nice and clean; it had been a while since your pair had looked anything like that.

You put the lid back on the box and tried very hard not to cry.

It wasn't because he had spent far too much money on you. Well, maybe that played a small part, but more likely, it was because he hadn't said anything at all.

Everything was falling right back into the routine you were accustomed to. You might see each other here and there, maybe at a work event, he might catch your gaze, in a few months, he might even include you in a conversation, and you could allow yourself to pretend it meant something more, but at the end of the day, you belonged in your world, and he in his.

Why was it that you were doomed to care so much for someone who you knew would never feel the same way?

--

You managed to avoid him for a week.

It wasn't difficult in the slightest. Satoru had been swarmed with assignments and meetings the moment he'd returned, the higher-ups were eager to deploy their strongest asset after his mysterious "overseas assignment."

You'd heard about it through Suguru, who seemed more than ever to be involved in your friendship with the man. He was far too amused by your sudden aversion to rooms he was in, especially since he knew you had once tried to look for them.

That being said, you couldn't avoid everyone forever, and certainly not Shoko, especially not when you'd torn your stitches again on a mission in Osaka.

"You're an idiot," she said flatly the afternoon you returned with some dried blood in your hairline, threading the needle with practiced efficiency. "These were almost healed."

"I know."

"You're going to scar worse if you keep this up."

"I know."

It felt like just yesterday you had thrown her into a coughing fit when she found out you had used hydrogen peroxide to clean the wound. Now, she was sighing, and you heard the distinctive click of her lighter. It hardly felt like it, but a month ago, now you had been in this very office, with this very woman, being granted an opportunity that at the time had felt like a joke.

"He's been asking about you, ya know."

Your stomach twisted. "Sho-"

"I'm just saying. Whatever weird thing you two have going on, maybe talk about it? Instead of running away from him?"

You didn't answer, and she didn't push. You had asked about it before, long ago whispers in your childhood dorm of, "do you think I did something to make him not like me?" resurfaceing. Even she couldn't explain why you were different to him.

She finished the stitches in silence, then left you sitting on the examination table with instructions to rest that you both knew you wouldn't follow.

You were pulling your hand back down from your head when the door opened once more.

Satoru stood in the doorway, Suguru just behind him. They both froze when they saw you, but it was Satoru's expression that made your heart stutter, something real and unguarded crossing his face before he schooled it away.

"Hey," he spoke first, silent, Suguru still behind him. His brows were knitted together, searching your face.

"Hi," you echoed back, avoiding his sharp gaze in favor of the desk, Shoko's abandoned coffee cup, the floor...the new shoes adorning your feet...

"You're hurt?" His voice was still rough around the edges, too low, not quite as smooth as it used to be. Like it was still remembering how to flow properly.

"Not really...not anymore," you shook your head, forcing your tone to stay light. "Shoko fixed me up."

"You shouldn't push yourself so hard," he frowned, taking a step closer.

The concern in his voice felt like a hand around your throat. You're pathetic. You've never seen him need help from Shoko, he could do it himself if he ever got hurt, which, of course, never happened.

You hopped off the table quickly, brushing past his broad chest to get to the door. "Thanks."

His hand shot out, catching your wrist. Not hard, not restraining, just... holding. "Hey..."

You stopped, a chill flew up your spine. When had he last touched you? You immediately turn around. Sick to your stomach with some shameful excitement that he may have wanted to speak with you.

"I haven't really seen you at all." His voice was quiet. Suguru looked like a very large fly on the wall, witnessing it all.

"Oh, I guess our schedules ... aren't matching up?"

"You're avoiding me, huh?" His grip slumped, and he put on that boyish grin you always craved to be directed your way, "Ever since I changed back, you won't even look at me. Are you just missing my old form?"

"No, I'm glad you're back," You shrug, "everyone was missing you."

There weren't any words exchanged for a painfully awkward time. Suguru refused to help.

"Thank you...for the shoes, by the way." You force out through the silence.

"It's nothing. I owe you much more..." Gojo stilled, looked around the lab, and then over to his friend, "Isn't Shoko here? I guess not... I figured she would be, though..."

Nobody replied until you pointed over your shoulder, "She had...just left when you stopped by..."

Satoru released his grip, nodded at Suguru, and quickly spurted out, "Did I make you uncomfortable?"

"What?" You still.

"Sorry if I did, it's just that I haven't seen you and I figured maybe I did something, and well.. you took such good care of me, it wouldn't be very nice of me to not pay you back properly."

You doubt you had ever heard so many words from Satoru directed your way, "Uhh, I don't think you owe me at all, you already got me the shoes, and it's not like you have to pretend things are different now that you're back."

You wished Suguru would leave, or better, you wished you could leave, becase Satoru is looking at you with those adorable, confused eyes.

"I'm not pretending, you know, we used to share a bed, we can be friends still, right?"

You gape like a fish, and Geto smacks a hand to his forehead. Friends? Were you ever friends?

"Satoru, you didn't do anything wrong. I think I would prefer if we could just be normal, I don't want you to force yourself because you feel guilty about something you can't control."

"I don't think I follow"

You try and grin, "You've made-" You stop, trying again, "Our relationship is pretty clear."

"It is?" He's got this cute scrunch in his eyebrows.

You finally turned to face him again. "I wasn't really worth your time before." It's embarrassing to say it so boldly to his face, especially because you know he's about to deny it.

Suguru, the slick man, takes that as his cue to depart, shaking his head. The words came out sharper than you had meant; maybe something more like, 'we're we close before?' would have sufficed.

Instead, there were months or maybe years of hidden offense spilling over. "I get it, okay? You were stuck with me because of the curse, and you probably feel embarrassed about having to stay with me, I mean, you were probably counting down the seconds until you could get back to your real life and forget about it, but-"

"Are you insane?" He stops you short.

You blinked. Satoru was staring at you like you'd just spoken a different language, his mouth actually hanging open. "What?"

"Not worth my time?" He repeated, his voice climbing. "Are you-do you actually think-" He turned around for the imaginary audience, gesturing wildly. "Oh my-are you serious right now?"

Suguru, who had apparently only been just around the corner, answered his call, "Don't ask her that! She has no idea, you're the one who's been silently pining for years."

"Suguru!" Satoru's face was turning red, his six eyes had known his friend was listening, but he didn't appreciate the commentary. None of this was going according to plan, he had practiced his confident and cool lines for moments like these, but just like every other time he was before you, the words wouldn't come.

Your brain had stopped processing. "I'm sorry, what?"

Satoru dragged a hand down his face, and when he looked at you again, his expression was almost pained. "I don't... I can't do this." He took a breath. "But you need to know that you've got it completely backwards."

"I don't understand."

"You've never...not been worth my time," he said, and the words came out rushed, clumsy. "I've never thought that. I just, I liked you since-god, I don't even know. Since you asked me for my name on your first day at school? Since you stayed up all night helping your upperclassman study, even though you were exhausted. Since you-" He gestured helplessly. "Since the beginning, okay? Since always."

You felt like the ground had disappeared beneath your feet. "But you never... you barely talked to me."

"Because!" He flung his arms around. Suguru came out from around the corner and mimicked wringing his neck with both hands.

"I couldn't! I can't even do it now!" Satoru stepped closer, and you were too stunned to back away. "Because every time I tried to talk to you like a normal person, I'd remember how much of a better person you were, and I'd just freeze, or say something stupid, or complain, because that's all I know how to do. So I stayed away because I thought that was better than being an idiot."

"You stayed away," you repeated slowly, "because you liked me?"

"Are you kidding? Of course, I liked you, who else would I like!"

"So when I thought you couldn't stand me..."

"No! I was just trying not to embarrass myself in front of you." He laughed, but it sounded a little broken. "Clearly failed at that, considering you witnessed me trying to figure out how to use a litter box for a week."

Despite everything, you felt a small laugh bubble up. His hand came up slowly, carefully, giving you time to pull away. When you didn't, his fingers brushed along your jaw. "And just like with everyone else, you took care of me, even though you thought so lowly of me."

You pulled back at that, "I never thought lowly of you..."

"If you thought for even a second that I was better than you, you did, I can't imagine anything lower than that."

"This is just...so stupid," you managed, covering your face, unable to wrap your mind around the idea of Satoru Gojo liking you.

"Yeah, well." He smiled, soft and genuine and so unlike his usual smirk that it made your heart ache. "You make me stupid."

"Satoru..."

"I'm sorry," he said seriously. "For making you think you didn't matter. For not being brave enough to tell you sooner. For-"

You grabbed his shirt and pulled him in, a particular fantasy you had been dreaming about for ages. You wrapped your arms around his waist and knocked his chest with your forehead. He made a surprised choking noise, his arms coming around you carefully, a gentle pet on your head every so often, mindful of your stitches.

When you finally pulled back, you were both looking at one another as if it were the first time. His eyes were impossibly bright, a smile playing at his lips.

He took a few deep breaths, "I promise to not be so stupid in the future."

"I seriously doubt that." Suguru's voice cut through the moment.

"Yeah, Satoru, let's not go making promises we can't keep." Shoko ran a tired hand through her hair, evidently, just around the other hallway.

"I'm serious, though, guys! I feel like a weight has come off my shoulders and I can be free!" Satoru said without fully unlatching himself from you.

"Thank god nobody is dying of emotional constipation anymore." Suguru came forward and knocked Shoko on the shoulder.

"Only took...I'm not sure, twelve years and a week as a cat." You hear Shoko's footsteaps retreat, then pause. "For the record, I'm charging a therapy fee for the last month of watching you both be idiots."

When they were both gone, and it was just the two of you. Satoru's hand found yours, not firm or loud like he typically was with his friends, but gentle, threading your fingers together.

"Thank you," he said softly. "For keeping me."

You looked at your joined hands, then up at his face.

"How could I not?" you reply.

He rolled his eyes, leaning down to kiss your hand, and when he pulled back, he was grinning like you'd just given him the world.

"Though for the record," you said, unable to help yourself, "you were a very needy companion."

His laugh was bright and genuine, the sound filling Shoko's office like sunlight.

"Yeah," he agreed, pulling you closer. "It's like...for the first time I could freely beg for your attention."

You look away, nodding, but he continued, "And you gave it to me, god, what a thrill." His eyes sparkled, "Are you gonna continue to keep me, now that I'm not as cute?"

At this point, you should've known better, but you just wanted to hear him say it, "Is that what you want?"

Satoru scoffed, reaching for your other hand, “Don’t you know I’m yours? Besides, who else is going to remind you to eat your breakfast, hmm?”

--

Sometimes you could still see his mischievous tail whipping back and forth when he teased Nanami or Suguru, his pointy ears flicking when Utahime or Shoko got mad, but the one thing that never changed was those big pupils that would spot you at a moment's notice. Only now, he was a lot less shy about asking for what he wanted, leaving to go right where he belonged.

Right into your cozy arms. There really was no better place for a lovesick pet like him.

There was nothing left for him to hide - the cat's out of the bag.

--

he's obvious enough, so much more that his friends, your friends—even your family is already getting the hint. hell, he's sure most of the students in the university knows just how fucking down bad he is. yet, you... pretty little ole you is the only who seems to not get the hint.

he's practically shoving how much he likes- no, loves you right to your face.

it's one of those sleepover nights, nights where he has to hear you complain about guys that you chose to be with.

last guy, a name who he couldn't remember and chose not to—random guy didn't even get a second date from you because you bailed on him in the very first one. and who was there to pick you up to escape from that date?

him

who was the receiving end of your babbling and frustrations? also him. now, this new poor guy— who just got ghosted by pretty you because apparently he did something in your dream that made you wake up and suddenly get the ick.

he doesn't know how that works, but since it's you- he wouldn't question it. if you told him aliens are true, he'll believing they exist too, people would say he lacks individuality, he argues that he just knows which correct path to side on—yours.

so, maybe he's stupid too, for letting this happen, for letting it be an occuring situation.

but smart enough to know he can and will treat you better than these guys, he knows you well enough, what your schedule is. what time you wake up in the weekdays even the weekends, or how you like your coffee made or your order on the café you and him always hangout and get to study together.

he drives your ass anywhere you want even if that means he has to wake up in the middle of night from blaring notification from his phone because you keep calling and spamming him messages that suddenly you're craving some spicy chicken despite the fact he knows your spice tolerance is shit.

he walks you to your lecture even if it means he has to be late to his own classes cuz his just had to be on the other side of your building. he waits for your lectures to be over even if his own already ended hours ago.

he lingers in the library with you even though he's already finished with his own work and studies. he helps you on your materials that you're stuck on—you always argue that things seems to be easier when its taught by him.

he listens to your stories, your gossips, even how you day was even if you argued there wasn't anything too interesting to tell— he would insist, cuz anything with you in it is interesting enough for him.

he remembers all of those things and if you don't, he still listens without interrupting you even if it's the second, third, or no matter how many times you told the story since it appears that you tend to forget the stories that you already told him. He still listens like he's hearing it for the first time.

He carries your bags for you even if it's a cute little purse that's adorned by various charms and keychains—he still rocks it like it's his own.

He lets you swap meals with him if the food you ordered isn't to your liking (he's ordering your usual meal, given that you always dislikes the new food you order), since you wanted to go out of your comfort zone and do some little experimenting by trying out new food just to be disappointed. he lets you take his meal even though he also doesn't like the food that you ordered.

He offers you the first and last bite of his own food, taking note whether you dislike it or not. If you do like it, he'll just give it to you entirely despite him also enjoying his own food.

He lets you, he does it—even if there's always an 'even', when there's always a 'in spite'. he does it because he loves you, and you don't deserve anything less.

so he does all these things regardless of the evens cuz it's you, and it has always been you. and he's desperate to let you know.

to tell you, shout it that he loves you dearly, but he can't. since you still sees him as your best friend. still sees him as that one snobby brat kid he was back then on the playground where you had first met. insisting he should be the first one on the swing and you to push him, just for you to really push him— hard that he face planted on the sand and he swears, the you on that playground with your cute hairstyle, furrowed brows and scrunched nose and that eye roll you given him was the moment he fell in love.

and he just fell deeper ever since.

so, you can't blame him for being hopeless, for being desperate.. desperate enough to say—

"i love you..."

"what.."

he's obvious enough, so much more that his friends, your friends—even your family is already getting the hint. hell, he's sure most of the students in the university knows just how fucking down bad he is. yet, you... pretty little ole you is the only who seems to not get the hint.

he's practically shoving how much he likes- no, loves you right to your face.

it's one of those sleepover nights, nights where he has to hear you complain about guys that you chose to be with.

last guy, a name who he couldn't remember and chose not to—random guy didn't even get a second date from you because you bailed on him in the very first one. and who was there to pick you up to escape from that date?

him

who was the receiving end of your babbling and frustrations? also him. now, this new poor guy— who just got ghosted by pretty you because apparently he did something in your dream that made you wake up and suddenly get the ick.

he doesn't know how that works, but since it's you- he wouldn't question it. if you told him aliens are true, he'll believing they exist too, people would say he lacks individually, he argues that he knows the correct path to side on—yours.

so, maybe he's stupid too, for letting this happen, for letting it be an occuring situations.

but smart enough to know he can and will treat you better than these guys, he knows you well enough, what your schedule is. what time you wake up in the weekdays even the weekends, or how you like your coffee made or your order on the café you and him always hangout and get to study together.

he drives your ass anywhere you want even if that means he has to wake up in the middle of night from blaring notification from his phone because you keep calling and spamming him messages that suddenly you're craving some spicy chicken despite the fact he knows your spice tolerance is shit.

he walks you to your lecture even if it means he has to be late to his own classes cuz his just had to be on the other side of your building. he waits for your lectures to be over even if his own already ended hours ago.

he lingers in the library with you even though he's already finished with his own work and studies. he helps you on your materials that you're stuck on— you always argue that things seems to be easier when its taught by him.

he listens to your stories, your gossips, even how you day was even if you argued there wasn't anything too interesting to tell— he would insist, cuz anything with you in it is interesting enough for him.

he remembers all of those things and if you don't, he still listens without interrupting you even if it's the second, third, or no matter how many times you told the story since it appears that you tend to forget the stories that you already told him. He still listens like he's hearing it for the first time.

He carries your bags for you even if it's a cute little purse that's adorned by various charms and keychains— he still rocks it like it's his own.

He lets you swap meals with him if the food you ordered isn't to your liking (he's ordering your usual meal, given that you always dislikes the new food you order), since you wanted to go out of your comfort zone and do some little experimenting by trying out new food just to be disappointed. he lets you take his meal even though he also doesn't like the food that you ordered.

He offers you the first and last bite of his own food, taking note whether you dislike it or not. If you do like it, he'll just give it to you entirely despite him also enjoying his own food.

He lets you, he does it— even if there's always an 'even', when there's always a 'in spite'. he does it because he loves you, and you don't deserve anything less.

so he does all these things regardless of the evens cuz it's you, and it has always been you. and he's desperate to let you know.

to tell you, shout it that he loves you dearly, but he can't. since you still sees him as your best friend. still sees him as that one snobby brat kid he was back then on the playground where you had first met. insisting he should be the first one on the swing and you to push him, just for you to really push him— hard that he face planted on the sand and he swears, the you on that playground with your cute hairstyle, furrowed brows and scrunched nose and that eye roll you given him was the moment he fell in love.

and he just fell deeper ever since.

so, you can't blame him for being hopeless, for being desperate.. desperate enough to say—

"i love you..."

"what.."

sometimes he told himself you’d meant it. sometimes he told himself you hadn’t. either way, it stuck like a stone in his chest.

he dated, here and there. quick, easy things that never lasted. he was charming enough to pull people in, but the weight of expectation followed him everywhere, and sooner or later it smothered things. he couldn’t untangle what people wanted from him—from his name, from his future—and what they wanted from him.

you were the last person who’d never made it easy, who’d looked at him and seen something you wanted to tear down rather than use.

and now you were gone.

his friends still teased him sometimes about his “old rival.” most of them didn’t know the full story. they’d joke about how dramatic you two had been, about the way you’d snapped at each other in classes, about how “hot” it had been to watch. he laughed along, shrugged it off, let the image of rivalry stay intact because the truth was heavier, lonelier.

he worked. he climbed. he coasted.

but at night, when the city lights burned through his window and the silence in his apartment pressed in close, he thought about how you hadn’t come to graduation. how you’d chosen absence over seeing him one last time.

time had a way of sanding the edges off things.

after a while, even the sharpness of that night dulled. the sting of your words, the sound of your slap—at first, they’d haunted him like a phantom echo. but years have a way of burying memories under the grind of routine, the steady churn of success, and the endless expectations of adulthood.

gojo moved on.

he built the kind of resume people envied, even if they whispered behind his back that he’d been born with half of it. the family company was always waiting for him, a golden path paved before he was even old enough to spell his own name. and though he used to resent it, though he once wanted to prove himself outside the safety net, he found himself slipping back into it naturally.

his father started involving him more directly, bringing him into meetings not just as a representative but as an heir. the word carried a weight he didn’t want to admit he liked. heir. it meant permanence. inevitability. it meant no one could take this from him, not professors, not peers, not rivals.

and he thrived in it.

the sharpness of his mind hadn’t dulled, even if he didn’t have to fight as hard for recognition anymore. he could see solutions in seconds, read people before they finished their introductions. he was confident in ways he hadn’t been as a student—not the cocky mask of youth, but the polished assurance of a man who had both power and proof.

at some point he dated more seriously, too. women and men alike, partners who looked good on his arm at charity galas or board dinners. there were flings, yes, but also a few long-term things that lasted a year or two. none of them stuck, though. not because he couldn’t commit, but because the weight of who he was and who he’d always be hung between him and everyone else.

he was never just gojo satoru. he was the gojo satoru.

and for the most part, he accepted that. he leaned into it.

the parties got bigger, the stakes higher. he learned how to drink just enough, laugh just enough, speak just enough to charm investors and competitors alike. he was fluent in the language of wealth and power, a world he once mocked but now wore like a second skin.

sometimes, late at night, he would catch himself wondering if this was all too easy, if he’d truly earned any of it, but he buried that thought quickly, the way he buried other things.

like you.

he stopped thinking about you after a few years. not out of malice, not out of choice, but out of the same, familiar inevitability. life crowded out the space you once occupied. the rivalry, the fire, the slap—all of it faded until it was just a faint memory he couldn’t summon unless he tried.

you became a ghost story in his past. a name his old classmates occasionally dropped over drinks, followed by laughter about how dramatic you both were. he didn’t bother to correct them anymore. didn’t feel the ache he once did.

the truth was simple: you weren’t there. you hadn’t been there for years.

and he was busy becoming who he was always meant to be.

by the time gojo hit his early thirties, the unstoppable nature of, of himself, it all had settled like a mantle on his shoulders.

he wasn’t just an heir anymore. he was it.

the board members who used to smirk behind their hands at his youth now leaned toward him in meetings, measuring his words like scripture. his father had begun stepping back, his presence more ceremonial than functional, and everyone knew it was only a matter of time before gojo officially inherited the empire.

and gojo wore it well.

he’d grown into his face, into his height, into his confidence. the boyish arrogance of his student years had refined into something sleeker, more dangerous. charm was no longer a defense mechanism; it was a tool, something he wielded as effortlessly as a pen. he knew how to smile just enough, how to let silence stretch until people gave him what he wanted, how to wrap even his sharpest critiques in silk.

the city knew him. the industry knew him. sometimes it felt like the whole world did. articles were written about him, profiles framed him as a generational prodigy, investors called him visionary.

and for the most part, he believed it.

his days blurred into schedules: early meetings, endless calls, polished dinners. his nights were filled with the kind of parties that only the wealthy could access—lavish, glittering events where his presence was both expected and scrutinized. he danced through it all with ease, the perfect son, the perfect successor.

there were whispers, of course. that he was too young, that his last name carried him farther than his skill. but even those whispers began to fade when quarter after quarter, he delivered results that no one could deny.

he dated occasionally, but the older he got, the less patience he had for it. there were partners who looked good on paper, who fit neatly into the image of what his life should look like. some lasted months, others a year. but nothing stuck. not because he couldn’t commit, but because the role was too heavy for anyone else to bear.

so he let it go. leaned into work, into success. into the empire he was building with hands that had never known real failure.

sometimes, in rare quiet moments, he would wonder if this was really it. if the rest of his life would be this cycle of deals and dinners, this constant forward motion toward bigger and bigger numbers.

but mostly, he didn’t question it.

because what was there to question? he had everything. the power, the wealth, the recognition.

he had the crown.

and if there were nights where he found himself staring out over the city from his high-rise, glass of whiskey in hand, wondering why the victory felt just a little hollow—he buried it. the way he’d buried everything else.

including you.

and, well, as for you?

graduation came and went without you.

you told yourself you didn’t care. that watching everyone in their robes, watching him in his robe, would’ve been unbearable. it was easier to stay away, to bury yourself in the silence of your room and remind yourself that walking across that stage didn’t change who you were or what you’d done.

but the truth was—it hurt.

after university, the world didn’t open for you the way it did for others. especially not the way it did for gojo. jobs didn’t fall into your lap. you fought tooth and nail for interviews, clutched at internships that barely paid, balanced side jobs to keep afloat. every step forward felt like it took three times the effort anyone else needed.

and every time someone mentioned the word “connections,” you felt that familiar bitterness gnaw at you.

you told yourself you weren’t jealous. that you didn’t want his life anyway, that you’d rather carve something out with your own hands than inherit it, but it was hard, sometimes. hard not to think of him when rejection letters piled up, when bosses overlooked you, when exhaustion settled into your bones.

still, you pushed forward.

you built slowly, piece by piece. small roles that turned into bigger ones, projects that gave you enough credibility to get noticed. nothing glittered, nothing was effortless, but it was yours. the fire you’d carried at university dimmed after a while. not gone—never gone—but quieter, tempered. competition required an opponent, and you no longer had one.

you dated, too, though it always felt complicated. sometimes you worried you were too distracted, too tired, too wrapped up in proving yourself. there were moments of sweetness, of warmth, but nothing lasting.

and through it all, the shadow of him lingered.

not as sharply as before—not the way it had in those first raw years, when the thought of him was like salt in a wound. now, it was more like a ghost. a flicker at the edge of thought when you walked past a glossy skyscraper, when you overheard someone talking about heirs and legacies.

you didn’t look him up. not deliberately.but sometimes his name brushed against yours in articles, in industry chatter, in the mouths of people who liked to gossip about the gilded. gojo satoru, heir to the gojo group… gojo satoru, rising star in business…

and you told yourself it meant nothing, because your life was not his life. you weren’t chasing him anymore, no, you were chasing yourself.

the years stretched, and though it wasn’t easy, though it was a constant uphill climb, filled with long nights and quiet doubts, you built something you could stand on. maybe not an empire, maybe not a crown, but yours.

and if sometimes you wondered what it would feel like to see him again, to look into those eyes after so many years and know whether you still hated him or if the hate had dulled into something else—

well. you pushed that thought away, too.

your first job wasn’t glamorous. it wasn’t even close to what you dreamed of. you started as an assistant in a mid-tier firm, running schedules, making coffee, taking notes no one would ever read again. but you didn’t let it end there. you watched, you learned, you noticed what others missed—the way certain executives negotiated, the subtle cues that decided whether a deal went through or fell apart.

when the chance came to step in, you did. a small presentation here, an unexpected solution there. people started to notice. and once they noticed, you made damn sure they couldn’t forget you.

every opportunity became a foothold. you climbed, slowly at first, then faster, gaining speed and skill as the years went on. what others took for granted, you fought for and because of that, you owned it.

your twenties blurred into a series of long nights, sharp wins, and steady promotions. the climb wasn’t linear— you had setbacks, failures that knocked the wind out of you— but you always rose again. each stumble only sharpened you further.

by the time you hit your late twenties, you weren’t just surviving in the corporate world. you were thriving.

your name started to carry weight in the circles that mattered. not because of family, not because of heritage, but because of results. projects you led began drawing attention, not only inside your company but outside of it. your strategies worked. your leadership inspired. people began to seek you out.

headhunting offers followed. firms whispered promises of higher salaries, bigger teams, more visibility, and though you didn’t always take them, you could. that freedom alone was its own kind of triumph.

your thirties arrived, and with them came the roles you once thought were reserved only for people like him — executive-level positions, international opportunities, invitations to sit at tables you’d only dreamed of.

except you weren’t dreaming anymore. you were there.

and the best part was that every step, every achievement, was yours. not inherited. not handed down. earned. carved out of long hours and sharp choices, sacrifices and resilience.

there were moments you allowed yourself to stop, to look back at how far you’d come, and marvel at it. the younger version of you, the one who’d sat bitterly in her room on graduation day, would’ve never believed it.

but you’d done it. you were no longer chasing anyone. you weren’t trying to outpace a ghost, or prove a point to a boy who once thought you were just a rival in a game.

this was your life and you’d built it from the ground up.

but success didn’t feel the way you thought it would.

when you were younger, it had always been this shining, unreachable thing in your mind. a promise that once you touched it—once you finally made it—everything would make sense. the exhaustion, the endless work, the bitterness of watching people like gojo glide past you as if the world were designed for them. it would all be worth it, you told yourself, if you could just get there.

and in many ways, it was.

there was satisfaction in walking into a boardroom and knowing people listened when you spoke. in seeing your name in industry reports, tied to successes no one could take from you. in receiving invitations you once thought were reserved for the untouchable elite.

there was pride, too. deep, steady pride, like steel in your bones, because every title, every promotion, every recognition — it was yours. no legacy, no surname, no family fortune propping you up. only work, persistence, and the refusal to quit when the world gave you every reason to.

however there were quieter moments when success felt different.

sometimes it felt hollow. like standing at the top of a skyscraper and realizing the air is thinner up here, colder. you looked around and realized how much you’d sacrificed for the climb—relationships that never had the space to grow, friendships that withered because you didn’t have the time to water them, nights where you traded rest for progress.

you weren’t lonely, exactly. you had people, colleagues, even friends who admired and respected you. but there was a kind of solitude in being the one who had clawed her way up the hardest route possible. no one else could fully understand what it cost.

other times, it felt bittersweet. like standing in front of your reflection after a long day, dressed sharply, makeup perfect, another victory under your belt—and thinking, i did it. i actually did it. only for the thought to be followed immediately by: and tomorrow, i’ll have to do it again.

there were nights when you lay awake and asked yourself if this was it. if the endless climb, the constant forward push, was all there was.

but then there were days—glorious days—where success filled you with something radiant. like when a younger colleague told you they looked up to you, that you made them believe they could do it too, or when you closed a deal no one thought possible, or when you realized that you no longer felt small, overlooked, powerless.

because the truth was, no matter the weight, no matter the hollow parts—you’d proven yourself. not to anyone else. to yourself.

and that mattered more than anything.

by the time your early thirties rolled around, you were solidly established. not just climbing anymore, but standing in a place most people never reached.

you were an executive now—regional head at a respected multinational, with a team that actually listened, a budget that meant something, and projects that rippled across industries. the kind of position people fought tooth and nail for, sometimes their entire careers, and you’d landed it before most even hit their stride.

your calendar was packed with meetings, flights, dinners, negotiations. weeks blurred with jet lag and back-to-back calls, but you moved through it with the kind of precision only years of hard practice gave you. people had begun to describe you as sharp, formidable, reliable—words you once dreamed of having attached to your name.

your apartment reflected the life you’d carved. sleek, minimal, expensive without being ostentatious. a view of the city you once thought you’d never have. proof, in concrete and glass, of how far you’d come.

socially, you’d built a circle too. colleagues who turned into friends, friends who turned into anchors when the job threatened to consume you. and though you still sometimes wrestled with the solitude of success, you weren’t alone.

financially, you were stable—no, more than stable. comfortable. secure. you didn’t worry about bills anymore, about whether you’d make it to the next month. your name carried weight now. not the kind of inherited weight gojo once flaunted, but earned. weight people respected.

and for the first time in a long time, you were breathing easier. not coasting, but steady.

you weren’t the girl grinding herself down, desperate to prove she could keep up. you weren’t the “rival” consumed with someone else’s shadow. you were yourself. successful. established. proud.

the fire that drove you was still there, but it burned cleaner now. less frantic, less jagged. you’d learned to harness it, to direct it.

and if sometimes you caught yourself wondering what it might feel like to cross paths with the past—to see his face again, older, sharper, touched by the same years that had shaped you—well, you dismissed it.

because you had no reason to look back.

your life was full, your future brighter than ever.

and then, just when you’d settled into that certainty, life began moving its quiet pieces. the kind you never noticed until you were standing face-to-face with someone you once swore you hated.

—

the ballroom was everything it was supposed to be: glittering chandeliers, champagne flutes clinking in practiced rhythms, a string quartet humming away in the corner while laughter and congratulations swelled and broke like waves.

it was the kind of event gojo had been raised for. the kind where his name opened doors before he even stepped through them, where people hovered just close enough to catch his attention, eager to curry favor.

tonight was no different.

the deal had been massive—his father’s company merging with a foreign powerhouse, a partnership that meant headlines, wealth, security, prestige. he’d led the final negotiations himself, presented the plan, smoothed it all into place. and now, as the ink dried, the celebration was his to own.

he stood at the center of it, as he always did. tall, sharp, dazzling in a suit tailored within an inch of its life. people laughed at his jokes, toasted his brilliance, congratulated him on being the face of a new era.

and he felt nothing.

their praise slid off him like water on glass. every “well done,” every “you’ve made your father proud,” every “you’re the future, gojo-kun”—empty. meaningless.

he smiled, of course. he always smiled. grinned wide enough to blind, tossed his champagne back with the ease of a man who knew he was adored, but beneath it, the emptiness yawned wider.

he’d done everything right. followed the path carved out for him, exceeded every expectation. he was rich, powerful, admired.

so why did it all feel so hollow?

he laughed at another toast, the sound sharp, practiced, echoing a little too loud in his own ears. and then—

a voice. not directed at him, but close enough to cut through the din. clear, professional, carrying the weight of authority. his gaze tracked toward it, half idly, expecting some familiar executive, another gray-suited power broker.

but instead—

it was you.

standing across the room, glass in hand, surrounded by colleagues who looked at you with admiration and respect. older, sharper, polished by years of effort he hadn’t witnessed. no longer the student he’d sparred with in lecture halls, but an executive; someone who belonged in this room — not as a guest, not as a hanger-on, but as an equal.

your name rolled off someone’s tongue in introduction, paired with a title he hadn’t expected: executive director, high enough to make the crowd around you pay attention.

and suddenly, the air in the room shifted. for him, at least.

his pulse kicked hard against his ribs, that practiced emptiness cracking for the first time all evening.

you. here. not a memory, not a ghost, but flesh and blood.

and not just here—you were part of this. one of the executives of the very company he’d just closed the deal with.

his first instinct was disbelief, as if the universe had decided to play a cruel joke. his second was something sharper, messier: a rush of everything he thought he’d buried.

anger. nostalgia. regret.

he laughed again, but this time it was softer, almost breathless. the people around him kept talking, kept praising, but he barely heard them. because across the room, you existed in a way that made the emptiness inside him feel like it had just been waiting for this.

for a heartbeat, he wanted to convince himself he was imagining it. graceful in a silky gown, poised with years of experience, even more beautiful than he remembered—but unmistakably you. there was no mistaking the way you carried yourself, the precision of your movements, the tilt of your chin when you addressed a colleague.

he leaned slightly toward the executive next to him, pretending to inspect a champagne glass, his voice lowered just enough to pass as casual.

“hey,” he murmured, tilting his head subtly toward you, “do you know who that is?”

the executive glanced, smiled politely, and shrugged. “sorry, not sure.”

gojo blinked, internal panic flaring in the quietest, sharpest way. “you… you don’t?” he asked, voice a fraction too low, too forced.

“don’t know?” the other repeated, smiling faintly. “maybe a new director or something? I think they’re from the company you just finalized with. the CEO mentioned her earlier.”

gojo’s heart caught. from the company I just finalized with. the words landed heavy, suffocating.

he followed your movements as you strode with a small group of colleagues, poised and efficient, toward the center of the room. the CEO of the company approached first, polished and confident, extending a hand for congratulations.

then you stepped forward, and for a moment, he could only stare, his hand frozen around his glass.

you extended your hand politely, businesslike.

“congratulations,” you said, your tone measured, professional, completely devoid of the personal history that had once ignited every nerve between you two.

gojo blinked, caught between recognition and protocol. he forced a smile that was all teeth and no warmth, and took your hand firmly, the touch brief. impeccable.

“thank you,” he said, voice steady enough for the room to hear, smooth enough that no one nearby suspected the storm behind his eyes.

the handshake ended, but the electricity lingered between you, quiet but sharp, like a wire stretched tight across the room.

he realised: the girl who had hated him, the one who’d refused him a single inch in university corridors, had become someone he could not simply ignore—not here, not in this room, not under these glaring chandeliers.

the CEO offered a polite comment, nodding between the two of you, but gojo barely registered it. all he could feel was the tight coil of something he thought he’d buried: awareness, recognition, a pulse of unresolved history.

you were here, in his world, in a way he hadn’t anticipated. and despite the applause, the celebration, the success he had spent years building, he felt… hollow.

a pang of something sharp and dangerous slid along his chest. the world around him had grown big, bright, and full of acclaim—but none of it mattered, not really, compared to the impossible fact that you were standing there.

and he had no idea how to navigate it.

he didn’t speak immediately after you were pulled away into a conversation by one of his colleagues. after the formalities of the handshake and the CEO’s polite chatter, he drifted back, letting you move with your colleagues for a moment. he watched from a distance, scanning the crowd, calculating the moment.

and then, when you stepped slightly away from the cluster, checking notes on a tablet or adjusting a folder in your hands(revising even at a formal event, how expected of you), he made his move.

the crowd parted almost politely around him, though no one gave him more than a passing glance. he navigated the throng with practiced ease, smile fixed, eyes locked on you. his pulse thudded quietly beneath the surface—a steady, controlled rhythm—but there was a heat behind it, something old and jagged that had never really left.

“you’re… alone,” he said softly, voice just above the hum of the room, careful to mask the quick edge of something he wasn’t ready to name.

you glanced up, raising an eyebrow, lips pressed in that professional line he remembered so well. “i’m not sure this is a good time for… casual conversation,” you said, your tone measured, too polite and ever so distant. exactly how he expected you would be.

“right,” he said, nodding slowly, letting the politeness act as camouflage. “i get it. work, company, big night. all that.”

you nodded, returning to your notes. the tension between you was almost physical. he could see the subtle shift of your shoulders, the way your fingers lingered over the tablet, the faint tightening of your jaw.

and yet… he had to try.

he stepped closer, lowering his voice just enough for only you to hear. “maybe… just for a moment,” he said, “we could dance?”

you froze, one hand still poised above the tablet, the other tightening around your folder. “excuse me?”

“a dance,” he repeated, with that familiar cocky grin — one he’d wielded for years, though tonight it felt almost raw in its honesty. “music’s playing. everyone’s celebrating. nothing official, nothing serious. just… you and me, for a song.”

you looked up fully this time. eyes meeting his, sharp, calculating, and for the first time since university, he saw the same fire that had once made your rivalry crackle. the look was almost incredulous, like you couldn’t believe he’d just asked. and maybe you couldn’t.

“i… i don’t think so,” you said finally, tone polite but firm, a wall against him.

he stepped slightly closer, just enough that the faint scent of his cologne brushed against you. “please,” he murmured, softer this time, “just one. nothing else. just a dance. for tonight.”

the room continued around you both—champagne, chatter, laughter—but the noise dimmed, the edges of the ballroom fading into the background. it was just you and him, suspended in the heat of recognition, years of history and rivalry tightening the space between you.

and for a moment, you considered it.

the fire flared again—not old rivalry, not resentment, not hate—but something complicated, unpredictable. something that made your chest tighten in ways you hadn’t anticipated.

and gojo, reading the subtle shift, let the grin falter into something quieter, more earnest, just long enough for the question to hang in the air.

you hesitated, hand still on the folder, heart beating a little faster than you wanted to admit. there was something in his eyes—no, everything in him—that made it impossible to say no.

finally, you set the folder aside. “fine,” you said, voice steady, though a hint of something softer slipped through. “one dance.”

he blinked, just for a moment, caught off guard by your acquiescence. then that familiar grin stretched wide, just enough to make your stomach tighten, and he offered his hand.

you took it. slow, careful, measured. the room around you blurred again—the laughter, the music, the glittering chandeliers—but this time it was closer, warmer, more dangerous.

he led you to the center of the ballroom, and for a second, you almost felt like university all over again—the stolen glances, the electric tension, the unspoken challenges lingering between you.

the music shifted, a slow, melodic tune that wove itself around your movements. he guided you gently, his hand firm on your waist, your hand resting on his shoulder. it was intimate without words, familiar without familiarity, a delicate tension that neither of you could — or wanted to —break.

“you’ve changed,” he murmured, almost conversational, though the sound of his voice brushed against your nerves like fire.

“so have you, it seems,” you replied, voice level, though your pulse betrayed you. you weren’t sure if that statement was true, but it seemed like the right thing to say.

he smirked, tilting his head slightly, studying you the way he used to across lecture halls and library tables. “i don’t know if i like it… or if i’m intrigued.”

“maybe both,” you said softly, matching his pace step for step.

the dance moved slowly, rhythmically, but every motion carried weight: every glance, every touch, every millimeter of space between you two. years of history, rivalry, hate, curiosity, unspoken admiration—all packed into this single, tenuous moment.

he leaned just slightly closer, enough that you could feel the warmth of his breath without him speaking. your heart fluttered against your ribs, and you reminded yourself to stay composed, to remember why you hated him, or at least why you used to.

but even as you reminded yourself, you felt it —the strange pull, the tension, the electricity that had never fully left the air between you.

for the first time in years, he didn’t look like a polished, untouchable heir. he looked… human. vulnerable, even, if only for this one dance.

with a dull ache in the back of your mind, you realized that this wasn’t just a dance. it was a test. a measurement of what remained between you.

and neither of you could predict the result.

the music wrapped around you both, slow and melodic, each note dragging out the seconds like syrup. gojo’s hand was firm at your waist, hot even through the fabric, guiding without force, while your own rested lightly on his shoulder, weight measured but precise. every step was careful, deliberate—almost like testing the waters, almost like neither of you wanted to fall too far into the familiarity of this proximity.

and yet, proximity had a way of undoing years of restraint.

“you’ve done… well,” he said, low, almost conversational, letting the words hang between you. the corner of his mouth twitched in a grin, but there was something tentative there, something softer than the arrogance you remembered from university.

“thanks,” you replied, careful. “you too. looks like you’ve… settled in nicely.”

he chuckled softly, a sound that felt both familiar and foreign. “yeah. settled. everything’s in place, smooth… too smooth, maybe.” his gaze flicked away for a moment, scanning the room, then back to you. “i thought it would feel different, though. being here, having all of this. you know… everyone praising you. all this success.”

you didn’t answer immediately. instead, you let the movement of the dance keep you engaged, each step deliberate, each turn measured. your pulse was high, the warmth of his body close enough to make your thoughts tangle. you hoped he wasn’t able to feel it.

“doesn’t feel… fulfilling?” you asked finally, voice soft. not accusatory, just curious.

he blinked, caught off guard by the question.

“sometimes,” he admitted, and it was the first crack in his polished exterior. “i mean… it should. it’s everything i worked for. and yet… sometimes i wonder if i earned it or if i just… inherited the stage.” his laugh was short, almost bitter. “funny, isn’t it? how easy it all looks from the outside.”

you swallowed the lump rising in your throat. “i know what you mean,” you said quietly. “hard work doesn’t always feel like enough, even when it’s… everything you’ve got.”

he turned his gaze fully on you then, searching, studying. “and you?” he asked, softer this time. “i imagine you’ve… done well for yourself too. probably better than anyone could’ve expected back then.”

“i… manage,” you said, shrugging just slightly. “i’ve fought for everything. nothing was handed to me. no one’s waiting to open doors.” your voice hardened for a moment, memories of your fight with gojo flooding your mind unnecessarily quickly. “so when people ask if i’m lucky… well. luck had nothing to do with it.”

he nodded slowly, gaze almost reverent. “you always were relentless,” he murmured. “i should’ve… i should’ve said something back then.”

you frowned, confused by the weight in his voice. “said… what?”

gojo swallowed, a flicker of vulnerability breaking through the polished mask he’d worn for years.

“i should’ve… apologized.” the word came out before he could stop it, rough, unpracticed, raw. “for… everything. for being… me. for making things harder. for… not seeing you, really. i was a jerk. i—”

you froze slightly at the admission, feeling the heat rise in your chest. his gaze was earnest, open, vulnerable in a way you hadn’t anticipated.

“gojo…” you murmured, uncertain what to say. years of anger, injustice, hate—all tangled in a knot inside you. the memory of university, of the slap, of every competition and clash—simmered, alive and sharp.

“i know,” he said quickly, as if reading your pause. “you hated me. i get that. and… you had every right.”

the music carried on around you, oblivious to the tension between you. and yet, in that suspended bubble of movement, of brush of skin and warmth of proximity, something had shifted. the apology hung there, raw and unguarded, and for the first time in years, the walls between you felt like they might crack.

your fingers pressed lightly against his shoulder, uncertain, measured, but you didn’t step back. not yet. he assumed that you’ve stopped hating him, which was correct. right?

and gojo, noticing the small pause, leaned just slightly closer, his breath warm near your ear. “i’ve spent years… thinking about how to say it. and now… i guess i don’t care if it’s awkward. i just… needed to.”

you exhaled slowly, the tension in your chest tight and loose all at once. the dance moved on, your steps in rhythm with the music, but the words lingered, charged and impossible to ignore.

for the first time in a long time, the past and present collided, all in the span of one slow, suspended dance.

the music ended, soft notes fading into polite applause and chatter. gojo’s hand lingered at your waist a moment too long, like he couldn’t quite let go, and when he finally released it, the space between you felt heavier than before.

you stepped back, smoothing your dress, forcing your posture upright, but the heat from him clung, like a shadow. your pulse hadn’t settled, and you could tell he was feeling it too—the subtle catch in his breath, the tight line of his jaw, the restless gleam in his eyes.

“thank you… for the dance,” he said, voice low, almost husky, though his usual grin was back, but just barely. it was an attempt at lightness, but it failed. the weight in the air refused to be glossed over.

you gave a polite nod, forcing a smile that didn’t quite reach your eyes. “you’re welcome.”

he studied you, just for a beat, his gaze sharp, almost calculating, and then softer, almost vulnerable. “i didn’t know it was you, but i’ve seen your work. you’ve… really built something,” he said quietly, like a statement, not a question. “i mean it. all of it. you didn’t just survive—you dominated.”

you exhaled slowly, because the compliment was dangerous. praise from him had a way of scraping at your defenses, leaving raw patches beneath. “it wasn’t easy,” you said, tone steady, though your chest tightened. “but it was worth it. for me.”

his grin wavered, becoming something close to awe—or maybe envy. “i… never doubted you,” he admitted, “but seeing it—seeing you—it’s… unsettling.”

“good,” you said, sharper than you intended. “maybe it should be.”

the words hit him like a spark. he smirked, a little off-kilter this time, the practiced charm giving way to something more dangerous. “you’ve always had a way of getting under my skin,” he said, voice low, teasing, challenging, but there was an edge to it now, raw and unpredictable.

you straightened, crossing your arms, feeling the familiar fire flicker back. “and don’t think that’s changed,” you shot back, tone clipped, though your pulse betrayed the way it raced.

he stepped just a fraction closer, uninvited but not unwelcome, the tension in the space between you coiling tighter with every heartbeat. “maybe it hasn’t,” he whispered, half a grin, half a dare.

you stepped back and suddenly the room felt louder, harsher, brighter. the applause, the chatter, the clinking of glasses—all of it pressed against your ears like it had been amplified.

your chest was still tight, your pulse quickened in a way that made you uncomfortable. you forced yourself to adjust your posture, straighten your shoulders, smoothed your dress again, anything to remind yourself you were in control.

he still stood there, just a fraction closer than propriety demanded, his eyes fixed on you with that impossible mix of charm and something sharper—something dangerous and familiar. your stomach fluttered against your will, and you hated it.

you hated him.

you repeated the words to yourself like a mantra, grounding yourself. years of competition, of betrayal, of cold, relentless self-assertion had built this wall inside you. you weren’t going to let it crumble now — not over one dance, not over one apology, not even over the way your heart had fluttered in your chest like a traitor.

was it excitement of putting him in his place? or was it just a thought of the slightest possibility of exceeding him even now?

but even as you told yourself this, you couldn’t deny the pull. the memory of university, the long years of competition, the fire of hate mixed with fascination—they all surged to the surface. it was messy. unpredictable. maddening.

“you’ve changed,” you admitted quietly to yourself, recalling his words during the dance. not in a flattering way, but in a way that made your chest tighten. years had polished him, sharpened him, made him… untouchable in a different sense. and yet, in that moment, in that proximity, he was startlingly vulnerable.

and that vulnerability, you realized, was dangerous.

you allowed yourself a small exhale, just enough to remember that you were still standing on your own ground, still built a life of your own, still earned every step forward without his interference or influence. the fire inside you wasn’t extinguished—it had evolved. refined. it wasn’t just hate or old competition anymore, not after this interaction. it was something complex, something sharp-edged that you weren’t ready to name.

you scanned the room, noting the swirl of glittering gowns and polished suits, the way people laughed and clinked glasses, oblivious to the storm that had just passed between you and him. everyone else was distracted. they had no idea.

and maybe that was comforting. maybe that was your armor.

gojo was already pulled into another conversation. you took a slow breath, letting your pulse calm just a little, reminding yourself why you’d come here in the first place — to celebrate the deal your company had just closed, to mark your own success, not to get caught up in the ghosts of the past.

but as you looked over the room, you caught his gaze again, sharp and unreadable, lingering like a shadow that refused to vanish.

gojo raised his glass in your direction, head tilting in a mock-toast, and you grabbed your own from the table to do the same, refusing to succumb under the pressure of his presence.

his blue eyes glimmered with something new.

—

as he gulped down the rest of his drink, eyes never lingering away from yours, for the first time in years, gojo felt a thrill that had nothing to do with power, money, or success. it was about you.

and somehow, terrifyingly, impossibly, that was enough to want more.

he sits sideways in group study like he’s waiting for you to pass by the window. laptop askew. chair half-turned. a ridiculous image—this lanky nerd in a grey hoodie and cargo pants with one pant leg caught in his sock, white wires tangled in his ears and dark under-eyes that make him look like he’s been stress-coding in a cave. (he hasn’t slept. not really. he keeps replaying the way you laughed that one time you dropped your highlighter. it echoes like holy scripture.)

his glasses are smudged. he keeps adjusting them, even when they’re fine. his knuckles are red from resting his chin on them too hard. he keeps fidgeting with your keychain when he’s not typing. thumb brushing over the worn metal, like he’s afraid it’ll disappear if he doesn’t keep touching it. a nervous tic disguised as reverence.

“dude,” suguru says, from two monitors over, voice dry, hair tied up in a lazy half-bun. “you haven’t scrolled in thirty minutes.”

suguru’s slouched in his chair, hoodie sleeves rolled to the elbows, rings tapping against his thermos. his screen's frozen on a meme. he hasn’t blinked in five minutes.

“maybe she’ll walk by,” satoru murmurs, eyes locked on the frosted glass wall outside the lab, hunched forward with his chin on his palm, as if willing your silhouette into existence.

“you said that an hour ago.”

“maybe she’s shy today. maybe she’s building up the courage. maybe she dropped her student ID and fate’s guiding her back here. what if the universe is lining up our pixels right now, suguru? what if—”

“she’s shy every day.”

“and that’s what makes it beautiful,” satoru sighs, dreamily. he stares out the window like a man in a tragic romance film. “she’s mysterious. like a foggy horizon at sea. you don’t know what she’s thinking, and that’s the best part. she could be plotting world domination. she could be drawing cats in the margins of her notes. it’s art.”

suguru groans into his hoodie sleeve.

and then like a glitch in the matrix. like god reached down and clicked “unmute” on the simulation—you pass by.

no footsteps. no warning. just a blur of your jacket sleeve on his left peripheral, and he flinches so hard he nearly spills his water bottle. the water sloshes. he slaps the bottle upright. you’re so close. the scent of your shampoo—jasmine and something warm, like vanilla and late-night bookstores—floods his senses. his head whips around before he can even think, pupils blown wide behind his crooked glasses, mouth parted like a cartoon character seeing a pie on a windowsill.

your gaze meets his.

not one second.

two.

wide eyes. startled. curious. the slope of your brows twitch upward slightly, and your lashes flutter—a beat too long, like a reflex or a stutter in time. your lips part just slightly, like you meant to say something—but don’t. your fingers tug at your sleeve, pulling it over your knuckles in that way you always do when you’re flustered. a half-step pause. your mouth twitches, just barely, like you might’ve smiled. then your gaze drops, your shoulders stiffening as your pace quickens, like you’re embarrassed to have looked at all. your fingers curl tighter around your binder. there’s a sticker on it he hadn’t noticed before.

and that’s it. you’re gone.

satoru slaps both hands over his face and releases a sound that is one part gasp, one part squeal, one part glitching modem.

“oh my god,” he whispers. “oh my god, she looked at me. TWO SECONDS, suguru. TWO. that’s statistically significant. that’s a scientific breakthrough. that’s… that’s eye contact with depth. it had nuance. it had arcs.”

“you’re not well.”

“no, listen. the way her eyes flickered? like she wasn’t sure if she should look away or say something? and her lashes twitched, just a bit. like she was nervous. did you see her hand? she pulled her sleeve down. she only does that when she’s flustered. i know. i’ve studied her. i’ve got timestamps. i’ve got spreadsheets.”

“you’re insane.”

“i’m in love.”

satoru slumps in his chair, limbs sprawling dramatically, glasses askew. he exhales like he’s just seen god. his knee knocks into the desk. his sock has a hole in the toe. the corner of his laptop screen catches the light and reflects a faint shimmer onto the ceiling, and it feels, to him, like stars. his fingers are still frozen mid-air, clutching the keychain like it’s the only proof the moment happened.

“i’m gonna marry her,” he says. “drop out, become a florist. i’ll propose with baby’s breath and carnations—those are her favorites, don’t ask me how i know. maybe a little lavender tucked in. something gentle. delicate. a bouquet that says ‘i know your soul.’”

“you need help.”

“i’ve named our cats already. ichigo, milky, and toblerone. toblerone’s the shy one. milky’s chaotic evil. ichigo wears a little red bow tie. we’ll live in a little flat above a cafe and drink lavender lattes. she’ll wear soft sweaters. she’ll draw comics on sticky notes. i’ll iron her lab coat. it'll be perfect.”

“she doesn’t even know your name.”

“wrong,” satoru says smugly, lifting a single finger like he’s presenting hard evidence. “she knows me as the guy who always looks left and right like a cracked-out meerkat. that’s recognition. that’s brand awareness.”

“romantic.”

“don’t be jealous just ‘cause she didn’t look at you.”

“she’s cute, i guess.”

“NO.” satoru jolts upright like he’s been electrocuted. “DON’T even THINK about perceiving her. your eyes? shut them. your brain? turn it off. opinions? delete them. she’s too good for this world. if anyone’s going to romanticize her, it’s me. with accuracy. and passion. and nuance. only i’m allowed to think she’s cute. and i do. constantly. it’s my full-time job.”

“fine, jeez.”

“say she’s ugly, then.”

“what?? no??”

“exactly. you can’t. because she’s perfect. ethereal. a goddess walking among midterms and overpriced coffee. and she blinked slow, too, did you notice? it was like… like a signal. maybe morse code. she’s trying to tell me something. she’s reaching out. spiritually. through kinetic energy and eye twitches.”

suguru closes his laptop with the tired resolve of someone preparing for battle.

satoru, still glowing with delusion, goes back to staring at the glass wall, head tilted, a soft smile tugging at his lips.

“she looked left,” he murmurs. “that’s my side. she always looks left.”

he swears his hoodie still smells like you.

he barely glances up. he’s still bitter. still annoyed. but when he finally does look—oh, he knows your type. wide-eyed, a little nervous, clutching a sketchbook like it’s a lifeline, like it holds something more important than just paper and ink. he bets you’re about to ask for a selfie, or his number, or—

“i need you to model for me.”

his head tilts slightly, brow arching in lazy amusement. huh?

he waits for the punchline, but you only stare, unwavering. there’s something unnerving about your gaze—not shy, not desperate, just… intent. like you’ve already decided something, and his answer doesn’t matter. then, as if confirming it to yourself, you give a small, determined nod. “yeah. you’re perfect.”

his lips twitch, the ego in him flaring up instantly. “obviously.”

“so you’ll do it?” you lean in, hopeful, hands gripping the edges of your sketchbook like it’s anchoring you.

“obviously not.” he leans back instead, stretching an arm along the back of the bench, his smirk turning sharp. “listen, i know i’m pretty, but i’m not that easy.”

your expression shifts, a flicker of something unreadable—then, with a breath, you square your shoulders. “i’ll pay you.”

he barks out a short laugh, blue eyes gleaming with amusement. “oh? and what’s my going rate, then?”

without hesitation, you pull out a flyer from your bag, movements quick and businesslike. “i have an hourly rate. cash upfront.”

he plucks the paper from your hands, more entertained than anything, scanning it with a smirk. this is, without a doubt, the most absurd thing to happen to him all day (and that’s saying something). you’re actually serious. actually offering him money to sit still and look pretty.

you must be so down bad.

“sorry, sweetheart,” he drawls, handing it back lazily. “but i’m a busy man. can’t waste my precious time sitting around just so you can stare at me.”

he expects you to stammer, to get flustered and retreat. most people would.

there’s a pause, thick with hesitation, before you finally speak—like you’re pulling the words from somewhere deep, somewhere you don’t usually let people see.

“hold still,” you murmur, more to yourself than to him. your gaze moves over his face with the kind of scrutiny that makes people uncomfortable, but satoru doesn’t squirm—he preens under it, smirks like he’s used to being admired. but that’s not what this is.

your eyes narrow slightly, head tilting. “your features are sharp, but not harsh. the lines of your face—” you trail off, thoughtful. “they flow too well. it’s almost unnatural.”

he blinks. “uh. thanks?”

you ignore him, scanning lower. “your collarbones frame the composition perfectly. and your hands…” your gaze flickers to them, fingers twitching against your sketchbook. “deliberate. expressive.”

his brows lift. “you’re checking me out.” he accuses, tone dripping with amusement.

“i’m analyzing your composition.” your voice is absentminded, matter-of-fact. you’re still staring, still studying, like he’s some kind of divine anomaly.

and maybe he is.

satoru should be smug about this. should be teasing you. but there’s something about the way you’re looking at him—serious, unwavering, like you’ve seen something no one else has. something not even he knows how to name.

his smirk falters, just slightly. “…so?”

“so,” you say, straightening, gripping your sketchbook tighter. “i need to paint you.”

not want. need.

and for the first time in a long time, satoru gojo is left without a clever comeback. because—okay. wow. that was a lot.

for the first time, he actually looks at you, really looks at you. and there’s no hint of deception in your expression, no underlying flirtation. your eyes—burning with something too raw, too genuine—throw him off completely.

“sounds like you’re obsessed with me.” he tries, aiming for his usual brand of cocky. but it’s weaker this time. a little off.

“i’m obsessed with getting my pieces right,” you counter, and it lands like a challenge. your voice doesn’t waver, steady in a way that makes his smirk twitch. “i’ll even raise your pay.”

his smirk falters for half a second. “yeah?”

“i—” you hesitate, fingers tightening around your sketchbook, knuckles pale from the pressure. “i can go up to… ten bucks per session. upfront.”

he snorts. “sweetheart, do i look like a discount model to you? you want me to sit still for hours, me—an in-demand athlete, a social necessity at every party, the backbone of this school’s sports program—for a measly ten?” he leans back, draping an arm over the bench like he’s getting comfortable for a long negotiation. “at least pretend to respect my market value.”

you exhale sharply, visibly weighing your options, then straighten with new resolve. “fine. twenty-five bucks per session. i can push to fourty, but you have to commit to at least three sittings.”

he opens his mouth to refuse—just for the drama of it, just to watch you scramble for a better offer—but then he hesitates.

and he sees it.

the way your fingers tighten around your sketchbook, the way your shoulders hold a quiet, unyielding tension. the way your eyes stay locked onto him, not with admiration, not with infatuation, but with something deeper, something urgent. there’s a pull in them, a quiet desperation—not for him, not for his attention, but for the shape of him, the angles of him, the way light bends and softens around the sharp edges of his face. he realizes, with a strange flicker of something he can’t name, that you aren’t begging him—you’re needing him.

…ugh.

satoru groans, throwing his head back dramatically, hands flopping uselessly onto the bench like the universe has personally inconvenienced him. “you’re not gonna let this go, are you?”

“nope.” your jaw sets, firm, unwavering.

a sigh. a pause. a moment of self-reflection where he briefly considers if the extra cash is worth sacrificing his free time—his parties, his practices, the worship of a school that already thinks he’s untouchable.

then—he grins, sharp and easy, like he’s the one who’s won something here. “alright, mystery artist. i’ll be your muse.”

he leans in, cocky and insufferable, but there’s something new behind it now—a flicker of intrigue, the curiosity of a man who knows he’s irresistible but has never quite been needed like this before. “but only because i’m feeling generous.”

the next day later, satoru reminds himself—firmly—not to let this happen again. he should have held out longer, should have played hard to get, should have, at the very least, haggled for more cash. but no, he let himself get swept up in whatever this was, in your weird little artist intensity, and now he’s sitting on a questionably stable stool in the middle of your cozy, cluttered studio space. regretting. just a little.

your “studio” is barely more than a corner of your dorm room, wedged by the window where the light slants in at an annoyingly aesthetic angle. the floor is a battlefield of abandoned sketchbooks and paint tubes, half-squeezed and discarded like fallen soldiers. unfinished canvases lean against the walls in various stages of completion—some just rough sketches, others hauntingly close to done but left untouched, as if you lost interest mid-stroke. it’s clean and chaotic all at once, the strange contrast between the precisely arranged brushes—lined up by size, bristles all facing the same way—and the paint-stained rags draped carelessly over the back of your chair. the room smells like turpentine and old paper, sharp and familiar, like stepping into the mind of someone who never really stops thinking.

he should be bored—but he’s not.

“shoes off.” you say the moment he steps inside, not even looking up as you sort through your supplies.

satoru stops mid-step, blinking. his latest purchase—some limited-edition basketball sneakers, bought with the last of his cash prize from securing mvp last season, the sheer reason why he is broke right now to be here in the first place—suddenly feel heavier on his feet. his gaze flicks from you to the floor, then back again, a slow, deliberate movement as if testing whether you’re serious.

“seriously?” he drawls, shifting his weight.

“yes.”

“what, afraid I’ll track in dirt?” he tilts his head, smirk lazy, but his fingers hook around the back of his shoes, already anticipating your answer.

“no, i just don’t want you stepping in paint and crying about your expensive sneakers.” you finally glance up, eyes flickering to the telltale logo on the side of his shoes. there’s no mockery in your tone, just detached amusement, but he still bristles slightly—maybe because you’ve already figured him out so easily.

satoru exhales, exaggerated and put-upon, before kicking them off with a bit more force than necessary. the shoes land haphazardly by the door, slightly askew, pristine against the chaos of your floor. “...fine. but I better not step on a thumbtack and die.”

“noted.” you murmur, already moving on.

he takes in the room as he tugs at the hem of his hoodie, adjusting it. the space is a contradiction—small, but alive, every inch used with an artist’s careless precision. tubes of paint lie scattered like relics of past battles, pages of half-formed sketches peek from beneath stacks of books, and the air smells sharp—turpentine, charcoal dust, something faintly citrusy, probably from the cup of tea cooling by your desk. he should be unimpressed, but his gaze keeps getting caught on the little details—the careful arrangement of brushes, the single paint-smeared rag draped over your chair, the faint blue smudge on the back of your wrist.

"sit here." you drag a wooden stool into the light, the scrape of its legs against the floor cutting through the quiet.

his eyes narrow. “this thing gonna hold up?”

“unless you plan on moving around like a child, yes.”

satoru hums, unimpressed but intrigued, tapping two fingers against his thigh before finally dropping onto the stool. his posture is lazy, all careless sprawl and long limbs, arms hanging over the backrest like he’s got all the time in the world.

you click your tongue, stepping closer. “sit up straight.”

he sinks even lower, stretching his legs out in front of him. “but I like this angle. mysterious. brooding. like I have a dark past.”

you don’t even hesitate. “it looks like you have scoliosis.”

he barks out a laugh, sharp and genuine, teeth flashing under the dim light. “maybe that is my dark past.”

“fix your posture.”

satoru sighs, rolling his shoulders back—but not enough. you click your tongue, unimpressed, and before he can react, your hands are on him, firm but careful, adjusting his posture with practiced ease. your fingers press lightly against his upper back, trailing down to nudge at his shoulder blades, guiding him straighter. clinical, detached, nothing more than necessity. but he still goes still, something unreadable flickering behind his eyes.

your hands are cool against his skin, grounding in a way he doesn’t expect. for the first time, he realizes you’re really looking at him—not like most people do, with admiration, envy, or that desperate need to impress. no, you look at him like he’s a problem to solve, a subject to study, something to be rendered on paper in strokes and shadows. he should say something—flirt, tease, break the moment before it turns into something else—but the words sit strangely in his mouth. and then you’re already pulling away, back to your desk, already moving on.

"good," you murmur, reaching for a pencil amid the mess of supplies. you don’t sound satisfied, exactly—just focused, as if his presence in your studio is nothing more than another detail to get right. then, after a beat, you look up again, really look at him, and say, “don’t move.”

satoru smirks, tilting his head just enough for his bangs to shift, casting a fleeting shadow over his eyes. “no promises.”

you exhale sharply, shaking your head as you adjust the angle of your easel. the wooden frame creaks as you tighten a knob, movements brisk, precise—like you don’t have the patience for his nonsense today. “relax your shoulders.”

he spreads his hands, a lazy, exaggerated gesture, his varsity jacket slipping slightly off one shoulder. “my shoulders are relaxed.”

you glance up, unimpressed. “you look like you’re trying to fight god.”

“that’s just my natural aura.”

your hand pauses over your palette, fingers hovering just above the tubes of paint. then—a twitch. fleeting. almost imperceptible. but he sees it, the tiny, reluctant quirk of your lips, and his eyes glint with amusement.

“was that a smile?” satoru's grin is all teeth, sharp and victorious, as he leans forward, resting his forearm on his knee. “are you falling for me already?”

you don’t even bother looking up as you squeeze out a streak of cadmium red onto your palette. “i was smiling at the thought of shoving you off that stool.”

he lets out a low chuckle, leaning back again, hands bracing the edge of the seat as if testing its limits. “that’s fair.”

acrylic meets oil in a slow swirl, the colors blending as you mix with deliberate strokes. outside, the sun shifts, casting golden streaks through the dusty windowpanes, dappling his profile in warm light. he watches you in the silence that follows, something unspoken settling between the brushstrokes and banter.

and that’s how the first session goes—him trying to be difficult, you trying to make him less difficult.

but somewhere between the banter, the occasional begrudging moments of stillness, and the quiet scratch of pencil against paper, something shifts.

at first, he’s just counting down the minutes until he gets paid, watching the clock, tapping his fingers idly against his knee. but then, he starts watching you instead.

satoru notices the way your brow furrows in concentration, the way your fingers hesitate before committing to a line, the way your teeth graze your bottom lip when something isn’t turning out right. there’s a softness to you when you work, an intensity that feels different from how people usually look at him. no awe, no expectation—just a quiet, unwavering focus, like he’s something worth capturing.

he should be bored. this kind of thing isn’t for him—sitting still, staying quiet, being studied like some museum exhibit. but he’s not. instead he is interested.

not by the painting itself—he still doesn’t get the whole ‘art’ thing, still doesn’t see why people obsess over lines and colors and whatever meaning they think is hidden beneath. but he gets this. gets the way you treat it like it matters, like it’s something real, something worth your time.

so he keeps coming back.

SPRING bleeds into familiarity as summer approaches. the air carries the scent of sun-warmed pavement and freshly cut grass, the kind of early heat that settles into your skin before you even realize it. days stretch longer, the sunsets grow richer, but in this quiet, in the hush between afternoon and evening, it’s routine now—as natural as practice drills, as effortless as muscle memory.

the soft scratch of pencil against paper, the faint drag of graphite as you sketch his form for the hundredth time. the way you chew on the inside of your cheek when you concentrate, brows furrowing in that particular way that means you’re unhappy with a line. the way satoru makes a grand show of complaining, of stretching obnoxiously, of sighing like he’s been sentenced to something far worse than sitting still for an hour—but he always shows up anyway.

“this is cruel and unusual punishment.” satoru groans, slumping back in the chair like the very act of modeling is siphoning the life out of him. his long legs sprawl out, one foot tapping idly against the floor, an unconscious rhythm that betrays his restlessness. strands of white hair fall messily over his forehead, catching in the afternoon light, but he makes no move to fix them. instead, he tilts his head back dramatically, like a man resigned to his fate, letting out a sigh so deep it should echo through the room.

“you’re literally getting paid.” you remind him, tilting your head, adjusting the angle of your sketch with a practiced flick of your wrist. your voice is steady, patient, but there’s a weight to it—a quiet exasperation that makes the corners of his mouth twitch.

the soft scratch of pencil against paper fills the space between you, a contrast to his theatrics. your fingers move with precision, thumb smudging a shadow, expression unreadable as your gaze flickers over him like you’re dissecting every line and curve.

“at what cost?” satoru presses, shifting slightly in his seat, the chair creaking beneath his weight. his arms drape lazily over the armrests, fingers tapping against the wood—anything to keep himself occupied. his restlessness isn’t feigned; he’s never been the type to sit still, and the urge to move tugs at his muscles like an itch he can’t scratch. but he waits, because the way you sketch—brows furrowed, lower lip caught just slightly between your teeth—has him more intrigued than he wants to admit.

“at the cost of you shutting up for five minutes.”

“bold of you to assume i’m capable of that.”

his eyes flick toward you, sharp and searching, waiting for the reaction he knows is coming. for a moment, you’re still, the only movement the subtle shift of your fingers against the page. then—your lips twitch, the barest ghost of amusement, before you catch yourself and shake your head, returning to your work. satoru leans forward just slightly, just enough for the smallest smirk to pull at his lips, because he saw it—saw the way you almost gave in—and he counts that as a win.

you start talking more.

not just the usual corrections or critiques, but more—about your process, your ideas, the frustration of trying to capture his proportions because “seriously, satoru, why are your legs so stupidly long?”

“can’t help that i’m perfect, sweetheart.” he says, flashing a grin, stretching in his seat like he’s on display. his limbs sprawl out with practiced ease, one arm draped over the back of the chair, the other lazily resting against his knee.

“you’re built like a faulty character model,” you mutter, erasing a line with more force than necessary. your brows pinch together, irritation bleeding into your strokes, and satoru watches the way your lips press into a thin line, your focus so sharp it almost cuts.

“so you admit i look unreal.” satoru says smugly, tipping his head to the side, silver strands slipping over the curve of his cheekbone.

you exhale through your nose, controlled and measured, but he catches the slight twitch in your jaw. “yes, satoru. that’s exactly what i meant.”

his grin spreads wider, pleased and easy, tapping his fingers idly against his knee in a steady rhythm. you’re getting used to him now—the sarcasm, the running commentary, the way he moves like he owns the space around him. you roll your eyes less, sigh less, even smirk sometimes—tiny, almost imperceptible, but he catches it every time, cataloging each one like a victory.

he starts talking more, too.

about his classes, about basketball, about how he wasn’t late to his quiz this time because he jumped out a window to avoid his fan girls. he says it so casually, like it’s just another tuesday, like it’s not the most absurd thing you’ve ever heard.

“you jumped out a window?” you ask, blinking, your pencil hovering mid-stroke. your brows pinch slightly, lips parting like you’re trying to process the sheer idiocy of it.

“listen, it was a short fall.”

there’s a beat of silence—just enough for him to catch the way your eyes flick over his face, searching for any sign of exaggeration. his smirk is lazy, easy, like he’s waiting to see if you’ll scold him for it.

and then you laugh.

it’s sudden, unfiltered, slipping past your lips before you can catch it. breathless, a little incredulous, like even you can’t believe he’s that ridiculous.

he wasn’t expecting that.

it’s not like you never laugh—you do, just not at him. not like this, not in a way that feels so real, so genuine, so—unfair. it hits him square in the chest, something sharp and electric threading through his ribs, like a perfectly aimed free throw sinking straight through the net.

“oh my god,” you say, shaking your head, still grinning. “you’re actually ridiculous.”

“thank you,” he says, flashing a smug grin, because he made you laugh.

and that’s the first time he realizes he likes your laugh.

so he starts playing it like a game—how many times can he make you laugh in one session? how many times can he distract you before you start scolding him? it’s almost too easy, the way you fall into the rhythm of his teasing, the way your lips press together like you’re fighting back a smile even when you’re glaring at him. he takes it as a challenge, a personal mission to pull a reaction out of you, to chip away at your stubborn focus just enough to make you crack.

“hey, what if you sketched me mid-dunk? you know, capture my essence—” satoru leans forward, gesturing dramatically, his white hair falling into his eyes.

“sit still.” you mutter, not even looking up, but he catches the way your brow furrows just slightly, the way you grip your pencil a little tighter.

“but imagine the drama! the movement! the raw athleticism—” he babbles, spreading his arms wide as if to showcase the sheer grandeur of his idea.

“sit still or i’m deducting your pay.” your voice is flat, but the way your eyes flicker toward him—just for a second—tells him you’re at least half-listening.

“cold.” he pouts, slumping back into the chair, but his grin never wavers.

sometimes, when you’re too absorbed in your work, he shifts in his seat just to see if you’ll notice. a tiny movement, barely anything—but your head always snaps up, your gaze sharp, the slightest exasperation flickering in your expression. “stop that,” you’ll say, and he’ll throw his hands up in mock innocence, feigning surprise. it’s stupid, really, but he likes it.

(he starts winning. he always wins.)

but somewhere along the way, he starts losing, too.

because he catches himself watching you between poses.

satoru catches himself noticing things he shouldn’t—the way you tuck your brush behind your ear when your hands are full, leaving a faint streak of graphite on your temple. the way your sleeves are always smudged with paint, like you’ve been too caught up in your work to care. the way your fingers twitch when you talk, tracing invisible shapes in the air, like you want to sketch your thoughts into existence. it’s the little things, the ones that slip through the cracks when he isn’t paying attention—except he is, now, and he doesn’t know when that started.

catches himself waiting for your sessions.

it sneaks up on him—slow, creeping, like a game he didn't realize he was playing until he was already losing.

one moment, it’s just a side gig, a funny little arrangement, an easy paycheck. another, it’s something else entirely, something that lingers in his mind longer than it should.

because sometimes—which is already a lot—when he steps onto the court, ball tucked under his arm, the first thing he wonders isn’t about the game, but whether you’ll be sketching from the bleachers. sometimes, when he sees something stupidly pretty—the golden slant of light cutting across the gym floor, a perfect shot arcing through the net, the weightless seconds before it sinks—he thinks, you’d know how to capture this.

sometimes, when you’re concentrating, when your brows pull together, when your lips part just slightly in thought, when your whole world narrows to the page in front of you, he thinks—he doesn’t finish that thought. because it’s just routine, right? just the same way he looks forward to practice, to games, to winning.

it’s nothing more than that.

right?

but then, it starts happening—subtle at first, easy to dismiss. a text invitation left on read, a half-hearted ‘maybe’ in response to a party he’d normally say ‘hell yeah!’ to.

it’s a gradual shift, barely noticeable at first—until it is. until suguru eyes him from across the court, spinning a basketball on his fingertips, gaze sharp and knowing.

“you skipping out?” suguru asks one afternoon, his tone casual, but the way he watches satoru says he already knows the answer. “big party tonight. everyone’s going.”

“got plans.” satoru says easily, crouching to tie his laces, fingers tugging the knots tight like he’s sealing the conversation shut.

suguru bounces the ball once, catching it smoothly. “since when do you have plans that don’t involve getting wasted?”

satoru straightens, rolling his shoulders until they pop, shaking out his arms like he’s gearing up for something. his hair is a mess of white strands falling over his forehead, a little damp from practice, but he doesn’t bother fixing it. instead, he flashes a smirk, weight shifting easily onto one foot. “i’m broadening my horizons.”

suguru snorts, spinning the ball in his hands. “yeah? what’s her name?”

satoru flicks his wrist, and before suguru can react, his hand snaps out to intercept the ball satoru just stole from him, catching it last second. suguru narrows his eyes, unimpressed. satoru just grins, rocking back on his heels, the picture of insufferable ease. “shut up.”

he tells himself it’s not a big deal. he’s just picking his battles, choosing his nights, being selective.

but then, one evening, his phone buzzes with an invite—exclusive rooftop party, vip only, the kind of thing that would’ve had him saying ‘hell yeah’ months ago. the kind of thing he used to crave, to thrive in, all flashing lights and endless noise, a crowd that could never quite keep up.

instead, he glances at the time, sees that your session starts in half an hour, and swipes the notification away without a second thought.

he doesn’t even hesitate.

SUMMER arrives with a vengeance. spring’s fleeting softness is long gone, replaced by air thick with humidity, pavement hot enough to sizzle, and days that stretch into slow, languid eternity. campus, once alive with restless energy, now feels like an echo of itself—half-abandoned dorms, quiet hallways, the distant hum of cicadas filling the silence. no fan club lurking outside his lectures, no teammates calling his name across the quad. just heat, stillness, and a lot of free time.

satoru gojo is losing his mind.

your dorm is somehow even worse than outside, the air stifling, unmoving, dense with trapped summer heat. the pathetic excuse for a fan in the corner barely stirs the air, its dull hum doing nothing to ease the sweat clinging to his skin. he’s slouched in a chair, legs stretched out, head tilted back dramatically as he groans to no one in particular.

“this is inhumane,” satoru whines, shifting again, the fabric of his jersey clinging uncomfortably to his skin. his arm drapes lazily over his forehead, white bangs damp with sweat, eyes half-lidded in a show of exaggerated suffering. “you can’t expect a man to look this good while melting, y’know.”

“satoru, i swear to god, if you move one more time—” you mutter, not looking up from your easel, brush moving in slow, deliberate strokes. there’s a tension in your shoulders, one he recognizes by now—focused, immersed, determined to ignore him.

he cracks an eye open, a lazy smirk tugging at his lips. “you’ll what?” he drawls, voice syrupy with amusement. “paint me uglier?”

you don’t dignify that with a response, just exhale through your nose and keep working.

it’s been months since you first hired him, and somewhere between his insufferable attitude and your exasperated sighs, something shifted. something settled. something... comfortable.

satoru is still impossible—never quiet, never fully still, always testing limits. but you’re used to him now, the same way you’re used to the hum of your fan or the scratch of your brush against canvas.

and he’s used to you, too.

he knows you never play music while you work (insane). he knows you paint in layers, slow and methodical, as if each stroke is a commitment too big to rush. he knows you hate when people hover over your shoulder—but for some reason, you let him stay.

so he stays.

“remind me why we’re even in the dorms right now?” satoru complains, flopping back onto your bed without permission, limbs splaying like he owns the place.

“because it’s a hassle to go home.” you murmur, brush dragging against the canvas, expression unreadable.

“you say that like normal people wouldn’t want a break from all this,” he gestures vaguely, letting his hand fall limply onto his stomach.

“i don’t like breaks,” you say simply, not bothering to look at him. “breaks mean i stop making things.”

he squints at you, the weight of your words settling in his chest. it sounds like a joke, but it’s not. and just like that, something clicks. maybe you’re here for the same reason he is. not because you have nowhere to go. but because being here is easier than being somewhere else.

he doesn’t say anything. just shifts further onto your bed, limbs sprawling even wider, purely out of pettiness.

the sheets beneath him smell like you—something faint, something warm, something familiar. he exhales, eyes slipping shut for a moment.

yeah. he could stay a little longer.

“seriously,” he groans again, tugging at the neckline of his jersey, the fabric clinging to his skin like a second layer. with a restless sigh, he rolls onto his stomach, sprawling out across your bed like a cat too lazy to move from a sunspot. his cheek presses against the sheets, indigo eyes flicking lazily toward you, half-lidded from the heat. “why is it so hot? isn’t there some artist trick where you suffer for your work without making me suffer too?”

you don’t bother looking up, your focus unwavering, the soft scratch of your brush against canvas filling the silence between you. there’s a faint crease between your brows, a telltale sign of concentration, though your expression remains unreadable.

“maybe if you stopped talking, you’d cool down.”  you murmur, dipping your brush into a shade of blue.

he scoffs, shifting onto his elbows, pushing damp strands of hair from his forehead with a lazy flick of his fingers. “bold of you to assume that’s an option.”

and it irritates him—how unfazed you are. does nothing shake you? does nothing break through that focus?

so it turns into a game.

at first, he starts small—subtle shifts in posture, exaggerated sighs, ridiculous flirtation, all carefully designed to draw your attention. a slow roll of his shoulders, the slight tilt of his head, the stretch of long limbs sprawled across your bed as if he owns the space. each movement is deliberate, each word carefully chosen to poke at you, to pry beneath that layer of calm focus you always seem to wear.

“what if i posed like one of those renaissance statues?” satoru muses, arching his back slightly, stretching his arms over his head, the muscles in his shoulders shifting beneath sun-warmed skin. his voice is thick with faux contemplation, his white lashes lowering as if he’s actually considering it. “y’know, real dramatic, real divine. make me look like a legend in the making.”

“you already think you’re a legend.” you mutter, the barest flicker of amusement crossing your face, so quick he almost misses it.

his grin sharpens, flashing teeth, and he rolls onto his side, propping himself up on one elbow to watch you work. his hair falls slightly over his forehead, messy and weightless, catching the light in wisps of silver and white. “i mean, aren’t i?”

you don’t even look at him. just reach for your paintbrush, flick your wrist—and suddenly, a few drops of cold paint water splatter against his bare arm.

he yelps, jerking away like you’ve actually wounded him. “the hell—” he glares at the tiny droplets seeping into his skin, like they’re an offense to his very existence. “are you serious? that’s abuse.”

you hum, not bothering to hide the faint smirk on your lips as you dip your brush back into the paint.

his narrowed eyes linger on your expression, on the relaxed set of your shoulders, on the tiny, satisfied twitch of your mouth.

(point goes to you.)

when that doesn’t work, he switches tactics.

his gaze flickers to the stack of empty ramen cups in the corner, precariously balanced like a monument to bad decisions. his lips twitch, smug and knowing, before his eyes drift toward the mini fridge tucked against the wall. last time he checked—which was purely out of curiosity, mind you—it was nearly empty, save for a half-full bottle of water and a single, sad yogurt cup. it doesn’t take a genius to put two and two together.

“do you always paint this obsessively?”

“yes.”

“do you ever eat?”

“obviously.”

he hums, stretching his arms behind his head, the movement making his damp jersey stick even more uncomfortably to his skin.

“…you sure?”

your brush hesitates—a fraction of a second, barely noticeable, but he notices. then, just as quickly, you resume painting, voice perfectly even, expression carefully blank.

“what’s with the interrogation?”

“just curious,” he says, shifting until his long legs are stretched across the bed. his head tilts back against the sheets, white strands of hair falling messily over his forehead. “plus, if you pass out mid-session, who’s gonna pay me?”

you roll your eyes, exhaling through your nose, the corners of your mouth twitching. “i’ll put that in my will. ‘to satoru gojo, my life drawing model and worst financial decision.’”

satoru's laughter bursts out of him, loud and unfiltered, cutting through the thick, oppressive heat of the room. it’s the kind of laugh that makes walls feel smaller, that shifts the air, that lingers longer than it should.

and you don’t hide your small smile fast enough.

his laughter stutters for half a second, his sharp eyes catching the curve of your lips before you press them together again. fleeting, but unmistakable. something smug and delighted unfurls in his chest, a warmth that has nothing to do with the summer air.

his grin stretches slow and wicked. “oh, you like me,” he sings, rolling onto his back, looking at you upside down with that insufferable glint in his eyes.

“i tolerate you.” you correct, but your hand twitches, and before he can blink, another flick of your brush sends a tiny splash of paint in his direction.

he yelps, twisting away, but it’s too late.

(he’s still winning.)

but then—he moves too much.

a shift of his shoulders, an exaggerated sigh, the creak of your mattress beneath him. his knee bumps against your sketchbook, disrupting the careful balance of supplies stacked at the foot of the bed. then, as if testing the limits of your patience, he stretches, arms extending above his head, his basketball jersey riding up just slightly—just enough to reveal the sharp dip of his waist, the faint sheen of sweat at his collarbone. his head tilts back against your pillow, and he groans, long and drawn out.

you exhale sharply, setting your brush down with a click before pushing yourself up from your stool.

satoru's eyes track your movement, bright and sharp even in the dim light of your dorm. he’s expecting a scolding, maybe even an irritated glare. but there’s something different this time—your expression unreadable, your gaze fixed on him with that same unwavering focus that always throws him off. you move with purpose, deliberate steps closing the space between you, and the room suddenly feels smaller, the heat pressing heavier against his skin, against the air between you.

he watches, waiting for the usual sigh, the exasperated reminder to stop fidgeting. he waits for you to roll your eyes and mutter something about how he’s impossible to work with.

instead—your fingers catch his chin, tilting it just so.

satoru's breath hitches, barely perceptible, but you don’t notice—or if you do, you don’t acknowledge it. your touch is firm, not hesitant, your thumb grazing just beneath his jaw as you adjust the angle of his face. then, without a second thought, your hand shifts, fingers ghosting along the curve of his cheekbone, the edge of his jaw, brushing against the sensitive skin below his ear. there’s dried paint smudged on your fingertips, faint streaks of color that leave invisible traces against his skin, and his throat bobs as he swallows.

you don’t stop there.

your other hand lifts, smoothing his slouched shoulders back against the pillows, fingertips pressing briefly into the fabric of his jersey. then you reach for his wrist, shifting his arm so it drapes more naturally across his stomach. and all the while, you’re silent, your movements efficient, unthinking—like touching him is no different than adjusting the angle of a still life, like he’s just another part of the composition you’re perfecting.

before the silence stretches too long, before his brain can fully process the casual way you just handled him, he grins, slow and wicked.

“damn,” he drawls, voice lazy, smug, but there’s something tight beneath the ease of it. his head tilts back slightly against your pillow, eyes half-lidded, watching you with a mixture of mischief and something deeper—something that makes his smirk seem almost too deliberate, like he’s waiting for you to react. “you’re really making this a whole thing, huh?”

“what?” you say absently, fingers still deftly adjusting the angle of his jaw, your touch steady as you tilt his chin just another fraction higher. the concentration in your expression is unreadable, but your gaze never wavers, sharp and focused. he notices how your brows furrow just the slightest, the way your lips press together in a line that says you’re not going to let him distract you this time.

“nothing,” he smirks, his grin widening, amused by the way your hands move over him with such intention. his fingers twitch where they rest against the blanket, itching for something to do, but he forces himself to remain still, curious to see how far he can push you. “just—y’know, if you wanted me like one of your french girls, you could’ve just said so.”

your fingers tighten slightly in response, the faintest press of your nails against his skin—not quite a warning, but close. you can feel the pulse of his heartbeat under your fingertips, steady but accelerating just slightly, as if your touch has an effect on him he’s unwilling to admit. there’s an almost imperceptible shift in his posture, as if he's bracing himself, but his eyes are still locked on you, playful but careful.

“if you don’t shut up,” you say, voice perfectly even, calm in the face of his teasing, “i will paint you uglier.” the words roll off your tongue without hesitation, but there’s an edge to them, something you both know you mean more than you let on. your hand doesn’t move from his jaw, but your fingers tighten for a moment—enough to make him flinch, just barely—and it’s enough to make his grin falter.

“mm. bold of you to assume i have a bad angle.” his voice is dripping with sarcasm, his smirk returning in full force, and his hand twitches again as if he’s resisting the urge to reach out, to touch you in return. but he holds himself back, all too aware that this is your space—your process—and he’s simply a subject in it. yet, his confidence remains unshaken, a challenge flickering behind his eyes.

you give his jaw a deliberate little nudge, the motion slow and purposeful, and barely suppress a sigh as you watch him react—his body tensing under your touch, as if the slight pressure is just the right amount to make him ache for more. but you’re not finished, not yet.

“stay still, satoru.” you murmur, your voice the slightest bit sharper this time, but with a subtle undercurrent of something softer. he could almost mistake it for a command, if not for the way you adjust his position with gentle precision, ensuring every detail of his form is just as you want it. your eyes flicker over him, tracing the angles of his face, the sharp line of his jaw, the soft curve of his neck—something about the way you hold him, make him stay, makes him feel like you’re in complete control, and that’s when it hits him.

he doesn’t dare move.

not because he suddenly respects the process.

but because your fingers are cool against his overheated skin, an unexpected relief against the oppressive heat of the room. because for a moment, when you adjusted his posture, you were close enough for him to see the flecks of paint on your cheek, the way your lashes framed your eyes, the soft crease in your forehead when you concentrate.

because you touched him without hesitation. without thought. without treating him like something fragile, something distant, something untouchable.

and he doesn’t move for the next three hours.

...oh.

he’s in grave danger.

AUTUMN arrives with brisk winds and golden light, the air carrying the scent of fallen leaves and distant bonfires. the campus shifts with the season, summer’s lazy sprawl giving way to hurried footsteps and layered clothing, students caught between clinging to warmth and embracing the inevitable cold. the world feels sharper now, edges clearer, the sun hanging lower in the sky, stretching shadows across the pavement. satoru gojo hasn’t changed much, still striding through campus like he owns it, but there’s something different in the way he keeps showing up.

it starts with a realization: you’re an idiot with money.

satoru has been modeling for you for months now, first as a casual arrangement, then as an unspoken habit, and now—now he’s not even sure what to call it. at first, it was just a side hustle, a way to fund his snack addiction and make up for his tendency to forget that classes required effort. he still shows up late sometimes, still complains about holding the same pose for too long, still finds ways to annoy you just to see how you’ll react. but somewhere between summer and autumn, it stopped being about the money.

because you’re routine now.

just like basketball practice. just like late-night convenience store runs. just like winning. he doesn’t think about it too much, doesn’t poke at the feeling, just lets it settle into the spaces between his days. but then, one evening, it clicks—this thing between you isn’t exactly balanced. because for all the money you pay him, you’re the one stretching yourself thin.

it happens when he catches you eating a sad cup of instant noodles for what must be the fourth day in a row.

at first, he doesn’t say anything, just watches as you peel back the lid, steam curling weakly into the cool autumn air. he thinks maybe it’s a preference thing, some weird artist habit, until his gaze drifts—to the extra commissions stacked on your desk, the supply receipts stuffed into your sketchbook, the way you barely check your phone unless it’s him texting about a session. your fingers tighten around your chopsticks, movements slower than usual, exhaustion threading through the way you stir the noodles.

you are, quite literally, funding him instead of yourself.

“again?” he finally asks, gesturing at your dinner. his voice is light, teasing, but there’s something else behind it, something sharper, like he’s waiting for you to slip up. he watches the way you barely react, how your grip on the chopsticks stays loose, how you keep your focus on the pitiful cup of noodles steaming in your hands instead of looking at him. his knee bounces once, a restless motion, before he stills it with a pointed exhale.

you shrug, not meeting his eyes, stirring half-heartedly, and the broth sloshes over the rim, spilling onto your sleeve in a dark stain. but you don’t react, don’t even seem to notice, just keep stirring, keep avoiding his gaze like you can will this conversation into disappearing. “i have a budget.” you say, voice even, detached, like you’re stating a fact and not making an excuse. your fingers tighten around the flimsy cup for half a second before you force yourself to loosen them, nudging a stray noodle back under the broth like you can’t feel his eyes on you.

satoru narrows his eyes, shifting where he sits, the mattress creaking under his weight. his arms stretch over his head for a beat, but there’s tension in the motion, his jaw tight even as he forces himself to lean back, feigning nonchalance. “you literally raised my pay just to get me to pose.” he says, voice incredulous, edged with something between concern and irritation. he isn’t laughing anymore, isn’t teasing, just watching, waiting, expecting you to have some kind of answer.

“those two are completely different things.” you mumble, slurping up some noodles like the conversation isn’t happening, like you can hide behind the motion. your posture shifts, shoulders curling inward, the steam from the cup rising in thin wisps against your face, half-obscuring your expression.

different how?

but you don’t elaborate.

you don’t meet his eyes, either, just keep pushing your noodles around the cup, the movements small, aimless, stalling. his gaze flickers down, catches the little details—the fading paint stains on your fingers, the slight tremor in the way you stir, the tension coiled in your shoulders like you’re bracing for something. he exhales, head tilting, watching you with the same sharpness he saves for an opponent about to make a move, for a moment of weakness he can take advantage of—but this time, it doesn’t feel like a game.

and then, all at once, it clicks. how much you’re actually paying him. how much of your already-limited allowance is going to him just so you can paint. how much you’re giving up without a word, without a complaint, without even a hint of hesitation.

and suddenly, his next paycheck doesn’t sit right with him.

so from that moment on, satoru starts caring for you in ways you don’t even notice.

it’s subtle at first, woven into the fabric of your routine, slipping in so seamlessly that you almost don’t register the shift. he still shows up late sometimes, still drags his feet through the doorway like he’s doing you a favor, but now—now he’s always carrying something. a plastic bag crinkles against his fingers as he drops it onto your desk, careless and offhand, like he isn’t watching for your reaction.

“leftovers,” he says way too casually when you glance up at him, suspicion flickering in your eyes. his voice is loose, unconcerned, but there’s something too deliberate in the way he nudges the bag closer, the way his hand lingers just a second too long before he pulls away. “figured you’d want ‘em before i threw them out.”

you eye the freshly wrapped onigiri and convenience store sandwiches, brows knitting together as your fingers hesitate over the bag. the packaging is neat, unopened, no signs of the mindless picking and half-eaten portions he usually leaves behind when he’s actually careless. “…since when do you not finish your food?” your voice is skeptical, flat, but there’s something guarded in the way you ask it, something careful.

“since now,” he says, flopping onto your bed with the kind of dramatic ease only he can manage. his hoodie rides up slightly, exposing a sliver of tanned skin, but he doesn’t bother adjusting it, too busy stretching his arms over his head. “just eat it before i change my mind.”

you do. you don’t question it, don’t pick apart the way he shifts his weight against your mattress like he’s making himself at home, don’t dwell on the way his voice sounded just a little softer than usual. he pretends not to notice when you eat in silence, barely glancing at him. but later that night, when you’re alone, you find yourself smiling down at the empty wrapper before tossing it in the trash.

then he starts paying for your drinks when you go out, slipping the cash over the counter before you can argue, calling it his ‘treat’ like he’s some kind of benevolent patron.

“you only say that because i’m the only artist you know.” you deadpan, reaching for your coffee, fingers brushing the warmth of the cup.

“yeah,” he grins, unapologetic, smug, like he’s already won something. his fingers drum lightly against the side of his own cup, restless energy bleeding through the way he leans just slightly into your space. “and you’re killin’ it at first place.”

your fingers twitch slightly against the cup, grip adjusting like you’re trying to steady something that isn’t your coffee. you pretend not to feel the warmth in your chest, pretend his words don’t settle somewhere deep, somewhere dangerous. but when you take a sip, you don’t fight the way the heat lingers.

but it still doesn’t feel like enough.

satoru watches the way you flip through your sketchbook, fingers skimming the edges of each page like you’re weighing how much space you have left. he sees the way your gaze lingers on your paint tubes, the way your thumb presses absently against the label, as if debating whether the color is worth using. he notices the way your sleeves push up slightly when you mix paints, the faintest crease forming between your brows when you check how much is left. you won’t take money from him outright—he knows that much—but maybe, just maybe, he can get you to make money some other way.

so he tries introducing you to sports betting, grinning like he’s telling you the best-kept secret in the world. his energy is relentless, all sharp confidence and easy arrogance, like he truly believes he’s about to change your life. you don’t even need to look up to know he’s leaning in too close, elbows braced against your desk, practically radiating self-satisfaction. it’s unbearable.

“satoru, that’s literally gambling,” you say flatly, dragging your pencil across the page, deliberately uninterested.

“it’s strategic investing,” satoru corrects, voice smooth, pleased with himself, like he’s just introduced you to some kind of financial loophole. he shifts slightly, and his jersey slips off one shoulder, exposing the curve of his collarbone, but he doesn’t seem to notice—too caught up in his own nonsense. his fingers tap against your desk, impatient, restless, waiting for you to take the bait.

you don’t. instead, you finally glance up, brows raised. “you lost thirty bucks last week.”

his lips part like he’s about to argue, but then he pauses, reconsiders, and pivots. “okay, but that was a fluke,” he says, already curling his mouth into a perfectly crafted pout.

“was it?”

satoru exhales dramatically, like this conversation is somehow exhausting him, and drops his head onto your sketchbook, completely unbothered by the fact that you’re still holding a pencil. “have a little faith in me, damn.”

you shake your head, amused despite yourself. you shouldn’t be. you should shut this down, make it clear that you have no intention of entertaining whatever scheme he’s trying to rope you into.

but then—

“fine,” you say one day, flipping through your sketchbook, voice too casual, too offhanded. like this is barely worth mentioning, like you’re not actively indulging him. “i’ll bet on your team.”

the change is immediate.

satoru's body goes still, and for once, there’s no teasing, no smirk, no cocky remark. just a blink—slow, calculating—like he’s processing the words more carefully than anything else you’ve ever said to him. the tension lasts only a second before his mouth curves into something dangerous, something sharp, something entirely too pleased.

oh. oh, no.

“oh, sweetheart,” he drawls, voice all silk and trouble, reaching up to ruffle his already-messy hair. his fingers linger for a second, pushing back the damp strands before he tilts his head at you, grin widening. “you’re not gonna regret that.”

he doesn’t wait for your response. he’s already out the door. and frankly, you didn't expect the game to be brutal.

clearly, your estimate was wrong. the gym is packed, filled with students from both universities, the air thick with tension, sweat, and school pride. banners hang from the walls, school colors clashing, chants echoing through the space like war cries. the visiting team—tall, muscular, built like they were engineered for this—carries themselves with the weight of confidence, a roster of starters who have dominated the league all season. they tower over the court, standing like an immovable wall of defense, but it only takes one play for them to realize they’re in trouble.

because satoru gojo is simply faster. better.

the moment the ball is in his hands, he moves like he owns the court. the opposing point guard—a solid 6’5 with broad shoulders and a killer defensive record—lunges to block him, but it’s over before it even starts. satoru feints left, shifts right, and leaves him grasping at air, breaking into a sprint toward the basket before the others can react. their power forward—tall, heavy, built for blocking shots—steps in, arms raised high, but satoru barely acknowledges him.

because satoru is 6’3, fast as hell, and has a vertical leap that makes people question physics. he jumps, body twisting mid-air, and the slam dunk is so violent it rattles the rim.

the crowd erupts.

the visiting team’s coach is already shouting, hands flying in frustration as his players scramble to reorganize. they try to lock satoru down, try to double-team him, but it’s pointless—his crossovers are disrespectful, his footwork impossible to track, his speed completely unfair. one defender—6’7, easily one of the best in the league—steps up, stance wide, arms ready, but satoru doesn’t even give him time to think.

because satoru is playing with purpose.

his second shot? half-court. no hesitation.

the ball soars through the air, clean, perfect, and the second it lands through the net, satoru is already turning away, smirking as if he knew it would go in before he even let go.

“oh, you’ve got to be kidding me.” nanami mutters, watching as the other university’s shooting guard—who up until now had been known for his defense—grabs his knees like he’s questioning his life choices.

“they’re frustrated,” suguru notes, amused, stepping up beside satoru during a dead ball.

“they should be.” satoru says, rolling his shoulders, letting his sweat-slicked jersey shift against his skin. he looks completely relaxed—untouched, unbothered, infuriatingly smug—as if he isn’t systematically destroying one of the best teams in the league.

but this isn’t just about winning.

because every time he scores, he looks at you.

he doesn’t even try to be subtle. his icy blue eyes flick up to the bleachers, head tilting slightly, lips curving into a knowing grin. his fan girls scream, convinced he’s looking at them, but you know better. because satoru isn’t just playing—he’s showing off.

he breaks past another defender with ridiculous ease, dribbling once before stepping back for a three-pointer that barely even touches the rim. the opposing team’s captain calls for a switch, barking out orders, but it doesn’t matter—they can’t stop him.

the timeout huddle is a mess.

players are breathing hard, jerseys clinging to sweat-damp skin, shoulders rising and falling as they try to recover. the gym is loud—too loud—the crowd still buzzing from the absolute disaster that was the first half. their coach is talking, something about holding the lead, tightening defense, not getting cocky, but no one is listening. because across the circle, satoru is still grinning like he’s having the time of his life.

“yo, what the hell is wrong with you today?” suguru mutters, tossing him a towel, brow furrowed like he’s genuinely concerned.

satoru catches it with one hand, absently wiping the sweat from his forehead, movements lazy, easy, completely unbothered. his white hair is a mess, strands curling slightly from the heat, the glow of the overhead lights catching on the sharp angles of his face. his jersey is clinging to his frame, fabric damp where it stretches over his shoulders, his chest, but he doesn’t seem to notice—or care. instead, he tugs the collar away from his skin, letting the cool air hit, eyes flicking up toward the stands like he’s looking for something.

or rather, someone.

“nothing.” he says, voice easy, light, like he didn’t just dismantle an entire university’s defense and humiliate half their starters in front of a packed gym. his breath is steady, not a hint of exhaustion, only the slow rise and fall of his chest beneath his damp jersey, fabric clinging to his frame, sweat glistening along the sharp lines of his collarbone. his hair is an absolute mess, strands sticking to his forehead, white against flushed skin, but he makes no move to fix it. he just breathes in deep, exhales slow, and grins wider, a lazy, knowing curl of his lips, all sharp edges and unchecked arrogance.

then, too casually—“just gotta make sure my girl gets paid.”

suguru blinks. once. twice. then exhales, a slow, measured breath, like he’s trying to process what he just heard.

his expression shifts—not shocked, not confused, but amused. a slow smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth, dark eyes glinting with something knowing, something entertained. because this is the same girl, isn’t it? the same girl satoru was ditching party invitations for, choosing study sessions over late-night drinks for, showing up to campus early for when he barely woke up on time for class.

“...oh?” suguru says, just to hear him say it again.

but satoru doesn’t elaborate. doesn’t even look away from the stands. just flips the towel over his shoulder, rolls his wrists like this is just another game, like he hasn’t just set the entire gym on fire with a single sentence.

the buzzer blasts. second half starts. and satoru gojo is playing for blood.

the other university comes back from halftime determined, desperate, their coach gesturing wildly from the sidelines, barking orders as if sheer strategy will make up for the fact that they are losing to one man. they throw everything at satoru—double teams, switches, aggressive press defense—but none of it matters. he slips through them like water, like air, like something untouchable, moving with the kind of ease that makes even the referees hesitate before blowing the whistle.

he isn’t just scoring—he’s playing with them.

he spins the ball between his fingers, a lazy smirk curling at his lips, then passes it off last second, only to sprint across the court faster than anyone expects and sink a corner three. when their shooting guard tries to lock him down, satoru just laughs—actual laughter, low and effortless, before stepping back and draining another deep shot, his wrist flicking with a perfect follow-through. it barely touches the net.

you shouldn’t be this invested.

but your eyes track him anyway, caught up in the rhythm of his movements, in the way his jersey clings to the shape of his shoulders, the sweat glistening at the hollow of his throat. he’s moving like this is personal, like the entire game is some elaborate performance meant for you alone, and it’s starting to get to you. every time he scores, he glances up, searching for you in the stands, and you hate that your stomach flips when his gaze finds yours.

you hate it even more when you catch yourself smiling.

he’s impossible to ignore, too bright, too loud, too much. the crowd responds to him like he’s some kind of basketball god, voices rising every time he moves, a mix of screams, chants, and what you’re pretty sure is an entire row of students calling out his name. his fan girls are in absolute chaos, some clutching each other’s arms, others dramatically swooning, like they’re seconds away from fainting just from watching him exist.

the other team is beyond frustrated.

they’ve thrown everything at him—double teams, switches, aggressive defense—but it doesn’t matter. because satoru isn’t just playing to win. he’s playing to humiliate.

his next victim is their shooting guard, 6’4, all muscle, built like he should be a defensive wall. he steps up, arms wide, eyes sharp, feet planted like he’s ready for anything. but satoru? satoru doesn’t even look like he’s trying. he bounces the ball once, twice, just enough to let the anticipation build, before shifting forward like he’s about to drive in.

the defender lunges and satoru, the absolute menace that he is, just stands there.

he doesn’t move. doesn’t even attempt to go around him. just watches—completely unbothered, completely still—as the guy flies past him, momentum carrying him forward, stumbling face-first onto the court.

the crowd gasps.

the defender scrambles to recover, but it’s already over. satoru spins the ball in his hands, takes a single step back, and—without even looking at the rim—launches a half-court shot.

the ball soars, clean, effortless, perfect. it barely even touches the net. the gym absolutely erupts. and then—he winks up at the bleachers.

or rather, at you.

it’s infuriatingly slow, deliberate, the corner of his mouth curling up in a way that is both cocky and playful. his white hair is a mess, damp with sweat, strands sticking to his forehead, but it only makes the sharpness of his features more pronounced. his lips part slightly, the ghost of a smirk still lingering, the blue of his eyes catching under the lights—bright, focused, sharp enough to be dangerous.

the reaction is immediate.

“he saw me!” someone shrieks, grabbing their friend’s arm in a death grip.

“no, he was looking at me!” another one yells, voice already breaking.

“oh my god, he’s literally flirting with our section!”

meanwhile, you’re still just watching him play, like he didn’t just incite a full-scale riot in the stands. you don’t even think—you just lift your hand, give him a thumbs up, then go right back to pretending this is normal.

satoru freezes.

for a split second, he stares, blinking like he wasn’t expecting you to actually respond. the gym is too loud, too chaotic, but all of it fades into static as he holds your gaze, something unreadable flickering behind his expression.

then—his grin stretches slow and sharp, something almost dangerous flashing in his expression.

the opposing team barely has time to react. the second satoru turns back to the game, he’s already moving.

their point guard makes the mistake of hesitating, fingers gripping the ball a second too long as he scans the court for an opening. satoru doesn’t wait. he lunges forward, impossibly fast, cutting through the space between them like a blade. his hand shoots out, fingers slapping against the ball with a sharp, decisive smack, and suddenly—it’s his.

the steal is clean, effortless, unfair.

the defender barely has time to curse before satoru is already gone, already breaking into a full sprint down the court. his movements are fluid, sharp, ruthless, his jersey clinging to the sweat on his skin as he takes off, the crowd roaring in anticipation.

a single defender manages to keep up, breathing hard, desperate, sprinting beside him in a last-ditch effort to block him. but satoru doesn’t even look at him. doesn’t even acknowledge him.

he takes one step inside the paint—then jumps. and he just keeps going. the crowd screams as he soars, legs tucking, arm pulling back, body arching so high it feels unreal. the defender leaps, arms stretching, trying—failing.

because satoru gojo is 6’3, fast as hell, and plays above the rim like the air belongs to him.

his fingers clamp around the ball, grip firm, the muscles in his arms flexing as he swings forward—then slams it through the net with enough force to make the entire backboard rattle.

the gym explodes. the other university’s bench is silent. their coach buries his face in his hands.

satoru drops back down to the court, landing lightly on his feet, rolling his shoulders as if he didn’t just commit a crime in front of a full audience. he turns, gaze flicking up toward the bleachers—toward you. his fan girls lose their minds.

but you? you don’t stand a chance.

you exhale slowly, pressing your knuckles against your lips, trying to ignore the warmth creeping into your face. you’re not swooning—you refuse to be one of them, one of the girls throwing themselves at him like he’s some kind of untouchable idol. but your fingers curl against your sketchbook, grip tightening, and you know you’re falling for him anyway.

the game is already over.

the scoreboard doesn’t say it yet, but everyone knows. satoru knows. the other university knows. even their coach, red-faced and exhausted from yelling, has stopped trying to call plays that might turn things around. but satoru? he’s still playing like he has something to prove.

his next move is straight-up cruel.

their point guard is waiting for him at the three-point line, arms wide, stance low, feet planted like he’s ready for anything. he isn’t. satoru bounces the ball between his legs once, twice, then shifts forward just enough to make it look like he’s driving in. the defender lunges, panicked, reaching out to block him—but satoru is already gone.

a single, fluid crossover sends the guy sprawling onto the court, hands catching empty air as satoru steps back and sinks another three-pointer like he’s just shooting around at practice. the bench erupts, players falling over each other in disbelief, a mix of laughter and shouts filling the gym. even the referee—usually stone-faced and neutral—lets out a quiet, impressed whistle.

you cover your mouth with your sleeve, shoulders shaking as you try to stifle your laughter. it’s unfair, really, how easily he does this—how easily he turns the game into his own personal stage, his own playground.

he doesn’t even look at the scoreboard. he looks at you.

your breath catches, because this time, there’s something different in the way he holds your gaze. he isn’t just searching for a reaction—he’s watching. like he’s waiting for something. like he’s confirming something.

your fingers tighten against your sleeve. you know.

and from the way his smirk softens just slightly, the way his head tilts, eyes bright beneath the glare of the gym lights—he knows, too.

the final seconds tick down.

the other team stops trying to chase the score—they know it’s hopeless. some of them don’t even bother running back on defense anymore, hands on their hips, breathing hard, completely defeated. when the final buzzer blares, it’s almost mercy at this point, the end of a game that should’ve stopped being competitive long ago.

final score: 112-39.

satoru lifts his arms in a lazy stretch, grinning, completely unbothered, as if he didn’t just personally crush one of the highest-ranked teams in the league. sweat clings to his skin, his jersey damp, hair an absolute mess, but he still looks ridiculously good, annoyingly confident.

his teammates crowd him immediately, patting his back, ruffling his hair, laughing at his absolute disrespect on the court. he takes it all in stride, leaning against suguru’s shoulder like he didn’t just outrun everyone on that court, fingers lifting in a lazy peace sign as cameras flash.

but the moment he’s free—he looks for you.

he doesn’t find you right away.

by the time the final buzzer blares and the court erupts into cheers, you’re already making your way down the bleachers, tucking your sketchbook under your arm like you can pretend you weren’t watching him the entire time. the gym is still loud, electric, the energy of the crowd vibrating against your skin as students swarm the court, players getting swallowed up in a mess of high-fives and celebratory shouts. you keep your head down, moving quickly, telling yourself that you’re just avoiding the chaos, that you’re not actually running from him.

but then—footsteps. fast. deliberate. coming straight for you.

“oi, oi—why are you leaving so fast?”

too late.

you barely have time to react before satoru catches up, falling into step beside you, grinning like he’s won something more than just a game. he’s still breathless from the court, his jersey damp, sweat clinging to the edges of his hair, but he moves easily, like the entire game was just a warm-up. the fluorescent lights overhead catch on the sharp line of his jaw, on the bright blue of his eyes, on the smug tilt of his lips as he leans in slightly, invading your space like it’s his right.

“so,” satoru drawls, voice still rough from exertion, breath still a little uneven. his skin glows under the fluorescent lights, sweat clinging to the sharp lines of his jaw, the hollow of his throat, the stray strands of white hair sticking to his forehead. but he doesn’t seem to care—too busy grinning, too busy basking in his victory. he leans in slightly, crowding into your space the way he always does, eyes alight with something smug, something expectant. “how’s it feel to profit off your favorite athlete?”

you blink, gripping your sketchbook a little tighter, pressing it against your chest like a shield. this is not a conversation you want to have right now—not when he looks like that, not when he’s still riding the high of the game, not when he’s standing too close, towering over you, sweat-drenched and insufferably pleased with himself.

“…i think i probably only made like twenty bucks.”

he freezes. for the first time all night, satoru gojo short-circuits. “...huh?”

you shift your weight slightly, trying not to smile, but he sees the way your fingers twitch, the way your gaze flickers away for half a second, like you’re barely keeping it together. “i only bet the minimum,” you admit, voice calm, unaffected, like you didn’t just shatter his entire perception of the game. “didn’t wanna risk too much.”

there’s a pause. a long one.

satoru's grin falters. his gaze sharpens, like he’s replaying the last two hours in his head, like he’s remembering every dunk, every deep three-pointer, every ridiculous play he pulled off—all under the assumption that you had gone all in.

you see the exact moment he realizes. he ruined a college team’s entire morale for twenty bucks. he also accidentally started several dating rumors.

“no way.” his voice is flat, almost horrified. “no actual way.”

you bite the inside of your cheek, struggling to keep your expression neutral. it’s too easy.

he runs a hand through his hair, pushing back the damp strands, still looking like he’s processing an entire life-altering event. “you—you barely even bet?”

“yup.”

“so you weren’t—” he gestures vaguely, looking genuinely lost, like he’s been personally betrayed by the universe itself. “you weren’t, like, invested?”

you shrug, avoiding his gaze, because you suddenly feel kind of bad. “not really.”

his expression crumbles.

“oh my god.” he exhales sharply, dragging a hand down his face, fingers pressing into his temples like this is causing him actual physical pain. “i wasted all my best moves for twenty bucks?”

you nod, lips pressing together, but this time, the guilt outweighs the amusement. you peek up at him, watching the way he slouches slightly, shoulders dropping, his usual confidence momentarily replaced with the weight of sheer disbelief.

“…i mean,” you murmur, hesitant, before reaching into your pocket. “you looked pretty cool.”

he doesn’t react immediately, still looking far too devastated to register your words, but when you pull out a neatly folded handkerchief and raise it toward him, he finally glances down.

his brows lift.

“what’s this?” he asks, voice suspicious, but there’s something softer in it now, something curious.

you swallow, suddenly self-conscious, but you don’t pull your hand back. “you’re, um… sweating.”

his lips twitch.

“oh?” he says, and now he’s watching you instead of the handkerchief, instead of anything else.

you avert your gaze, cheeks warming slightly, but you still reach up carefully, dabbing the cloth against his forehead with quiet, deliberate movements. he goes still, just for a second, just long enough for you to register the shift in the air, the way his breath hitches almost imperceptibly.

then—slowly, teasingly—

“damn,” he murmurs. “if i knew you’d be this sweet about it, i would’ve played even harder.”

your fingers pause, pressing against his skin just a fraction longer than necessary, before you pull back abruptly, heart stumbling over itself.

“forget it.” you mutter, stuffing the handkerchief back into your pocket, turning on your heel.

satoru laughs, bright and unbothered, falling into step beside you like he wasn’t just existentially wrecked a minute ago. and somehow, you know this isn’t the last time he’s going to make you feel like this.

but as it turns out, offering satoru a handkerchief isn’t enough to alleviate his mood—he sulks for an entire week.

he still shows up, still lounges around your dorm like he owns the place, but everything he does is unnecessarily dramatic. he sighs—loudly and often—collapsing onto your furniture like his limbs don’t work properly. he sprawls across your bed without asking, flopping onto his stomach like some overgrown cat, muttering about betrayal every time you glance at him. he pokes at your art supplies absentmindedly, dragging a finger along the rim of your paint jars, staring mournfully at your sketchbook like it personally wronged him.

satoru refuses to play pickup games at the campus court, claiming he’s ‘retired’ after his efforts were wasted on someone who only bet the bare minimum. he stretches out on your floor instead, staring at the ceiling with the air of a fallen war hero, occasionally tossing a basketball in the air and catching it one-handed—just to remind you of what was lost.

“you could’ve told me.” he grumbles one evening, sprawled out in the middle of your dorm, arms crossed like a petulant child. his hair is still damp from practice, the ends curling slightly where sweat has dried, but he hasn’t even changed out of his jersey yet—too busy sulking.

you hum in response, dipping your brush into a fresh shade of blue, too used to his dramatics to entertain them. “what, that i wasn’t planning to go broke over a basketball game?”

“yes!” he says miserably, rolling onto his side so he can stare at you like you personally ruined his life.

his arms are still crossed, but one hand is half-buried in his hair, fingers tugging lightly at the strands, his expression caught somewhere between disbelief and heartbreak. “i would’ve toned it down.”

you snort, finally glancing at him. his blue eyes are fixed on you, sharp but lazy, like he’s waiting for you to admit you were wrong. “no, you wouldn’t have.”

satoru opens his mouth—probably to argue, probably to deny that he's the most dramatic person alive—but then he catches the look on your face. something shifts in his expression, something slower, something warmer, like he’s seeing you in a way he hadn’t before. for the first time since he walked into your dorm today, he goes quiet.

you don’t look away.

outside, the wind rattles against your window, golden leaves scraping against the glass. the air smells crisp, cold, like the start of something new. autumn is settling in.

“…did you at least have fun?” you ask, raising an eyebrow. your voice is lighter than usual, quieter, like you already know the answer but want to hear him say it anyway.

he doesn’t answer right away.

he just grins, lazy, easy, completely insufferable, like he knows something you’re not ready to admit yet.

“yeah,” he murmurs. “guess i did.”

the last days of AUTUMN slip in quietly, fading into the edges of routine like the final strokes of a painting.

the air is sharper now, biting, enough that satoru finally stops showing up in just his jersey—though he still refuses to wear anything heavier than a hoodie, claiming he’s "built different." the wind rattles your dorm window more often, slipping through the cracks to nip at your fingers as you paint, and the trees outside stand bare and skeletal, their golden leaves now forgotten heaps on the pavement, damp and crumbling underfoot.

and then, there’s finals.

campus shifts with the season, brimming with stress, the energy heavier, more desperate. the library is always full, lights flickering through the windows at all hours of the night. students hunch over laptops in cafés, their cups stacked high with unfinished coffee, their fingers smudged with ink and exhaustion.

and you—you are pushing yourself too hard.

satoru sees it before you do.

he sees it in the way your hands don’t move as fluidly when you paint, how your brushes sit in murky water for too long before you remember to rinse them out. he sees it in the way you rub your eyes more often, fingertips pressing against your temples when you think no one’s looking. the way you sip your coffee like it’s medicine, like you need it just to stay upright.

but more than anything, he sees it in the way you’ve stopped sketching between sessions.

at first, he doesn’t say anything.

because he knows you. knows that you hate being told to slow down, that you treat breaks like enemies, that unfinished work sits on your conscience like an open wound.

so instead, he tries harder in ways you don’t notice.

he starts bringing you food more often, not even bothering to pretend they’re leftovers anymore. he tosses a granola bar at you before every session, drops a water bottle onto your desk without explanation, side-eyes your instant noodles with blatant, unfiltered disapproval.

so instead, he tries harder in ways you don’t notice.

he starts bringing you food more often, no longer bothering with the flimsy excuse of calling them leftovers. he tosses a granola bar at you before every session, always with an offhanded comment—"don’t die on me, yeah?"—before flopping onto your bed like he didn’t just shove sustenance into your hands. he drops a water bottle onto your desk without explanation, the plastic cool against your wrist as you sketch, and side-eyes your instant noodles like they personally offend him. when you ignore him, he clicks his tongue in disapproval, muttering something about "atrocious dietary habits" like he’s one to talk.

“you’re not my mom, satoru.” you say one evening, peeling the wrapper off the snack he just unceremoniously threw at you.

“nah,” he scoffs, propping himself up on one elbow, watching you unwrap it with clear satisfaction. “if i was your mom, i’d actually let you starve so you’d learn a lesson.”

you pause, narrowing your eyes. “...what lesson?”

he shrugs, grinning like he didn’t just say something completely unhinged, dimples showing slightly. “i dunno. that eating real food is important or some shit.”

you roll your eyes, but you still eat whatever he brings.

and when you think he’s not looking, you chew a little slower, savoring the warmth in your chest that has nothing to do with the food.

he starts texting you more, too.

[10:47 PM] still awake?

[10:48 PM] wait dumb question. ofc you are.

[10:48 PM] go to sleep before ur brain melts. if you can’t sleep we can call, im a wonderful singer.

[10:49 PM] also if ur ignoring me rn i’m gonna be soooo hurt u don’t even know.

[10:50 PM] i’m okay, satoru.

[10:51 PM] just a little tired. i’ll sleep soon.

[10:51 PM] thank you for checking, though.

he doesn’t reply right away.

you stare at the screen for a moment, thumb hovering over the keyboard, wondering if he fell asleep or got distracted, if he’s still there. as if sensing this, his replies arrive.

[10:54 PM] yeah, i know.

[10:54 PM] but take it easy, okay?

[10:55 PM] i’ll see you tomorrow.

you exhale, something warm settling in your chest, something you don’t have the energy to unpack right now.

[10:56 PM] okay.

you flip your phone over, tucking it beneath your pillow, but you fall asleep easier that night. because it’s nice. having someone to notice. having someone to care.

then, one evening, it happens.

you’re halfway through a painting, something that’s been frustrating you for days, something that isn’t coming out right no matter how many times you fix it. the colors aren’t blending the way you want, the strokes feel too heavy, too forced—like your hands aren’t listening to you anymore.

satoru is there, sprawled across your bed like he has nowhere else to be, phone in one hand, the other tucked lazily behind his head. he glances at you between scrolling, sighing loudly whenever you don’t react, making just enough noise to remind you of his presence. when that doesn’t work, he shifts onto his side, propping himself up on an elbow, eyes flicking toward your hunched form at the desk. “you’re supposed to entertain me, y’know.”

“i’m busy,” you mutter, barely sparing him a glance, your focus locked on the canvas in front of you. your brush hovers midair, colors blending under the dim light of your desk lamp, but there’s a tightness in your grip, a frustration in the way your shoulders remain stiff.

“so?” he rolls onto his side, propping himself up on one elbow, his head tilting slightly as he watches you. “i am literally your muse.”

you exhale sharply, setting your brush down with a little more force than necessary. “you are literally annoying.”

he gasps, clutching his chest like you just struck him. “harsh.” his voice is light, teasing, but his eyes stay on you, watching as you tilt your head, exhale through your nose, then lean forward again, brush hovering over the canvas.

you’ve been fixated for too long now, barely moving except to mix colors, sigh, and frown at your work. your posture is too stiff, too tense, your shoulders drawn up, the curve of your spine locked in place like you’ve forgotten how to relax. your fingers tighten around the brush, knuckles whitening, the bristles pausing mid-stroke as your breath shudders slightly—too shallow, too uneven.

something itches in his chest. for the first time all night, he frowns.

“hey,” he says, sitting up, his phone forgotten beside him. “id you even eat today?”

"“huh?”

your reaction is delayed, your head turning toward him like it takes effort to shift your focus. you blink at him, slow, eyes unfocused, as if you’re still caught between here and the painting, like you don’t quite register what he’s saying.

then—the brush slips from your fingers. before he even registers what’s happening—you sway.

his heart stops. then he’s off the bed in an instant, faster than thought, hands reaching, catching you before you can hit the ground.

“woah, woah—hey.” his voice is too sharp, too urgent, nothing like his usual lazy drawl. one arm curls around your waist, steadying you, while the other grips your wrist, fingers pressing against the faint pulse beneath your skin. you’re too light in his hold, your weight sinking into him like you can’t hold yourself up.

your head lolls against his chest, and he barely registers the faint smudge of paint you leave on his hoodie because—you’re not responding.

panic flares white-hot in his gut.

“okay, no. you don’t get to just faint on me,” he mutters, adjusting his grip, his breath coming quicker than he’d like. he taps your cheek lightly, the warmth of your skin too cool against his fingertips. “wake up, idiot.”

you groan softly, brows pinching together, your expression twisting like even the act of regaining consciousness is too much effort.

“...m’fine,” you mumble, barely coherent, words slow and heavy like your tongue can’t quite keep up.

satoru lets out a sharp breath, his grip on you tight but careful, like he’s still processing the fact that he had to catch you in the first place. “oh, yeah? yeah? that why you just dropped like a damn sack of flour?” his voice is sharp, edged with something that’s not quite annoyance, not quite panic, something he doesn’t know what to do with.

you don’t answer.

his jaw tightens, muscles flexing as he exhales through his nose, his chest rising and falling too fast, too unevenly. without another word, he shifts, carefully maneuvering you onto your bed, his movements stiff, deliberate, too controlled.

“unbelievable,” he grumbles under his breath, pulling the blanket over you with a little more force than necessary. “who even does this? who just forgets to function?”

you mumble something unintelligible, your voice so soft that it barely even reaches him, your eyes fluttering open just enough to meet his. they’re glassy, unfocused, struggling to stay on him, and for some reason, that frustrates him even more.

satoru exhales sharply, running a hand over his face before pushing his hair back, his fingers tangling into the damp strands at the nape of his neck. after a beat, he crouches beside the bed, forearms resting on his knees, his gaze steady as he studies you.

“you okay?” his voice is quieter now, but there’s an edge beneath it, something pressing.

“…m’fine,” you repeat, voice barely above a whisper, but you don’t even sound like you believe it.

his eyes narrow.

“you literally just passed out.” his tone is flat, unimpressed, laced with something dangerously close to concern. “try again.”

you blink slowly, like it takes effort, like you have to search for the words. “…just… tired..” you admit, the syllables slipping together as your lashes flutter, fighting to stay awake.

he doesn’t like the way that sounds.

“yeah, no shit.”

you shift slightly, eyes slipping shut again, breath evening out, and he presses his lips together, watching you too closely, his expression unreadable. his fingers twitch against his knee, like there’s something else he wants to say, something else he wants to do.

then, quieter—like he’s speaking more to himself than to you—“you gotta stop this.”

you hum softly in response, already half-asleep, your breathing slow, steady, but he’s still watching you, still too aware of how small you look like this, how fragile you felt in his arms.

but he means it. you can’t keep doing this. can’t keep running yourself into the ground, pushing past your limits like they don’t exist.

he won’t let you.

his arms remain loosely folded over his knees, but his fingers tap restlessly against his leg, his jaw tight. his hoodie is still stained with the smudge of paint from where your head rested against him, but he doesn’t move to wipe it off. instead, he watches the slow rise and fall of your chest, the faint crease between your brows even in sleep, like you’re still carrying the weight of exhaustion. he exhales, rubs a hand over his face, then reaches for the blanket crumpled at the edge of the bed and drapes it over you, movements slow, careful.

he stays until he’s sure you’re really resting.

when  you wake up, the first thing you notice is the blanket draped over you. the second thing you notice is the smell of something warm, something fresh.

your fingers twitch against the fabric, gripping the edge of the blanket like you’re grounding yourself, like you’re trying to make sense of where you are. your head feels heavy, dull with leftover exhaustion, but there’s something comforting in the warmth pressed against your legs, the scent curling into the cold air. you blink blearily, sitting up, and there—

satoru, on your floor, typing away on his phone. beside him, a steaming cup of instant miso soup sits on your desk.

his back is against the bed frame, legs stretched out, hair a mess of uneven strands where his fingers must’ve run through it too many times. his hoodie hangs loose on his frame, sleeves pushed up just enough to expose the sharp cut of his forearms, and when he hears you shift, he glances up—expression unreadable, gaze sharp but softer than usual.

“you’re awake,” he says, this time without looking away, without the usual smug edge to his voice.

satoru's eyes flicker over your face, assessing, sharp but softer than usual, like he’s searching for something—proof that you’re really okay, that you’re here, conscious, breathing. his posture is relaxed, but there’s something unnaturally still about him, like he hasn’t quite settled since you collapsed. the glow from your desk lamp casts uneven shadows across his face, catching on the messy strands of his hair, the faint crease between his brows.

“...what happened?” your voice is hoarse, rough around the edges, like you’ve been asleep for much longer than you should have. you shift under the blanket, fingers tightening around the fabric, the weight of exhaustion still pressing against your limbs.

he gives you a flat, unimpressed look.

“you died.”

you blink at him, lips parting slightly—stunned, too tired to argue.

he holds your gaze for half a second longer before exhaling, reaching for the cup on your desk. “...briefly,” he amends, his fingers barely touching the ceramic as he pushes it toward you, the soft scrape of porcelain against wood filling the quiet space between you. “drink. before you die again.”

your fingers curl around the warmth, hesitating for just a second before lifting it. the heat seeps into your palms, steadying, grounding, and for some reason, your chest tightens in a way you don’t want to name.

you take a slow sip, the warmth spreading through your bones, reaching into the cold, exhausted parts of you that you hadn’t even realized were there.

“thanks,” you mumble, voice quieter now, the steam from the soup curling into the cold air between you.

satoru shrugs, but his gaze lingers, watching you a little too closely, a little too long, like he’s waiting for something. there’s no teasing grin, no smart remark—just a quiet, unreadable weight in the way he looks at you. his fingers tap absently against his knee, the rhythm uneven, restless, like there’s something on the tip of his tongue that he’s still deciding whether or not to say.

then—"you know," he starts, voice too casual, too calculated, like he’s testing the waters before fully stepping in. "you never let me see your sketchbook."

your grip tightens slightly around the cup, the warmth pressing against your palms, suddenly too much, too distracting.

he notices.

satoru's gaze flickers down—just for a second, brief but deliberate—before meeting yours again, sharper now, curiosity replacing the usual lazy amusement in his expression. the teasing edge is gone, replaced by something steadier, something unreadable. “why is that?

“…no reason,” you lie, shifting under his stare, trying to appear unaffected. but the soup in your hands is suddenly too warm, too grounding, your fingers curling tighter around the ceramic like it might steady you. you can feel the weight of his attention, the way he’s watching you too closely, too intently, like he’s waiting for the cracks to show.

his brows lift, his expression flat, unimpressed. “bullshit.”

you scowl, gripping your soup tighter, like it’ll shield you from this conversation, like it might somehow block him from seeing through you.

“it’s private.”

“so? i’m literally the subject,” he argues, leaning forward slightly, elbows resting on his knees, his presence suddenly heavier, more insistent. “i should get at least a sneak peek.”

“no.”

his eyes narrow slightly, the corner of his lip twitching like he’s already planning a new approach. “why?”

“because,” you say, and that’s all you give him. because you don’t know how to explain it. because you don’t want to.

his lips press into a thin line, his gaze lingering just a little too long, just sharp enough to make you shift under the weight of it.

a challenge.

but you’re still half-buried in exhaustion, your limbs too heavy, your mind still foggy, and he knows it.

so after a beat, satoru exhales through his nose, then leans back against the bed again, arms folding behind his head, stretching out like he’s already decided this conversation isn’t over.

“fine. for now,” he says, voice light, easy. but there’s something about the way he says it—something low, something certain, like a promise rather than a concession.

you glare at him, because you know him—know the way his mind works, know that he never lets things go, never drops anything without a reason. you see the way his grin lingers, the way it tugs at the corner of his mouth just slightly off-kilter, like he’s already planning his next move. it’s not a matter of if he’ll bring this up again—it’s when.

he grins wider, because he knows you know. because you’re predictable in a way that amuses him, in a way that keeps him entertained. you’re trying too hard to brush this off, to pretend like the question doesn’t rattle something inside you, but he’s always been good at noticing the little things. your avoidance, your tight grip on the cup, the way your shoulders stiffen just slightly whenever he pushes too close.

and just like that, the weight of the moment lifts, the air turning lighter again, slipping back into something familiar. you take another sip of the miso soup, the heat seeping through your fingers, spreading through your chest, anchoring you in the quiet. satoru shifts, arms still behind his head, gaze flickering away from you for once—out the window, toward the sky, toward the city beyond.

outside, the wind rattles the glass, slipping through the cracks, curling into the room like the first whisper of something colder.

autumn is ending. and winter is near.

WINTER has settled in, quiet but undeniable.

the air is colder, sharper, slipping through the cracks of your dorm window no matter how tightly you close it. the ground outside is dusted in frost, the once-vibrant autumn leaves now forgotten beneath slushy sidewalks and the occasional crunch of ice. campus is emptier now, students retreating home for winter break, leaving the dorms quieter, the hallways less crowded, less alive.

but he’s in your dorm all the time now.

it started with quick drop-ins after games—an excuse to complain about how sore he was, to stretch out on your floor like a lazy cat, to toss you a snack without explanation. then it turned into late-night visits when he had nowhere better to be—until, eventually, he stopped pretending he needed a reason at all.

your dorm isn’t much, just a tiny room barely big enough for the both of you, but somehow, it’s become his space, too.

he kicks his shoes off without thinking, leaves his jacket slung over your chair like it belongs there, flops onto your bed without asking. he always brings something with him—sometimes food, sometimes a new brand of tea he insists you try, sometimes just the lingering warmth of conversation when the room feels too quiet.

(you complain about it. “this is not a hangout spot.” “stop making a mess on my desk.” “for the last time, satoru, my bed is not your personal couch.” but you never actually tell him to leave.)

and lately, you seem less exhausted when he’s here.

finals are over. winter break has started. the campus is quieter, the stress that had settled into your shoulders finally lifting, loosening its grip.

you still overwork yourself, still get lost in your paintings for hours, but you’re taking care of yourself now, too.

he sees it in the way you actually eat full meals instead of just instant noodles. in the way you don’t fight him when he shoves a bottle of water into your hands. in the way you’ve stopped waking up with smudged paint on your cheek from falling asleep at your desk.

he’s proud of you. not that he’d ever say it out loud. maybe one day. but for now, he’ll just keep showing up.

tonight, though, you’re running late.

some meeting for an art exhibition, something you were weirdly cagey about when he asked. you had waved him off, barely sparing him a glance as you gathered your things in a rush, stuffing papers into your bag, adjusting your coat with hurried movements. he had teased you—“look at you, so professional. should I start calling you sensei?”—but you had just rolled your eyes, muttered something about being late, and disappeared out the door.

he almost doesn’t notice at first, too busy digging through a plastic bag of snacks he brought for you, tossing a pack onto your desk, then tearing open another for himself. he stretches out against your bed frame, one knee propped up, his phone in one hand, snacks in the other, making himself comfortable in the way he always does. your absence doesn’t bother him—you’ll be back soon, and besides, he’s already claimed this space as his own.

but then—his eyes flicker to your desk. to your sketchbook.

it’s right there.

he’s been curious for months.

he’s seen the way you snap it shut the second he moves too close, how you always turn it facedown, tuck it under your arm, keep it pressed against your chest when you leave a room. it’s deliberate, protective, like it holds something you don’t want him to see—something more than just rough sketches from your sessions.

and he’s been good. he’s been patient. but now? now, he’s alone. and, well—what’s the harm in taking a little peek?

his fingers brush the cover, hesitating for just a second—a quiet moment of restraint before curiosity wins out. then, with one last glance at the door to make sure you’re not back yet—he flips it open.

he expects sketches of his poses from your sessions. the usual. the planned. the predictable.

what he doesn’t expect is—pages and pages of him.

not the carefully composed ones, not the ones you’d shown him before. no, these are different. the lines are loose, unpolished, real—like you weren’t drawing to impress anyone, like you were just trying to capture something before it slipped away.

his fingers still against the page, breath catching slightly, pulse stuttering in a way he doesn’t understand. his own face stares back at him, over and over again, not the carefully arranged expressions from your sessions, but the ones he didn’t know you were paying attention to.

him, tying his shoes before a game, the curve of his shoulders loose and relaxed. him, tossing his head back, laughing, mouth open, eyes crinkled—drawn in a way that makes him look softer than he’s used to. next to it, in small, slanted handwriting: ‘loudest laugh in the world.’

satoru exhales slowly, flipping the page, movements quieter now, more deliberate.

him, spinning a basketball on his fingertip, drawn from multiple angles like you were trying to get it just right. him, leaning against your dorm room wall, arms crossed, head tilted, gaze sharp but amused—like he’s in the middle of teasing you. his eyes flick to the corner, where you’ve written, ‘always watching. annoyingly perceptive.’

he huffs out a quiet breath—not quite a laugh, not quite anything. his throat feels tight.

he turns another page, his fingers careful now, almost hesitant. a corner of a napkin peeks out—he pulls it loose, unfolding it carefully. a quick, half-finished sketch of him mid-sprint, lines rushed, motion barely captured, next to a coffee-stained note that just says: ‘too fast to draw. unfair.’

his lips part slightly, breath catching at the words, at the fact that you even tried.

another, taped messily into the spine of the book—a full-body drawing of him from behind, hoodie pulled up, hands in his pockets, walking away. ‘somehow takes up more space than anyone else.’ you wrote in the margins, the ink slightly smudged, like you had run your fingers over it absentmindedly.

he swallows, jaw tightening. his thumb brushes the edge of the page, lingering there, like if he just holds still, he’ll figure out what to do with the way his chest feels too full, too tight.e because this—this isn’t simply a collection of sketches. this is him, through your eyes.

and then—he flips another page. this one is different.

not a quick sketch, not a half-finished doodle on the edge of a napkin, not something you scribbled in passing. a full portrait. detailed, deliberate, like you took your time with it. like you wanted to get it exactly right.

he recognizes the jersey immediately—it’s from last week, when he had come over grumbling about practice, throwing himself onto your bed like it was his own, arms sprawled out, eyes shut, muttering about how being the best was exhausting. he remembers laughing, remembers the weight of your gaze on him, remembers teasing you about how you were always staring anyway.

but this—this means you had watched him even longer. the expression you captured—it’s him, but it’s softer. relaxed. comfortable. unaware.

oh.

his fingers pause against the edge of the paper, grip tightening just slightly.

but you couldn’t have done all this in front of him without him noticing. you’re always preoccupied, always doing something else whenever he’s around—never reaching for your sketchbook. had you drawn this only after he left? had you memorized these moments, watched him for far longer than he realized, until you could capture him this accurately?

his stomach does something weird again.

like a sharp twist of something unfamiliar, something heavy, something he doesn’t quite know what to do with. his throat feels tight, his pulse uneven, a strange warmth creeping into his chest and settling there, stubborn and unmoving.

his gaze lingers on the portrait, taking in the details—the careful shading of his jawline, the way his hair looks slightly messier than usual, the way his arms are draped carelessly over the sheets. he looks like he belongs there.

he swallows, jaw tightening. because he does.

he hears your footsteps before the door even opens—the soft, familiar rhythm of them padding down the hall, the faint rustle of your coat as you shift, the quiet exhale you always let out before stepping inside.

the door creaks open gently, slow and careful, like you’re trying not to startle the silence of the room. “i’m home,” you say softly, the words barely past your lips before you step inside.

but satoru isn’t paying attention. because his heart is still racing, his hands are still gripping the sketchbook, and he’s way too fucking giddy to think of a way to get rid of his crime in time.

you take two steps in before your gaze lands on him—seated on your bed, sketchbook open in his hands, looking like a kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar. your expression shifts in an instant—relaxed to confused to absolutely horrified.

“satoru, what are you—” your voice cuts off mid-sentence, sharp and sudden, like you physically can’t finish.

he looks up at you, eyes bright with mischief, lips already curling into a grin, the kind that spells nothing but trouble. fingers still pressed against the pages, holding them open like evidence, like proof. then—casually, effortlessly, like he didn’t just get caught red-handed—“you like me.”

you freeze, body going rigid, fingers twitching at your sides like you don’t know whether to snatch the book back or bolt.

he tilts his head, grin widening, flipping through the pages with exaggerated slowness, dragging out your suffering. “and here i thought you only liked me for my bone structure—”

“give it back.” your voice comes out too fast, too sharp, laced with something close to panic.

he laughs, flipping another page, gaze flicking between the sketches and your rapidly reddening face. “so you have been staring.”

"satoru—" you take a step forward, but he just leans back against the bed, completely unbothered, holding the sketchbook out of reach.

“oh, this one’s nice,” he teases, holding up the sketch of him mid-game, spinning the book slightly between his fingers like he’s inspecting it. “was this from last week? so you were watching me train and not just pretending to be absorbed in your sketchbook—”

“i was drawing!—”

“—drawing me.” his voice is light, teasing, but there’s something else under it—something quieter, something warmer, something dangerously close to fondness.

you snatch the sketchbook out of his hands so fast it nearly smacks him in the face.

he expects you to yell at him. maybe shove him. maybe even hit him with the sketchbook. but instead your expression twists, your cheeks burning, lips parting like you want to say something but can’t, and before he can react, before he can stop you—you groan and slam the sketchbook back to your bed, turn on your heel and leave.

“hey—!” he scrambles after you, nearly tripping over a stack of books, nearly sending an entire pile of papers flying, nearly proving why you never let him near your workspace unsupervised. his breath comes out in sharp puffs of white against the cold air, but he barely notices, too focused on closing the distance between you, on the way your shoulders are stiff, the way you move like you’re fighting the urge to break into a full sprint.

outside, the first real snowfall of the season is drifting down, dusting the campus in white, clinging to the bare branches, softening the edges of the world. but you’re too preoccupied with storming away to notice, too caught up in your own mortification to care.

“oh, come on,” satoru groans, catching up with long, easy strides, like this isn’t a crisis, like this isn’t your worst nightmare unfolding in real time. “don’t just run away—”

“i am not running away.”

“you totally are.”

“i—!” you whirl around so fast he nearly crashes into you, nearly walks straight into your personal space like an idiot. he stops just short, breath catching slightly, eyes flicking down to the tiny sliver of space left between you.

the air is cold between you, breath visible in the space that suddenly feels too charged, too warm despite the winter creeping in.

your arms are crossed so tightly it looks like you’re holding yourself together, like if you let go, you might actually combust from sheer embarrassment.

“you’re so—” you huff, flustered, frustrated, desperate to change the subject, desperate to claw back even a fraction of your dignity.

“handsome? charming? incredibly kissable—”

“—infuriating!”

he just grins, all teeth and shameless amusement, because you’re easy to read now. because no matter how much you glare at him, your ears are pink, your fingers are twitching, your weight is shifting like you want to run again but can’t bring yourself to.

“you like me,” he says again, softer this time. more certain.

you don’t answer.

snowflakes land on your lashes, catching in your hair, melting against your skin. your lips are parted like you want to argue, but nothing comes out. your eyes are too bright, too wide, too caught between wanting to flee and wanting to stay.

satoru gojo is not known for his restraint.

so, naturally, he kisses you.

he moves before he can think, before he can overcomplicate it, before you can run again. his head tilts, his breath warm against your skin, and then—he leans down, slow, deliberate, giving you every chance to pull away.

but you don’t.

and oh—oh.

his lips are warm despite the cold, despite the way the winter air bites at your skin, despite the snowflakes melting between you. his eyelashes flutter against his cheeks when he closes his eyes, those impossibly bright baby blues disappearing beneath pale lashes. he doesn’t rush, doesn’t tease, doesn’t turn it into something playful. for once, he takes his time.

his free hand lifts just slightly, like he wants to cup your cheek, like he wants to hold you there, but at the last second, he hesitates. instead, his fingers curl lightly around your wrist, grounding, steady, just enough pressure to keep you from slipping away.

you freeze for half a second.

then, you melt.

your breath stutters, your fingers gripping at the fabric of his uniform, hesitant at first, then firmer, anchoring yourself to him. your body tilts forward, just the slightest bit, just enough to tell him—yes.

and he’s already grinning into the kiss, absolutely insufferable, because he knew it. because he knew you wouldn’t pull away. because he knew you liked him.

when you finally pull back, breathless, he doesn’t let you go.

doesn’t want to.

his grip on your wrist stays firm, not tight, not demanding, just enough to keep you here, to keep you in this moment a little longer. his breath is warm against your skin, fanning softly over your lips, his fingers twitching like he’s debating pulling you back in.

“so,” he murmurs, forehead pressing against yours, nose barely grazing your own, “are you gonna admit it now, or do i have to go through another sketchbook’s worth of proof?”

your fingers tighten slightly around his sleeve, your heart hammering against your ribs like it’s trying to escape, like it’s trying to make up for every second you spent pretending this wasn’t real. your cheeks are burning, the cold doing nothing to help, but still—you force yourself to meet his gaze, to stare straight into those impossibly bright baby blues.

“…i do.”

his breath hitches.

“you… do?”

“i like you,” you clarify, somehow both firmer and shyer at the same time, words tumbling out too fast and too soft. then, before he can say anything stupid—“now you say it.”

his grin falters—not in amusement, not in teasing, but in something softer, something fonder, something that makes your stomach flip.

“i like you,” he repeats, like it’s the easiest thing in the world, like he never doubted it for a second. his ears are pink, his fingers twitch against your wrist, but his voice stays steady, stays sure. “a lot.”

your stomach twists, your face burns, and before he can get even more unbearably smug about it, you shove him, pushing at his chest with more force than necessary, just to wipe the grin off his face.

he laughs, stumbling back a step but still holding onto your wrist, still looking at you like you’ve just handed him the greatest win of his life.

but this time, you don’t walk away.

instead, you sigh, shaking your head as you grab his sleeve properly and start pulling him back toward your dorm, fingers curling around the fabric like you’re holding on without realizing it.

“what, no dramatic speech about how i misread everything?” he teases, falling into step beside you, his free hand slipping lazily into his pocket.

“shut up,” you mumble, voice muffled by the scarf you’ve pulled higher over your face, like it’ll somehow hide the warmth still lingering in your cheeks.

“soooo,” he drawls, bumping his shoulder against yours, “does this mean i’m officially your muse and your boyfriend now? multi-purpose?”

“no.”

“cold.”

he laughs, and it’s light, easy, painfully warm despite the winter air, like it’s found a home between you, settling there without permission. his breath fogs in the cold, but the space between you feels warmer somehow, lighter, like the weight of something unspoken has finally lifted. his steps are relaxed now, shoulders looser, head tilting toward you every so often—a quiet, effortless gravity pulling him closer, even when he doesn’t realize it.

when you get back to your dorm, he kicks off his shoes like always, sending them haphazardly toward the corner. shrugs off his jacket like always, barely looking where it lands. flops onto your bed like always, stretching out like he owns the place, arms behind his head, hair messy from the wind.

but this time, you roll your eyes and curl up beside him, too.

he doesn’t say anything about it, doesn’t tease, doesn’t even try to fight the smug grin tugging at his lips. he just shifts, adjusting without thinking, making room like he’s been waiting for this—like you’ve belonged there all along.

when he tucks his arm around you without thinking, you don’t complain.

when you mumble, half-asleep, voice softer than usual, “thanks for taking care of me.” he just hums, low and content, the sound barely more than a vibration against your skin. his fingers move without thought, absentmindedly tracing slow, lazy circles against your back, the rhythm steady, grounding.

when he presses a lazy kiss to the top of your head, breath catching just slightly against your hair, you don’t push him away.

outside, the snow keeps falling, soft and slow, blanketing the world in quiet. winter settles in around you. and for once, you let yourself rest.

the last of WINTER lingers in the early mornings, cold air curling against skin, clinging to rooftops, biting at fingertips. but the afternoons are warming up, the sun stretching a little higher in the sky, melting the ice that once lined the sidewalks. students swap heavy coats for lighter jackets, trading chattering teeth for the kind of energy that only comes with knowing winter is finally loosening its grip. cherry blossoms are just beginning to bud, hesitant, as if uncertain the cold is truly gone.

campus is filling up again. winter break is over. the once-quiet halls are alive with movement, voices overlapping, footsteps echoing against tile, the hum of life creeping back in. the scent of freshly brewed coffee drifts from the cafés, mingling with the crisp air, a sure sign that students are shaking off their winter sluggishness.

and satoru gojo is a public menace.

he was already bad enough as their university’s basketball star before. always loud, always impossible to ignore, always moving through campus like he owned it, like he was more event than person, someone you watched because you couldn’t help it. with that ridiculous, effortless kind of charm, all long limbs and easy smiles, like he’d never once known the weight of the world.

but now? now, he has a girlfriend. and now, he has you. and he makes sure everyone knows.

“my beloved!”

his voice slices through the courtyard like a warning bell, sharp and unmistakable, sending heads turning with an almost comical synchronicity. he’s leaning against a vending machine when you spot him, his navy varsity jacket loose over his shoulders, white t-shirt just barely clinging to the lean muscle beneath. his hair is a mess of soft white strands, tousled from the wind—or maybe practice—but his grin is bright, his blue eyes locked onto you with alarming precision.

you freeze for half a second—just half—but that’s all it takes for him to zero in on you, and you can feel the shift in the air, the heat of his gaze on your back as if he’s been waiting for this moment all along. the sound of his footsteps quicken, and before you know it, the familiar, teasing voice slices through the space between you.

“lovey! sweetheart! honeybunch sugarplum—”

you don’t even hesitate. the instinct to escape rises up, and you walk faster, head forward, eyes fixed on some imaginary point in the distance. it’s an old trick, pretending like if you just focus hard enough on something far away, you can ignore the fact that satoru gojo is loudly, dramatically, chasing after you like some over-the-top rom-com hero.

“stop it.” your teeth grind together, a faint blush creeping up your neck as you force your shoulders to stay stiff, trying to hold onto whatever dignity you have left.

he laughs, delighted by your discomfort, the sound almost echoing in the quiet space. with a lazy, unbothered air, he shoves his hands into his pockets and easily falls into step beside you. his white hair is still a mess from practice, some strands falling into his eyes, but he looks effortless, like he hasn’t even broken a sweat. “you wound me, darling.”

“i am not doing this with you.” you mutter under your breath, barely glancing at him, hoping that if you ignore him long enough, he’ll just go away. but it’s futile.

he’s faster. it’s always the same. his long legs carry him with a grace that shouldn’t be possible for someone so tall, and with barely any effort, he’s at your side, matching your pace, his grin stretching impossibly wide. his head tilts slightly, his white hair falling over his eyes in that way you’ve come to recognize so well—shifting and effortlessly falling into place. his blue eyes catch the light, looking so damn intense, you can’t help but notice the way they gleam through the long lashes, unguarded and almost playful.

“starlight, love of my life, future mother of my children—”

you stop mid-step, throwing him a sharp look, and his smile only widens at your frustration. “satoru.”

he gasps, clutching his chest in mock horror, eyes widening as if you’ve physically hurt him. he stumbles back a step, just for effect, and lets out an exaggerated sigh. “are you—” his voice drops to a dramatic whisper, his expression feigning scandal as he leans in closer. “are you ashamed of me?”

your jaw tightens, the irritation mixing with something else you’d rather not address. “i would like for people to know quietly.”

satoru halts mid-step, his hand flying to his chest as if you’ve just ripped out his heart. his face contorts into exaggerated pain as if you’ve just shattered him with a single sentence. “you—you don’t want to scream our love from the rooftops? you don’t want the whole world to know how much you adore me?” he flutters his fingers dramatically in the air as if visualizing the grand spectacle of it all.

you groan, shoving your hands into your pockets, doing your best to ignore the amused glances and curious whispers around you. it’s not bad, really. the attention.

you had expected—well. you don’t know what you expected. for people to react badly? for them to wonder why he’s with you, of all people?

but mostly, people are just… surprised. conversations halt mid-sentence, heads whip around for second and third takes, and whispered speculations weave through the air like static electricity.

a lot of:

“wait. gojo has a girlfriend? for real?”

“damn, i thought he was just messing around.”

“no way. no actual way.”

a handful of utterly devastated fangirls, clutching their textbooks like lifelines, staring as if their world has just come crashing down. but no one says anything cruel. no one scoffs or sneers. no one looks at you like you don’t belong next to him.

it’s a little overwhelming. but not awful. just… loud. and satoru? he thrives in it.

he’s absolutely ridiculous about it, keeps throwing his arm around your shoulders, keeps making a show of lacing his fingers through yours, keeps finding ways to bring it up in conversations that have nothing to do with him. when you’re walking together, he tugs you just a little closer, just a little tighter, like he wants everyone on campus to see. his hand is always finding its way to your waist, resting there like it belongs, fingers tapping idly against the fabric of your sweater. sometimes, when he’s feeling particularly dramatic, he’ll spin you around in the middle of the hallway, dipping you like you’re in the final scene of a romance movie, just because he can.

and you—earnest, quiet, and in love despite yourself—you let him.

you don’t indulge him the same way he does you. your affections are smaller, tucked between the spaces he leaves, a quiet echo to his relentless declarations. but you don’t pull away when he leans into you. you don’t protest when he sneaks his fingers through yours. and when you think no one’s looking, when his head is turned just so, when he’s grinning at something dumb and impossibly satoru, you let yourself look at him the way he looks at you.

one time, in the middle of lunch, he just sighs dramatically, leaning back in his chair, stretching his arms like the weight of the world is on his shoulders. his white hair is a mess from practice, sweat-damp at the nape of his neck, but he still looks effortless, still looks like he belongs under the sun, basking in the warmth of his own theatrics. he exhales, long and suffering, tilting his head back so far his chair almost tips. and then, with all the weight of the universe pressing down on his chest, he declares;

“man, having a girlfriend is crazy.”

you don’t even look up from your sketchbook. you’re used to this. you barely even blink anymore when he starts talking like the main character in a tragic love story. “you literally asked for this.”

“yeah, but still.”

he hums, thoughtful, like he’s truly pondering the gravity of his situation—then abruptly flops onto your lap, draping himself across you like he’s meant to be there. his head lands against your stomach, arms sprawled, legs stretched out across the bench, the weight of him pressing down on you like an overgrown cat. his hair tickles your wrist, and when you peer down, his eyes are already on you, bright and full of trouble. he’s grinning, of course he’s grinning, his lips twitching like he’s barely holding back a laugh.

you grunt under the sudden weight, the pressure of his body settling onto you like a heavy, careless blanket. you barely stop yourself from elbowing him off, your muscles tensing from the surprise, but he’s already too comfortable, sprawled across your lap with a dramatic sigh. “get off me.”

“no.”

he sounds so certain, so annoyingly nonchalant as he rests his head on your stomach, his hair messy from practice, damp strands sticking to his forehead like a defiant halo. you sigh through your nose, fingers tightening around your pencil, the sharp tip pressing against the paper as if it could ground you. “what do you want.”

“you know,” he says, his voice light, almost sing-song, as his head tilts just enough to meet your gaze, those ridiculously bright, ridiculously smug baby blues peering up at you with a look that’s both teasing and entirely too pleased with himself. “you kinda have a responsibility now.”

your sigh is louder this time, escaping through your nose as you flip to a new page in your sketchbook, trying to ignore the weight of him and the pull of his presence. you shift a little beneath him, adjusting to make space as your gaze flickers down at him. “what responsibility.”

he doesn’t move, doesn’t break the casual pose, his arms still spread wide like he’s claiming the space between you, his legs stretched comfortably across the bench, his fingers tapping lightly against your stomach. “you have to come to all my games. non-negotiable.”

you finally glance down at him, unimpressed, but your eyes soften just a little when you see the way he’s looking up at you, his grin wide, eyes twinkling like he’s saying something that’s a matter of life and death. you roll your eyes but can’t help the quiet smile that tugs at the corners of your mouth. “all of them?”

“yes. all.”

you blink at him, your hand drifting to your lap, pressing down the fluttering feeling in your chest, the soft affection you try so hard to keep from spilling over. “but i already go to most of them—”

“all. of. them.” his tone is firm now, a little playful but undeniably serious, his finger poking at your side like a reminder of his claim over your attention. he lifts his head just slightly, his lips pulling into a smirk that’s far too smug for anyone's good, and you know, without a doubt, that he’s completely and utterly certain of his win.

you sigh, louder this time, rolling your eyes as he grins up at you like he’s already won. his hair is soft when your fingers brush against it, a stray lock falling over his forehead as he waits, expectant. you hesitate for just a second, then let your fingers linger a beat longer than necessary, smoothing it back into place. “and why, exactly?”

his smirk falters, just for a fraction of a second. almost imperceptible. but you catch it, the flicker of something softer beneath the bravado, the way his throat bobs slightly before he answers.

“because you have to witness your incredibly talented, best-athlete-on-campus boyfriend in action, obviously.”

“obviously.”

“plus,” he adds, reaching up to poke your cheek with the most obnoxious little tap, “i play better when you’re there.”

your fingers tighten around your pencil, just slightly. you don’t answer immediately, because if you do, it might come out too soft, too earnest, too much. but your lips press together, and your gaze lingers, and when you finally murmur, “…is that true, or are you just saying that?” it sounds quieter than you mean it to.

his grin widens, eyes gleaming, mischief and sincerity tangled together like a promise. “guess you’ll have to keep coming to find out, huh?”

you shove his face away.

but later, when his attention is stolen by something else—when he’s laughing with his friends or zoning out as he stretches— you find your gaze lingering, the subtle shift of your focus as you tilt your head. your eyes trace the smooth curve of his cheek, the way the sunlight catches in his hair, making the white strands look like a halo around his face. there’s the easy slope of his shoulders, the way he leans back with that effortless confidence, his legs stretched out over the bench like he owns every inch of space around him. you notice all these things in the quiet moments when he’s not looking, and it’s almost like a secret you keep tucked away.

and then you think, helplessly, hopelessly— he plays better because he’s looking for you. it's not just the game he’s focused on. it’s the stands, it’s you. and for all his teasing, all his dramatic declarations, there’s this undercurrent you can’t deny—that he needs you there, in that spot, where his eyes always find yours.

you go to all his games anyway. it’s not a question, not a choice. you sit in the stands, your eyes fixed on the court, but your mind elsewhere, always waiting, always watching. every time, without fail, he looks for you before tip-off, and the moment he spots you, his expression shifts—just the faintest change in the curve of his lips, the way his eyes brighten as if he’s found something precious. every time, he finds you, like there’s no other place he would rather be. every time, he grins that obnoxious, confident grin, the one that says he will win, that he knows you’re there, and that’s enough.

spring creeps in. the last of the cold melts away, and you notice how the days stretch longer, how the warmth settles in your bones as everything begins to bloom around you.

and satoru gojo never stops being loud about loving you, his voice always rising above the noise, always unafraid of being seen. and you, quiet as you are, never stop loving him right back, holding it all in the space between the moments, where words aren’t necessary.

a/n : i would like to formally announce that i was this close to killing her off in winter via tragic anemia-induced collapse, but in a rare act of mercy, i decided against it. as such, i will be accepting 100-word minimum essays filled with gratitude in the comments. failure to comply may result in me rethinking my generosity. choose wisely.