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By the time he gets to you, you’re prodding at the battery terminal with pure confusion, clearly out of your depth. He stops by the driver’s side fender, his shadow stretching over the engine bay and swallowing up what little light the morning offers.

"Get in and try to crank it," he rumbles, his voice still rough from sleep.

You flinch slightly, nearly dropping your keys, as you turn to find the massive mechanic who’s just materialized out of the fog. Stumbling through a rushed, embarrassed explanation about how the dashboard lit up like a christmas tree before the steering went stiff, you slide behind the wheel, fingers trembling as you twist the key. The engine coughs out a pathetic, sluggish click-click-click before dying completely.

Sukuna leans over and scans the open engine bay with narrowed eyes. He brings his hand down to the alternator, then straightens and wipes a streak of grease off on his thigh.

"Alternator's shot," he diagnoses, pinning you with a flat stare through the windshield. “It stopped charging your battery while you were driving. That's why your steering went stiff, and all those warning lights came on. Battery's flat now."

He glances down the road toward his garage, jerks his chin in that direction, then flicks his gaze back to you, waiting. "Not fixing it out here. I can tow it in and take a look, if you want.”

You blink at him, hesitation suddenly tightening your chest. He's a huge, imposing stranger with eyes that seem to see right through you. You have no clue what his garage charges, and for all you know, he’ll tow your car a few meters and hand you a bill big enough to drain your entire savings account. Biting your lip hard, you look down the foggy road toward the distant city lights, debating whether freezing out here for your usual mechanic is worth it.

"Really?" you ask, your voice thin and cautious.

"You got a better plan?" Sukuna asks, raising a skeptical eyebrow. He doesn't look like he's got the patience for a long deliberation this early in the morning.

Your eyes flick from the dead dashboard to the shutters of his garage down the road again. Waiting for your own mechanic could mean hours out here, and you’re already running late. Shoulders sagging, you let out a shaky, resigned sigh and nod. "No, not really. Okay, yeah. Please tow it."

True to his word, ten minutes later your car is hooked up to his truck and rolled right onto his hydraulic lift. He works quietly, hooking up a diagnostic scanner and testing the voltage. You stand on the side, nervously watching him work through the tangle of wires and metal, while the smell of old coolant and burnt oil fills the air.

Finally, he wipes his hands on his coveralls. He glances up, meeting your gaze with a flat, unreadable look before speaking. "Alright. It's definitely the alternator. Parts and labor, you're looking at around two hundred, maybe two-fifty if the belt snapped when it seized up."

He braces himself for the usual routine: the hesitant sigh, the defensive wince, maybe a drawn-out complaint about how expensive car parts are these days. He’s seen it all before, a thousand times over.

None of that happens, though. You just blink at him, completely speechless, like he’s started speaking a foreign language.

"Are you..." You swallow hard, eyes darting between your car and the man in front of you. "Are you undercharging me out of pity? Did I really look that pathetic standing on the side of the road?"

Sukuna freezes, and the rag stops mid-wipe against his palm. He stares at you, his brow knitting into a dumbfounded, deep scowl, entirely derailed by the accusation. "What? No. That's the price of the part and half an hour of my time. I don't do pity discounts.”

"Seriously?" A breathless, half-disbelieving laugh escapes you, as your hand comes up to press against your forehead while you try to make sense of the numbers. "My mechanic charges me a small fortune every time I bring this thing in. Like... last year I paid almost three hundred for an oil change, so I figured something that actually stopped the car from running would be..." You trail off, your eyes wandering up to the underside of a different car on the lift. "Honestly, I have no idea. Just… more."

Disbelief hardens his stare, and a sharp, sudden outrage flares in his chest at whoever’s been fleecing you, quickly followed by a heavy wave of disappointment. He can't quite believe you’d just hand over a small fortune for basic maintenance without so much as a second thought.

"An oil change," he repeats in a low rasp. "He charges you three hundred dollars for an oil change?"

"Well... yeah? And..." Shifting your weight from one foot to the other, you wince as your sneakers squeak against the slick concrete. Your hand waves uselessly in the air when you’re trying to remember the items from the invoices you received. "Some other things? He always says there are other things."

Silence settles over the garage, broken only by the steady drip of fluid into a drainage pan nearby, each drop echoing like a ticking clock.

Sukuna tosses the rag aside, leans against the workbench and folds his arms across his chest. His eyes narrow, studying you with a look that grows more troubled by the second, like you’re some puzzle that refuses to make sense.

"You know what those other things were?"

You frown, your shoulders pulling in slightly under the weight of his intense stare. "Not really."

That stare doesn’t budge, flat and unblinking, and it makes you want to sink straight into the concrete floor.

"And you paid anyway."

It's not a question, but a flat statement, paired with a slow, disappointed shake of his head that twists your stomach.

Heat crawls up your neck, embarrassment prickling across your skin. You wrap your arms tightly around yourself defensively, trying to salvage a scrap of dignity. “He’s a mechanic, so like… why wouldn’t I trust him about… mechanic stuff?”

"So you just pay whatever he puts on the invoice?"

After a beat of hesitation, your eyes flick toward the garage exit before you force yourself to meet his gaze again. "I mean..."

The irritation in him doesn’t fade; if anything, it settles in deeper. The more you talk, the clearer it gets that this wasn’t just one bad invoice. It’s a pattern.

"How long you been taking your car to this guy?"

A startled blink, caught off guard by the rapid-fire questioning. "A few years?"

A muscle jumps in his cheek as his jaw flexes. "Christ." His arms drop, one hand coming up to rest flat against the workbench behind him. "You don't know anything about cars, do you?"

You open your mouth, ready to stammer out some flimsy defense, but he cuts you off with a sharp, impatient wave.

"No, don't answer that." He pinches the bridge of his nose, squeezing his eyes shut for a long moment. "I already know." When he lowers his hand, his expression darkens. "And he knows it too. That's the problem." He takes a slow step toward you, his towering height making the small garage feel instantly crowded. "He knows you don't know what you're looking at. He knows you won’t question the invoice. He knows you’ll just nod, pull out your card, and pay whatever number he pulls out of thin air."

His words hit with bruising accuracy, uncomfortable in their honesty. Swallowing hard, you feel the bitter reality of years of being scammed settle like a stone in your stomach. Sukuna clicks his tongue, the sharp, dismissive sound echoing off the concrete walls.

"And he's been taking advantage of it, overcharging the hell out of you.” He shakes his head again, his hands clenching into fists at his sides. "It's disgusting."

—

The last clink of metal fades, giving way to the low, steady purr of your car’s engine. Sukuna lingers, listening to the alternator hum, his attention fixed on the sound until he’s sure everything is running just right. Only then does he cut the ignition and shut the hood.

At the sink, he scrubs at the thickest layer of grease on his hands and forearms, while each pass of the soap gives him a moment to stew. The whole time he’d been working on your hatchback, the audacity of your last mechanic kept simmering in the back of his mind, needling at his sense of professionalism and refusing to let go.

He dries his hands on a clean rag, then heads back to where you’re waiting by the office door. The invoice comes off the clipboard, and he holds it out to you along with your keys.

"Alright, you're good to go," he rumbles, his voice level and calm. "It was just the alternator. Parts and labor came out to two hundred, exactly like I said."

You take the keys and the paper, relief washing over you as your eyes land on the total. Exactly what he quoted. No hidden fees, no sneaky line items, no surprise charges, nothing lurking in the fine print.

Sukuna stands there, his large hands settling loosely on his hips. His gaze flicks from your face to the paperwork in your hands, brow furrowing slightly as he hesitates. Then, the words slip out before he can stop them.

“If you want, you can bring your old receipts by sometime. Dig 'em out of your glovebox or whatever." He clears his throat, the sudden offer surprising even him as it leaves his mouth. This isn’t something he does. He doesn’t take work home, and he sure as hell doesn’t do clerical charity for strangers. Still, he pushes through the awkwardness, keeping his tone flat and businesslike. "I’ll look through 'em and write down what you actually should have been paying for that basic stuff. That way you have a baseline reference sheet next time you go back to your guy, and you'll know if he's trying to pull a fast one."

There's no pressure behind his words. He leaves it entirely up to you, offering a casual favor simply because he despises seeing someone get taken advantage of.

You blink at him, completely caught off guard. You look up to his face, and gratitude cuts through your usual wall of caution.

"Really?" you ask, a soft smile breaking across your face. "You'd actually do that?"

Sukuna gives a short, dismissive shrug, shifting his weight like he’s trying to play down the gesture. "Takes me ten minutes. It's no big deal."

"Thank you. Seriously, that’s... incredibly nice of you," you say, genuinely touched by the gesture. You fold the invoice carefully, tucking it into your purse. "What day would work best for you? I don't want to interrupt your business."

Sukuna rubs the back of his neck, eyes drifting toward the calendar tacked to the garage wall as he does the math in his head. "Day after tomorrow," he decides, looking back down at you. "I usually wrap up around six. Come by then. The shop's quiet after hours."

"Six on Wednesday. Perfect," you nod, your smile widening slightly. "Thank you again. I really appreciate you fixing the car so fast, and for... well, everything else. I'll see you Wednesday."

"Yeah," he mutters, his voice dropping a fraction softer as he nods back. "See you then. Drive safe."

He stands in the open bay, watching as your hatchback backs out of the driveway and pulls into the morning traffic. Only when your taillights disappear down the street does he finally let out a low breath, turning back to his tools and wondering what possessed him to volunteer his free time to look at old paperwork.

——

Just like he promised, the shop is mostly quiet when you pull up to the garage on Wednesday. With the bay doors rolled halfway down, the usual street noise is muffled, leaving only the clink of a wrench against metal to let you know he’s still inside.

Pushing open the side door, you’re greeted by the soft chime of the bell overhead. Sukuna appears from the back a moment later, dragging a clean rag over his forearms. His crimson eyes catch yours before flicking down to the stack of papers in your hand and the box tucked securely under your arm.

"You actually found 'em," he rumbles, a faint quirk tugging at the corner of his mouth before his expression smooths back into that usual, unreadable mask.

"Every single one I could find." Stepping up to the high counter that separates the office from the shop floor, you set the invoices down and nudge the box toward him, careful not to jostle what’s inside. "And I brought this. As a thank you."

Sukuna glances down at the cardboard box but doesn’t reach for it. He folds his arms across his chest, and his brow instantly furrows into a stubborn, defensive scowl.

"I don't need cake," he snaps, voice blunt and dismissive. Shifting his weight from foot to foot, clearly uncomfortable, he looks like he’d rather be anywhere else than accepting a gift. "I fixed the alternator, you paid the invoice. We're even. You don't owe me anything."

"It's not cake. It’s an apple pie. And it’s homemade," you counter softly. Before he can get another word in, you reach out and pop the lid open, letting the sweet scent of baked apples and cinnamon spill into the grimy, oil-scented room. You shoot him a small, stubborn look that dares him to refuse. "And you're taking it."

For a split second, Sukuna freezes, his eyes darting from the warm pie back up to your face, looking completely out of his depth. The tension drains from his broad shoulders, and he lets out a low, grudging grunt, realizing he’s being difficult for no good reason.

"Fine," he mutters, reaching over. He grabs the box and carries it to the small, cluttered desk in the corner, sweeping aside a stack of part catalogs to clear a spot. Pausing, he peeks into the box again, then nudges a metal stool toward the desk for you with his boot. "Sit down. Let me wash up."

While he heads over to the sink to scrub the grit from his hands, you pull the pie out of the box. Only as you glance around the cluttered office does the realization hit you. You look down at the pie, still warm in its baking dish, then at your empty hands.

When Sukuna walks back in, drying his hands on a paper towel, he finds you perched on the stool, mortification written all over your face.

"Um," you manage, cheeks burning with embarrassment that creeps up. "I just realized... I forgot plates. And forks. I was so focused on getting the pie out of the oven and not showing up late that I didn't even think about it."

Sukuna stops, staring at your flushed face, and a slow, amused smirk tugs at his lips. He opens a filing cabinet, rummages through a plastic bin in the top drawer, and pulls out two plastic forks he clearly hoarded from a takeout order.

"Don't worry about it," he says, dragging a second stool over and settling in beside you. One fork is pressed into your hand, while he plunges his own straight into the pie, breaking off a steaming chunk. "We can eat it out of the dish. Problem solved."

A relieved laugh slips out as you take a bite for yourself. The pie is actually good—better than you hoped and the relief from that is almost dizzying. Watching this massive, intimidating mechanic quietly savor a dessert you’ve made in his own garage fills you with a sudden, unexpected warmth.

A few bites in, Sukuna reaches for the stack of invoices you brought along. He fishes a battered yellow highlighter from the drawer, uncapping it with his teeth, and drags the first sheet closer. Instantly, his whole demeanor sharpens, focus narrowing as he scans the lines of text.

"Two hundred for an air filter?" he mutters, jaw clenching so fast you can almost hear his teeth grind. Flipping the page back a little too sharply, he scans the top of the sheet, eyes narrowing. "When was this?"

"Last… three months, I think?" you offer, leaning in to peer over his elbow, the edge of his sleeve brushing your arm.

"Three months ago," he confirms, voice dropping into a dangerously low, tight register. The highlighter clicks against the paper, and a muscle jumps in his cheek. "I looked at your air filter on Monday when I was checking the belt. There is absolutely no way a filter looks that bad after ninety days of city driving. He didn't even change it. He just wrote it down and charged you for the part."

Your fork stalls halfway to your mouth. Staring at the highlighted line, you feel disbelief crash over you, cold and sharp, prickling along your skin.

"Wait... what? He just... left the old one in there?" You shrink down on your stool, while both embarrassment and genuine offense burn in your chest. "I actually remember sitting in his waiting room for an hour because he said he had to go fetch the specific part from the back warehouse."

Sukuna lets out a sharp, cynical grunt that cuts through the room and makes you wince. "Yeah. He was probably back there taking a nap on your dime." He flips to the next invoice and scoffs loudly. "A hundred and fifty for a 'diagnostic fee'? Your car doesn't even have a complex computer system. You plug the reader in, it takes two minutes. He's padding the numbers because he knows you’re not gonna question it.”

You blink, eyes glued to the number on the page, the math slowly ticking through your head. "Two minutes... for a hundred and fifty...?"

He’s working himself up again, but his eyes keep flicking to you, making sure you’re following every step of his explanation on why it's a scam. He breaks down the mechanics in plain English, laying out the real labor time versus what was billed, and you find yourself keeping pace with him, asking about parts, checkup schedules, and why on earth a single fluid could ever cost that much.

Sukuna’s highlighter hovers over a line, pausing as he takes in the questions you’re firing back at him. Whatever assumption he had about you being gullible is gone now. He sees you're not stupid or careless, just someone who did what anyone would: you trusted a professional because you didn’t have the background to know better. The way you’re sitting here, eagerly learning, determined to protect yourself, earns a flicker of respect in his eyes.

"You're tracking this fine," he says, irritation melting away into something unexpectedly gentle. "You just needed someone to actually layout the baseline for you."

"Yeah," you murmur, smiling a little self-consciously. "Nobody ever really explained it before."

Any trace of your nervousness has vanished. Settled into his office, you absentmindedly swing your legs beneath the stool, taking another bite. Eating straight from the baking tin, you instinctively leave the best pieces of crust for him. It’s a small, polite habit that doesn’t go unnoticed, and Sukuna finds it oddly endearing.

Powdered sugar dusts your thumb as you hold the dish steady while digging your fork in again, and without thinking, you lick it off while scanning an invoice. The gesture is so unselfconscious, so normal, but it catches his attention and draws his gaze to your face.

This close, he can’t help but notice the small things: the way your eyes crinkle at the corners when you’re focused on the paperwork, the little smile that appears each time you taste the pie, how small you look perched beside him. For a moment, his mind just goes completely blank.

The realization hits him square in the chest—you’re beautiful. And you went out of your way to bake a pie for him.

All at once, the office starts to smell different. The sharp tang of oil and metal slips away, replaced by the sweetness of apple and cinnamon, and beneath it all, your perfume.

You point to a line on the invoice, but his attention drifts to your hand resting next to his on the desk. His own fingers are thick and calloused; yours look impossibly soft and small by comparison. The urge to see how your hand would feel in his is so distracting he nearly loses track of what you were saying.

For a moment, the usually unshakeable and confident mechanic is thrown completely off balance, his thoughts tangling so fast he almost forgets what he’s supposed to be doing. Somehow, he keeps his face neutral, handling the rest of the paperwork with a steady voice, but underneath, panic is already clawing at him. He has no clue how he’s supposed to get your number before you walk out that door.

Hesitation or tentativeness have never been his style. If he wants something, he takes it; if he likes someone, he just tells them. It’s always been that simple. But with you leaning over his desk, a crumb of crust clinging to the corner of your mouth, something unfamiliar creeps in and stiffens his limbs. It isn't shyness—he doesn’t have a shy bone in his body, and he certainly doesn't embarrass easily. Still, this strange, careful caution settles in his bones, making every movement feel intentional and new.

For once, he actually cares about the reaction he’s going to get, and that shift in the stakes makes his usual straightforwardness feel too rough, too heavy-handed for this. The thought that messing this up could mean never seeing you again roots him to the spot, every instinct to act suddenly tangled up in hesitation. His hands feel too big, his words too blunt, and the risk of screwing this up presses in until he feels almost clumsy.

Ideas tumble through his head, each one worse than the last, none of them good enough. Sliding his business card across the desk? Too impersonal, like he’s just angling for another job. Handing over his phone and asking you to put your number in? That’s too aggressive, too much like he’s trying to corner you in his own shop. Even making up some excuse about needing to text you a follow-up on the alternator warranty feels cheap, and the idea of playing a game just to get your number makes him feel ridiculous.

The whole thing leaves a sour taste in his mouth, every option making him feel more foolish than the last. Frustration builds until his jaw aches from how tightly he’s been clenching it, tension crawling up into his temples. He can’t remember the last time he was this stuck on something so simple.

At last, he forces his jaw to unclench, loosening his grip on the highlighter before setting it down. Glancing around the cramped office, something cuts straight through his frustration. Here you are, sitting in a garage after hours with a man twice your size you barely know, just because he offered to help. You trusted him enough to walk into his shop after closing, carrying a homemade pie as a thank-you that feels so genuine it almost hurts.

The last thing he wants, and the absolute last thing his pride will allow, is to make you feel like he used a professional angle just to corner you. If he pushes for your number now, after spending an hour showing you how vulnerable you’ve been to a scam, it’ll feel like an ambush. It’ll undo every bit of safety you felt sitting next to him and ruin any chance he might have had. The thought hits him like a splash of cold water, cooling his temper.

Drawing in a sharp breath, Sukuna reaches past you for a pen resting on the clipboard. He pulls the top invoice toward him and scrawls his phone number across the margin of the page.

"Look," he rumbles, his voice steady and stripped of the chaos in his head, sliding the stack of paperwork back across the desk to you. "You're gonna have to find a new shop now or keep dealing with that idiot down the road. If he—or anyone else—hands you a quote and it feels even a little bit off, you text a photo of the invoice to that number." He taps his thick thumb against the handwritten digits on the page. "That's my personal cell. I’ll look at it and tell you if they’re trying to rip you off."

Blinking down at the paper, you’re completely oblivious to the war he just waged with himself. The gesture is so unexpectedly kind that warmth blooms in your chest and a soft smile tugs at your lips as you glance back up at him. "Are you sure? I don't want to bother you any more than I already did."

"It's not a bother," he mutters, keeping his face carefully blank even as his pulse hammers a little harder against his ribs. "Just think of it as a backup plan. I can't stand watching people get scammed."

"That… actually makes me feel a lot better. I’ll make sure to save it," you murmur, glancing up to meet his unreadable gaze. The papers fold neatly beneath your fingers before you tuck them into your bag and rise from the stool. "Thank you. Seriously. For the alternator, the invoices, all the explanation and… for the company."

"Yeah," he mutters, his throat suddenly tight as he gives a single, gruff nod. "Don't sweat it."

Once your empty baking dish is tucked back into the box, you offer him one last warm smile that squeezes his chest uncomfortably tight. He pushes himself up to walk you to the door, the bell above your head chiming bright as you step out into the cool evening air.

"Goodnight, Sukuna."

"Goodnight," he calls back, standing entirely still as he watches you walk toward your car.

The warmth lingering in the office vanishes, leaving only a cold, hollow ache in its place. Through the glass, Sukuna watches your car start up, headlights slicing through the dusk as you ease out of the driveway and disappear around the corner. The instant your taillights blink out, frustration slams into him, heavy and relentless.

"Damn it," he barks into the empty shop, slamming his hand flat against the workbench.

Never in his life has he felt this powerless. Control is what he prides himself on—knowing exactly how a machine or a situation will play out because he’s the one steering it. But right now? He’s handed over his only leverage, left the whole gamble in your hands, and the lack of control is enough to make him want to tear his hair out.

He has no name saved in his phone, no confirmation. Nothing. He’s got no way to reach you, which means he’s stuck waiting, and everything now hangs on whether you decide to text. What if you lose that paper? What if the number gets buried in your purse and you forget about it until your car dies again months from now? What if you just think he was being polite and have no intention of ever using it?

The weight of not knowing gnaws at him, driving him to pace the shop floor, muttering curses under his breath for being so damn careful.

Two hours later, fresh from the shower, he sinks into the couch with a cold beer he hasn’t even opened yet. Usually, Sukuna finds the quiet of his apartment a relief after a day spent surrounded by noise, but tonight the silence feels heavy and irritating.

His phone lies face-up on the coffee table. By ten, he’s already picked it up and set it down more times than he cares to admit, each glance met with nothing but the glow of the lock screen and the relentless crawl of minutes. By eleven, frustration curdles into something uglier—doubt.

Doubt isn’t something he’s ever felt before, but alone in the dark, his mind starts tearing apart every second of that hour you spent in his office. The memory of your shoulder brushing his lingers. He can still hear your laugh when you realized you’d forgotten the plates, see how easily you followed his explanations, and how you smiled. He’d been so sure there was something there. He’d bet on it.

But as midnight approaches without a single vibration, his thoughts twist, turning defensive and sharp. Maybe he’d read the whole thing wrong. His brow knots as a heavy, sour thought appears and settles right in his gut. You didn’t feel a connection. You were just being polite, bringing an apple pie to thank a mechanic for doing his job. Sitting on that stool, chatting with him, you were just well-mannered, not interested. He’d blown it all out of proportion, let himself believe there was a spark when, to you, he was just the guy who fixed your alternator and handed out some advice.

—

Sukuna arrives at the shop in the worst mood humanly possible. Sleep barely touched him last night, and whatever patience he might have had for the rest of the world has been ground down to nothing.

Fingers curling around the cold iron handles, he wrenches the shutters up, and metal slams against the top of the frame so hard the glass windows in the office rattle. Not that he gives a damn. His jacket lands carelessly on the hook as he storms inside, and the paper coffee cup hits the workbench hard, sloshing the dark liquid over the plastic lid. It tastes like battery acid, but he drinks it anyway, needing the bitterness to match what’s inside of his chest.

He sets his personal phone right at the edge of the workbench, telling himself it’s just so it won’t get crushed in his pocket while he works. He knows that’s bullshit. Each time he reaches for a tool or crosses the bay for another socket, his gaze flicks back to the black screen, searching for a flicker of light that stubbornly refuses to appear.

Around nine, the shop's cell rings, echoing through the empty bay. Sukuna’s heart lurches, a ridiculous, frantic leap before his brain can rein it in—maybe you lost his number but found the shop’s online. The wrench clatters to the floor as he strides into the office, snatching the phone off the desk with a grip that’s just a little too tight.

“Ryomen’s Automotive," he grunts, his voice a rough, impatient gravel.

"Hey, man, just checking if you got those brake pads in for the pickup?"

Disappointment slams into him right beneath his ribs. His jaw locks, knuckles whitening around the mobile. "Yeah. They’re here. Come get 'em," he snaps, hanging up before the customer can get another word in.

Storming back into the bay, he grabs up his phone and shoves it deep into his pocket, as if that’ll keep the urge to check it all the time. The impact gun roars as he goes after a stubborn lug nut, the booming racket finally loud enough to drown out the chaos in his head. That’s it. He’s done checking. If you haven’t texted by now, you’re not going to. You probably tossed the paper, and he needs to get over it.

By one, Sukuna is elbow-deep in the greasy undercarriage of an old sedan, forearms streaked with black smears, his expression locked in a scowl so forbidding that even the delivery drivers have been giving him a wide berth all day.

He’s just reaching for a torque wrench when his phone vibrates on the workbench.

Bzzzt.

The sudden vibration catches him off guard, freezing him mid-reach. For a moment, he doesn’t move at all, letting the faint clicks of the cooling engine overhead fill the silence. It’s probably just spam, he tells himself. Or some useless data plan alert. Or a wrong number.

Peeling off his gloves, he slides a hand into his pocket, pulls out the phone, and swipes the screen awake. There’s a text from an unknown number—except the first line of the preview makes his chest seize up.

[You]: Hey! Sorry for the late text, I didn't want to bother you last night since it was way too late. Just wanted to send this so you have my contact too. Thanks again for looking through those invoices with me, the pie was a small price to pay for saving my bank account!

OH THANK FUCK.

Relief hits him in a bone-deep wave, draining the tension from his shoulders. He draws in a slow breath as he stares at the words glowing on the screen. It takes a moment for his brain to catch up and register the gap between his own spiraling and your ridiculously polite message. You were just being considerate, that’s all.

Clearing his throat, he uses a clean patch of his forearm to wipe the grease off his thumb before he even thinks about typing. Something clever would be good, something that proves he’s not rattled by any of this, but his fingers feel thick and awkward on the keys. Finally, he settles for something short that won’t give him away.

[Sukuna]: No worries. Pie was great, by the way. Just let me know if you get any more of those invoices.

He taps send, eyes glued to the delivery confirmation, then instantly adds the number to his contacts. Your name appears at the top of the chat, and for the first time all day, a smirk tugs at his mouth, breaking through the hard set of his jaw.

The phone disappears back into his pocket, and he turns to the sedan on the lift, with a jolt of energy running through him. As he grabs his wrench, the reality of the situation hits him from a completely different angle: you texted just to be polite and acknowledge the professional favor, and he just capped his own response by telling you to let him know if you get more invoices, boxing himself right back into being the helpful mechanic. Now what? How is he supposed to ask you out without trampling all over the boundaries you just so carefully respected?

By Friday night, that pitiful text thread on Sukuna’s phone has become a full-blown obsession. Sitting on a kitchen stool, he ignores the bowl of dinner going cold on the counter, his attention fixed on the glow of his screen. The chat is as embarrassingly short as it was the previous day: your polite thank-you, then his own awkward reply about the pie.

With a low, frustrated rumble in the empty apartment, he taps the empty text box. He’s never had to plan a conversation in his life, but suddenly, the weight of actually caring what you think drags every word through mud.

Hey, you free this weekend?

He glares at the five words. The line looks all wrong, like something a teenager would send on a dating app, hovering over his phone, waiting around for a girl he barely knows to throw him a bone. Sukuna is a grown man; he doesn't do vague, open-ended checking-in. And if you say no, or tell him you have plans, that’s it. Conversation over. No way to push back without looking like a desperate idiot.

Worse, you texted him because he'd offered to help with invoices, not because you'd expected him to use your number for anything else.

"Don't be a fucking asshole, Sukuna," he mutters.

With a heavy, irritated sigh, he holds down the backspace key until the box is wiped clean.

Saturday evening drags in after a brutal ten-hour shift, wrestling with stubborn leaf springs and rusted exhaust bolts. As he’s slumped on his couch with a cold beer in his hand, his muscles ache, but his mind is still stuck on the same loop. He pulls out his phone again and opens the chat. All he needs is an excuse—something car-related, since that’s the only ground you both actually somewhat share.

Let me know if that alternator’s making any noise.

His thumb freezes before he can hit send, and he scowls at the message, a sharp spike of professional irritation cutting through the haze. If the alternator was making noise, that would mean he’d screwed up the belt tension. He knows it’s perfect. He checked it twice before you left the bay. Asking about it now is basically calling his own work sloppy, and his pride won’t let him insult himself just to get a text back. With a shake of his head, he deletes the line and takes a long pull from his beer, trying to rework the phrasing, still clinging to the car angle but making it less about his own hands.

Make sure you check your oil this week.

He drags his hand over his face, catching himself immediately. If he sends that, he’s just barking orders at a customer who already admitted she doesn’t know a thing about cars. It sounds bossy, too gruff, and leaves you nothing to say except a flat agreement. 

"What the fuck am I doing?" 

He clears the text box again and tosses the phone face down onto the cushion beside him, ready to bang his head on the wall.

Monday night is the worst. The silence of the last few days feels like a personal insult. Standing by his kitchen window, looking out at the dark street, he’s completely fed up with his own uncharacteristic hesitation. He’s Sukuna. He doesn’t sit around overthinking a three-line message like some awkward kid. Enough. He’ll just give it to you straight, no games or professional excuses. He snatches the phone off the counter and types, fingers jabbing at the screen.

I'm heading to the diner by my shop for lunch tomorrow. Come with me.

He stares at the message, breathing heavier as his thumb hovers over the blue arrow. For a split second, he almost hits it. But then your reaction flashes through his mind—opening your phone and seeing a blunt lunch demand from the mechanic who fixed your car last week, suddenly wondering whether the man who seemed so put-together had been working an angle the whole time.

"No. That's fucking creepy."

He’s completely trapped by his own respect for you, stuck suffering the consequences of having zero organic reason to reach out. He can rebuild a transmission blindfolded, but figuring out how to move a text thread from professional advice to I want to see your face again without being an asshole? That breaks his brain entirely.

A low, bitter curse slips out as he clears the message. He throws the phone onto the kitchen table, furious that one person has managed to jam his gears so completely without even lifting a finger.

“Pathetic,” he mutters, rubbing the bridge of his nose.

By Tuesday afternoon, the frustration has cooled into a quiet, stubborn determination. Leaning against the workbench during a lull in the shop, he stares at your name in his contacts. One more try to find a middle ground that feels natural but actually gives him an opening.

Found another complaint about that shop online. Thought you’d wanna see it.

Sukuna deletes it before he even finishes the sentence, dragging his hand down his face. Thought you’d wanna see it. He sounds like he’s trying way too hard to find an excuse to talk to you. It’s not a lie, but he’d rather die than let you catch on.

"For fuck's sake."

By Wednesday afternoon, Sukuna’s completely done with himself, and he’s become absolutely insufferable to be around. Leaning against the tool board, he glares at the calendar pinned crookedly to the office wall, his thumb drumming a relentless rhythm against his thigh.

Every scenario he plays out in his head ends with him looking like an idiot. If he’s going to make a move, it has to be on his own terms, in his own space, where he actually knows what the hell he’s doing. Turning back to his tools, he forces himself not to spiral into another round of pointless drafts. Finally, his mind clears—he doesn’t need a smooth pickup line. He just needs a real, professional reason to get you back in the garage. Maintenance. That’s it.

I’m closing up the shop tomorrow around 6. If you wanna swing by, I can show you how to check your fluids and oil so you aren’t just guessing. No worries if you’re busy.

He stares at the message for a moment. There. Completely professional. Nobody in their right mind could mistake that for flirting. Another second passes. Perfectly reasonable text to send a customer.

With that, his thumb slams the send button, heart thudding stupidly against his ribs. The phone disappears deep into his pocket as he turns back to his tools, pulse racing, completely irritated by his own anticipation and already hooked on the slow, torturous wait for your reply.

Meanwhile, you’re at home, finally sinking into the couch after a long day, when your phone buzzes against the coffee table. His name flashes across the screen, and your heart gives a small, unexpected flutter. You read his invitation twice, and a soft smile tugs at your lips. Fingers hovering over the keyboard, you tap out your reply, keeping it light and trying to match his tone.

[You]: I'd love to! Need me to bring anything? (I promise I'll actually remember the plates this time if there's food involved!)

Down in the garage, Sukuna’s been organizing the same shelf of oil filters for the last four minutes, trying to distract himself, when his pocket finally vibrates. He freezes mid-reach. He deliberately finishes placing the last filter on the rack, forcing himself to move at a normal pace, refusing to look like a lunatic even to his own reflection. Only then does he step back, dig out his phone, and unlock the screen.

Reading your text, the tight, stubborn knot in his chest unravels all at once. Relief hits so fast it’s almost dizzying, and a rush of heat crawls up his neck. You didn't say no. You didn't find an excuse, you didn't think it was weird, and you explicitly said you'd love to come back. And that little joke about the plates instantly crumbles the remaining walls of his stubborn frustration.

A massive, genuinely victorious smirk spreads across his face, eyes crinkling at the corners as a low, rough chuckle rumbles out of his chest. Energy surges through him, ridiculous and electric, like he’s just rebuilt a blown engine in record time.

Then his gaze snags on that last sentence, and his thumb freezes over the keyboard.

Food. You’re asking about bringing food.

For you, it’s testing the waters for a little more time together. But to him, it's enough to send his thoughts careening straight off the rails of the maintenance lesson and into a chaotic spiral of logistics. Does he buy something? Does he tell you to bring something? If he says no, does that mean you’ll just learn how to check a dipstick and drive away immediately after? He doesn't want you to leave. He wants you back on that metal stool, right where he can see you.

Pacing a short line next to the workbench, he types out a response, frowning as he slams straight into a wall of overthinking that’s completely foreign to him: I’ll grab some burgers. No, that’s too much like a date. Don't worry about food. No, that sounds like he doesn't want to eat with you at all. Or worse, you’ll eat before you come, and he’ll miss his chance entirely.

Frustrated with his own hesitation, he deletes the drafts, grunts, and decides to handle it the only way he knows how: blunt and completely practical.

[Sukuna]: Just bring the car. I’ll order a pizza. Pepperoni alright?

He hits send, tossing the phone back onto the bench with a sharp exhale. The message is demanding, a little aggressive, and leaves zero room for negotiation. Still, it guarantees you're staying for dinner.

A wide grin splits his face as he spins around and surveys his empty shop, eyes scanning the bays with sudden, critical focus. Twenty-four hours. That’s all he’s got to make sure his office looks halfway respectable before you walk through the door.

—

Rolling into the gravel driveway with five minutes to spare, you idle near the entrance just as the side door swings open and Sukuna steps out into the cool evening air. He’s in a plain black tee stretched across his broad shoulders and dark grey sweatpants. The change catches your eye immediately because he looks ridiculously good out of his coveralls. You can’t help but wonder if the wardrobe swap was just a coincidence, or if he actually cared about making a good impression tonight.

He walks over to the front of your car, waving his hand to guide you forward. "Bring it straight into the second bay," he calls out.

Following his gesture, you shift into drive and ease the car forward into the bay. The engine clicks softly when you shut it off, and as you step out, Sukuna’s already at the front bumper, nodding at you.

“You’ve made it," he rumbles, stepping up to pop the latch and lift your hood into place with a practiced, heavy thud.

"Told you I would," you say, glancing over the open engine bay with curiosity. "So, where are we starting? Am I going to get entirely covered in grime?"

Sukuna lets out a low, amused huff, a ghost of a smile playing on his lips, and pivots toward the rolling tool cabinet. "Not if I can help it."

He reaches into a cardboard box on top of the cart and pulls out a pair of thin, black single-use gloves. His size is impossible to ignore when he steps in close, suddenly crowding the space, and hands them over.

"Put these on first," he instructs, his gaze locking onto yours for a heartbeat. "The alternator's fresh, but everything else under that hood isn’t. No reason for you to ruin your hands."

You take the gloves, smoothing the black rubber over your wrists before looking up at him with a playful smile, tilting your head. "Very thoughtful. I didn't think a tough mechanic like you cared about a little dirt."

"I don't care about it on me," Sukuna mutters. His eyes linger on your hands for a second before he jerks his gaze back down at the engine bay, clears his throat, and points into the tangled mess of metal and hoses. "Alright, come here. We’re skipping the basic fluid check—you’re smart enough to know how to read a dipstick. I want to show you more interesting stuff."

Stepping in close, you slide the gloves over your hands, your shoulder brushing his for just a second. It's barely a touch, but enough to make both of you hyper-aware of the space you share.

"See this belt right here?" Sukuna asks, leaning over the grille. His deep voice drops into a steady, confident cadence as he gets into his element. "This is your serpentine belt. In case someone tells you it’s about to snap, I'll show you how to check the tension yourself, and how to spot actual dry rot versus regular wear."

He tugs on his own gloves, then reaches down. He navigates the cramped space around the engine block with ease, and you find yourself briefly distracted by the contrast between the size of his hands, the precision of the movements, and how gentle they look as he grips the heavy rubber belt. Then, with a twist, he exposes the underside to the light.

"Get your hand in right here," he says, glancing sideways at you, his eyes dark and intense in the low light. "Feel the edge of the rubber. Tell me what you notice."

For the next hour, Sukuna guides you through a standard oil change, patiently talking you through each step. He doesn't do the work for you; he has you reach beneath the chassis with a socket wrench to feel the exact point of resistance on the oil pan drain plug, his hand covering yours to adjust the angle, explaining the difference between a secure seal and stripped threads.

When he shows you a spark plug, he holds the tiny ceramic piece beneath the shop light, pointing out the faint color differences that separate a healthy engine from one that's burning fuel too rich.

All the while, Sukuna stays at your shoulder, keeping you grounded. Each time your gloved fingers falter over a stubborn clamp or an unfamiliar valve, his hand is there, nudging your wrist or guiding it with a confidence that makes it impossible to feel foolish. He answers every question thoroughly without a hint of impatience, pleased with your curiosity. By the time you peel the gloves from your hands, the machinery that once felt so intimidating is just a puzzle you’ve learned how to solve, and the satisfaction settles deep in your chest.

A sudden chime of the office bell cuts through the quiet, shattering the spell. Sukuna pulls his hand back from the engine block, his head snapping toward the front door.

"Pizza's here,” he rasps.

He strips off the gloves, tossing them in the trash before heading to the glass door to pay the delivery guy. You follow suit, peeling yours off and grabbing the plates you stashed in your trunk earlier. Stepping into the dim office, you find Sukuna already setting the steaming pizza box dead center on his desk.

"Look at that," you tease softly, sliding the plates onto the desk. "Real plates this time."

Sukuna glances down at them, and a faint, genuinely amused smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth.

"Fancy," he mutters, eyes flicking up to catch yours for a split second before his hand moves to the cardboard lid. “Bringing the good stuff to a garage."

The moment he flips the lid open, the rich, savory scent of hot cheese and pepperoni floods the room, instantly smothering the stubborn trace of motor oil that still clings to the air. He slides a massive, steaming slice onto your plate before grabbing one for himself. "Eat up before it gets cold."

For the first twenty minutes, conversation just flows easily, and to his immense relief, not a single word about car parts comes up. You ask about the shop, how long he’s been running it, and whether he always wanted to be a mechanic. He tells you how he likes working with his hands, how machines make sense in a way people never do, because if something’s broken, there’s always a reason, and always a fix.

After a while, Sukuna starts tossing questions your way. One answer leads to another, and before long you're deep in a story about that trainwreck project at work and the latest chaos your friends managed to stir up over the weekend. He doesn’t interrupt, his crimson eyes fixed on your face, watching your eyes crinkle with laughter, how your hands sketch wild shapes in the air, and the tiny smile that sneaks out when you mention your friends.

Some part of him is convinced this should be awkward. Or, at the very least, harder than this. But it feels completely natural, and before he knows it, he’s talking more than he ever does. And that’s exactly when the invisible trap closes right back around his throat.

Ask her, his mind orders, the thought landing in his chest with a sudden, heavy thud. Eight words. Do you want to go out with me? Just say the damn words.

You finish your slice and lean back a little on your stool, thumb brushing a stray crumb from your lower lip without thinking.

Do it now. She's sitting right here. She likes talking to you. Just open your stupid mouth and ask for a real date.

Sukuna shifts his weight on the metal stool as his large hand tightens around his napkin.

Don't be a coward. It's a question, not a marriage proposal.

He opens his mouth, but his throat locks up tight. He isn't actually afraid of hearing the word no—he has plenty of pride, but a rejection wouldn't break him. What paralyzes him is the fiercely protective boundary he’s drawn around you in his own head.

And then what? She realizes the mechanic who helped her has been working an angle the whole time?

He’s desperately trying not to abuse the trust he’s built with you. The sheer weight of wanting to keep this clean and respectable for your sake completely jams his gears.

"Hey," he blurts out anyway, his voice a little rough, cutting right through the middle of whatever you were saying.

You pause, blinking at him with curious eyes. "Hm?"

Sukuna freezes as his brain goes completely blank again under your direct gaze. His eyes drop to your mouth, staring at the soft curve of your lips in the dim light of the desk lamp, his mind scrambling for any kind of escape hatch.

For fuck's sake, Sukuna. You've started already. Just finish it.

Instead, his throat stays bone dry, jaw clenching so hard a muscle jumps in his cheek. The words just refuse to come, and the surge of internal fury that follows nearly knocks him sideways.

“Never mind.”

You study him for a long moment, and a small, knowing look flickers in your eyes as you set your crust down on the plate.

"Well," you say softly, with a playful little tilt to your head. "I guess I officially know enough about drive belts now. At this rate, I won't have an excuse to bother you anymore."

The words hit like a bucket of ice water. The thought of you just fading back into the real world, never showing up at his garage again, triggers a raw, defensive panic that steamrolls right over his hesitation.

"You don't need car trouble to stop by," he quickly says.

It comes out too blunt, his voice rough and a little too sharp in the quiet room. He winces inside, bracing for you to pull away, but you just look at him, a soft, slow smile spreading across your face.

"You know," you murmur, your voice dropping into a gentle, teasing tone as you lean just a hair closer over the edge of the desk. "Most people just ask for a date."

Sukuna goes utterly still. The words hang in the air, and the silence that follows is so thick you can hear the faint, steady hum of the fluorescent bulb overhead. He doesn’t answer right away—he can’t. The gears in his brain lock up as he stares at you, completely stunned that you’ve just outmaneuvered him without even trying.

But then the sheer absurdity of it all hits him, and the tension in his chest snaps like a rubber band.

A low, rough chuckle shakes his chest, half frustration, half pure captivation. He drops the crumpled napkin onto the desk, and suddenly his eyes are burning with that hyper-confident heat he’s been holding back all week. The cautious, hesitant mechanic is gone in a blink.

"Yeah?" he rumbles, his voice dropping an octave.

Before you can blink, he closes the distance between the stools. That massive hand of his finds the back of your neck, thick fingers curling gently, thumb pressing into the warm skin along your jaw. His sheer size blocks out the rest of the office, casting you in his shadow as he leans down, tilting your face up to meet his gaze.

His eyes drop to your mouth, and the intensity of his stare makes your breath catch.

"Been trying real hard to be polite all week," he mutters with a wicked smirk right against your lips, tracing a slow line along your jaw with his thumb. "But you're entirely right. I'm taking you out tomorrow night."

He pauses, giving you one last chance to pull away if you want to. When you don't move, matching his smirk with one of your own, he closes the last bit of space without a single shred of hesitation.

The moment his lips meet yours, a ragged breath escapes him, a sound so raw it sends a shiver tearing down your spine. He’s been starving for this all week, and the force of it knocks the air from both your lungs.

Sweet vanilla and tobacco from his perfume flood your senses, drowning out everything else. Sukuna tastes exactly like he smells: warm, intense, and utterly intoxicating. Any coherent thought vanishes beneath the rush of it. Your hands find the soft cotton of his shirt, fingers twisting the fabric at his chest and bunching it tight in your fists as you pull him closer. Every bit of hunger he pours into the kiss, you give right back.

Feeling you lean in and your hands on him, a low, gravelly groan rumbles from deep in his chest. His grip at the nape of your neck tightens, thick fingers slipping higher into your hair until they're tangled in the strands at the base of your skull, leaving no room for doubt about how badly he's wanted this. His other hand leaves the desk, sliding up to cup your face, calloused thumb sweeping hard over your cheekbone as he tilts your head back, searching for a better angle.

Slow, insistent pressure parts your lips, and his mouth moves over yours in a rhythm that makes your head spin. The heat pouring off him is overwhelming, swallowing up the entire office until there's nothing left but his lips and the rough drag of his hands against your skin.

Sukuna pulls back just a fraction, barely a breath of space between you, so you can both drag in ragged breaths. Eyes closed, his forehead drops against yours while his chest heaves. But staying away isn’t an option. He leans right back in, catching your lower lip between his, sucking on it with a slow pull that rips a quiet gasp from your throat.

That deep drag is followed by a series of quick, hot pecks—one to the corner of your mouth, another firm press at the center of your lips, and finally a lingering kiss that seals your mouths together all over again.

Every tiny, breathless break just makes him hungrier. He presses in deeper, tongue tracing the shape of your lips, completely taking over the pace. Your heart hammers stupidly against your ribs, your body turning to liquid on the metal stool, kept upright only by the iron grip of his hands. He’s kissing you like he wants to leave a permanent mark, making up for an entire week spent talking himself out of this.

Even when he finally tears his mouth away, he refuses to let you go. His breath comes in short, heavy rasps that tangle with your own, crimson eyes fluttering open to find you—dark, hooded, and completely blown wide as he stares at your swollen lips. His thumb sweeps over your lower lip, wiping the dampness away with a slow, heavy pressure that makes your chest ache.

For a moment, neither of you says a word. The office is silent except for the sound of both of you trying to catch your breath. His chest rises and falls close to yours, and you can feel the lingering warmth of him, the tension that hasn’t left either of your bodies.

A smirk slowly tugs at the corner of his mouth. He savors the silence every bit as much as the kiss itself.

“Text me your address,” he rumbles, his voice incredibly low and rough. His hand is still tangled in your hair, fingers threaded deep enough that when you instinctively try to lean back and get a better look at him, his grip tightens just enough to stop you. It isn’t rough, but it’s firm, keeping you exactly where he wants you as his fingers shift slightly against your scalp. “And be ready at seven.”

Blinking up at him through the haze of the kiss, you tilt your head as much as his grip allows, brows lifting as you study him. The corner of your mouth twitches, caught somewhere between amusement and disbelief.

"Pretty sure that wasn't a question, Sukuna."

His smirk deepens as he looks down at you, completely unfazed by your tone. That arrogant confidence in his eyes is impossible to miss now, and somehow it only makes your stomach flip harder.

"Neither was taking you out tomorrow night," he murmurs.

You don’t bother answering. Instead, your fingers curl tighter into his shirt as you drag him down, crushing your lips into his. He chuckles deeply into the kiss as his hands slide from your face to your waist. Before you can think about what he's doing, he's pulling you off the stool and into his lap. Deepening the kiss, you bury your fingers in his hair, drawing a low groan from him that sends a shiver racing down your spine and straight between your legs.

notes:

> sukuna: somebody has been scamming this woman > sukuna: she baked me a pie > sukuna 5 minutes later: i need her phone number or i'm going to lose my fucking mind

you stomp towards your annoyingly cute boyfriend and push him outside your bedroom, stumbling along with him. “get out of those clothes and take a shower, now!”

—

half an hour later, jungkook steps out of the bathroom with only a towel wrapped around his waist. you don’t spare him a glance, hyperfocused on the highlighted terms on your textbook and mentally cursing whoever decided on the font size. you simply point at the bed, where you laid out some clothes for him.

“you have no underwear here,” you tell him.

“oh, that’s right…” he chuckles. “i don’t leave any behind. i don’t want my girlfriend washing my dirty underwear.”

he steps into his sweatpants, pulling it up until his crotch is covered before removing the towel. he debates on whether to wear the shirt or not, then decides that it’s probably best for him to stay warm after getting himself rained on.

“so your dick’s just going to be swinging around tonight then?”

“i guess so!” he trudges to your chair with a grin and rolls you away from the desk. you groan as he traps you in his embrace, crushing the book and your folded knees between your torsos. “worst six days of my life. i missed you so much.”

“i missed you too,” you sigh, relaxing into his arms. you sneak a kiss on his warm rosy cheek. “let’s go eat so you can drink medicine. don’t want you getting sick.”

“school is giving you a tough time, huh?”

you should’ve known jungkook wouldn’t let you get away that easily. not until you’re breathless from his tickling attack, anyway. the thick book falls on the floor with a thud, but your own laughter is loud on your ears and it is the last thing on your mind. your attempts of defending your neck and your sides from jungkook’s fingers are fruitless. you’re not even sure if you’re actually that ticklish or jungkook simply makes you happy.

you look at jungkook with teary eyes, sniffling and catching your breath, but you’re smiling for the first time today.

“there it is,” he mumbles, hooded eyes admiring your face.

“i’m going to kick your ass!”

he just laughs and shakes his head at your attitude, finding it adorable, before kissing you. if the tickling didn’t work, this method has for sure succeeded in making you melt. his arms keep you steady on your chair and your hands grip at his shirt, pulling him closer as if that was still possible when his tongue is already in your mouth.

—

the chicken and kimchi fried rice have gone cold by the time the two of you got around to opening it, but nobody complained. you sat on the living room floor, turned on the television, and feasted on the midnight meal. jungkook thinks it’s worth it to have waited eating his dinner because he’s having it with you.

“i think it’s the first time i witnessed a professor not care about a student sleeping in class,” you recount the events of the previous days. “i get that it’s insulting, but also, i don’t think anyone actually decides that they’re going to sleep in class? for one, those chairs are uncomfortable!”

“i don’t see a point in embarrassing them, either,”jungkook agrees, plastic glove producing a crinkling sound as he chooses another piece of chicken from the box. he’s been purposely leaving out the drumsticks for you. “we’re all struggling, aren’t we…? do you want more rice? you can have some of mine.”

you only shake your head in response. you have more than enough. “how about you? how have you been sleeping?”

“me? well… it’s been a bit hard for me. i keep thinking about the tour even when my eyes are closed. there’s so much to prepare for,” jungkook sighs, shoulders heavy with worry and responsibility.

the scale of their work is only getting larger and the stakes are getting higher. it’s incredible to see how far they’ve become, but sometimes he looks around and everything and everyone is unfamiliar and it terrifies him. he wishes he could put it into words properly, speak his mind eloquently. he should be happy, and he is, but there is still this unease that feels almost permanent. there was once a time when making his debut as a member of bts and appearing on national television for the first time was the greatest achievement of his life. as jungkook’s dreams are getting higher and higher, is he developing a fear of heights?

“don’t get hurt, got it?” you send him a pointed look. “i won’t be able to go there. i’ll die worrying about you.”

“i mean,” he smiles toothily. “if you’re that worried, you’re free to come see me.”

you instantly snort upon hearing his invitation. in this universe?

“what will they do? fire me?” he acts cool, but he’s trying not to be mad and think about the ridiculous demands of being an idol.

“oh, as if!” you concede with a laugh. “then all seven of you would have to leave.”

“huh, that’s right. do they want us to renew the contract or not?” he puffs his chest and crinkles form at the corners of your eyes.

“the commercials are over!”

you’re so excited when it comes to your reality tv shows, he can’t help but to watch you instead. you and your cheeks full of rice and your mouth stained with sweet and spicy sauce. he just casually carries on eating his meal, because it might be too soon for him to say what’s on his mind. he doesn’t want to scare you off with the intensity of his emotions or make you carry some of the weight that comes with the life he chose. but for fuck’s sake, he truly believes that he deserves this. he deserves to be happy.

he wants to relate to all the love songs and the romantic comedies, and if god forbid you end up breaking his heart, then he will drown himself in sad songs and do whatever stupid things real people do like drunk text and regret deleting your photos during the anger stage of grief. maybe he will finally get it together and release a mixtape, make everything painfully obvious and never explain himself instead of lying through his teeth. goodness, he is in love with you. he’s been in love with you since that one night in november, when you sat down on the other end of the bench outside mj’s music box and offered him your homemade granola bar. there is no one else in the world who can have his heart beating out of his chest with the gaze of their eyes alone.

—

jungkook must’ve been dreaming of you.

“jungkook, who’s that?”

he squeezes his eyes shut not long after opening them, struggling to adjust to the light. the exertion of his sore muscles somehow makes his head a thousand pounds heavier. the room feels cold, but for some reason he feels beads of sweat forming on his forehead. what the fuck? is he actually fucking sick?

“oh? sorry, okay. i won’t ask.”

“what is going on?”

“lie back down, jungkook,” he hears the familiar voice of his manager. the man from earlier, the doctor he assumes, mumbles in agreement. “take it easy. you have a fever.”

jungkook collapses on the bed with a frustrated groan, hands coming up to his hair as the intensity of his headache hits him. he can feel the warmth radiating from his own skin. this can’t possibly be happening. he could’ve sworn that he felt completely fine yesterday. he thought he actually managed to escape from the rain unscathed.

perhaps he is too cocky for his own good.

“jungkook-ah?” seokjin bursts through the door. “you’re awake already?”

“hyung!” he cries out in distress. “how could this happen to me?!”

“what do you mean ‘how’? you carry everything in that gigantic bag of yours except an umbrella!”

yes, okay, i’m sorry, i know, i will next time— jungkook mindlessly replies on a loop as his jin-hyung assists him in getting properly dressed and freshened up. washing his face makes him feel a little bit better, but that meant being more aware of the needle piercing his skin as his doctor administers fluids. he doesn’t mind the small pinch of pain, but it certainly doesn’t feel great every time he finds himself in this position.

“yah, me and yoongi started cooking at 5am, so you have to finish everything and gain your strength back, got it?” seokjin demanded as soon as he set the tray on jungkook’s bed. “we need to go. we’re almost late for practice.”

“thank you for the meal!” he grins, rubbing his palms together excitedly.

“jungkook, i have to leave now,” his manager says from the door after attending to a phone call. “me and the doctor will come back in the afternoon to check up on you again. don’t forget to take your medicine after you eat!”

“so i’ll be here alone?”

“no, of course not,” jin laughs at his confusion. “____ will be here soon.”

“huh? you called?”

“what were we supposed to do? you were calling for ____ in your sleep like you were never going to see each other again or something! what were you dreaming about, anyway?”

“he’s got it pretty bad, doesn’t he?” his manager laughs out loud at jin’s teasing. “ah, youth… i’ve been there.”

“hyung, why speak like that? our ages are not that far apart,” seokjin interjects.

and bless his mouth that doesn’t stop running once it starts, the spotlight is diverted from jungkook’s dramatic yearning. he doesn’t even remember what he was dreaming about, but he wouldn’t put the accusation past him. he stuffs his mouth full with warm soup and rice, corners of his lips curling upwards at the ridiculous banter taking place infront of him, but mostly because the nausea has been replaced by butterflies. the moments he spend waiting to see you, he’s excited to stop missing you.

—

jungkook has fallen asleep again by the time you arrived, and you didn’t want to take the risk of waking him up yet. with your free time, you took the liberty of washing the dishes and tidying up his room. is this how he feels when he’s at your house? you wonder as every item of his that you touch makes you feel as though your heart is learning how to love him. it’s not your first time here, but you haven’t come over enough to know where everything goes. the best you could do was throw out small pieces of trash and organize the things on the table and the floor.

afterwards, you took the biggest bowl you could find in the kitchen, filled it with cold water, and grabbed a face towel from jungkook’s drawer. you gently begin wiping your boyfriend’s arms with the wet towel, smiling nervously as he wakes up almost immediately. you just couldn’t sit still and not do anything to bring down his temperature.

he stares at you wide-eyed, processing, before your name comes out from a hoarse voice. he throws his arms around you for a hug, and you squeak in alarm. “careful, your hand-” but he only squeezes you tighter, burying his face in your hair.

“i missed you.”

“so i’ve heard,” you tease, rubbing his back comfortingly. “let me finish wiping you down, then we can cuddle all you want. come on, lie down.”

jungkook’s gaze never leaves you as you take care of him. he blinks away the tears, blames it all on his headache, which earns him a kiss on the forehead before you leave the towel on top of it. this is the first time a lover is looking after him while he’s sick. suddenly, a part of him is happy that he caught a fever, some fraction guilty for feeling this way. a quick break from work. a valid excuse to spend time with you. a moment to fuel his dream and fantasy.

“drink some water, baby,” you hold up the glass, scooping your hand underneath his chin.

he slowly blinks up at you. “i love you,” the words slip away from him and he doesn’t try to stop them.

and as always, you sweetly smile at him and kiss his cheek. you know, and for today, that’s more than enough for jungkook.

—

“don’t get sick ever again,” you pout, snuggling against his side as you use his arm as a pillow. the hand with the needle sits on top of his abdomen, forcing him to lay on his back much to his discomfort. “you have no idea how worried i was, seeing you say my name like that.”

“you saw that?”

“he facetimed me for a minute.”

“aish, jin-hyung!”

“you’re looking much better. you were so pale earlier,” you playfully put your thumb and index finger on the space between his eyebrows, pulling the skin together to mimic his distraught expression from a few hours ago. “and you looked sad, but also mad.”

“probably the ugliest you’ve ever seen me, huh?” he clicks his tongue and turns his face away from you. “ah, i’m so embarrassed!”

“oh, don’t be stupid!” you squish his cheeks together and bring him back close, the tip of your noses bumping. “you’re pretty on your good days and bad days.”

pretty… he receives all types of compliments ranging from extremely flattering—unbelievable as in he doesn’t think he’s all that—to weirdly specific, downright ridiculous, in a who-even-comes-up-with-that way. he has read fan poems dedicated to his eyes, his smile, even article excerpts that spend paragraphs describing every inch of him and the trail of sparkles he leaves behind with every step. he likes the satisfaction of being praised by stylists on a regular basis, takes a good look in the mirror several times when he’s particularly satisfied with his makeup, his hair, his custom tailored clothing for the day. but there’s something about the way you’re looking at him, with the corners of your lips lifted ever so slightly, like when someone is watching a clear blue sky from the grass and for a moment it feels like everything one could ever need. and he believes you. with his bare face and chapped lips, and in his plain black cotton t-shirt—and he can’t believe he’s saying this—he does feel pretty.

“are you blushing?” you sit up for a better view of his face, and his poor effort at hiding his grin answers your question. “did you just need me to compliment you to get the color back on your face? do you like me that much?”

“i’m not blushing!” he flares his nostrils and bites the inside of his cheeks.

“you totally are!” you reach for his phone under the pillow and slide the screen to the camera. “you don’t believe me? i’ll show you!”

he buries his face on the pillow, moaning out a protest, but his belly aches as he gasps for air and laughs at the chaotic shaking of the bed and the silly noises you make to coax him back to the light.

“ou-ouch, i think i pulled a muscle…”

and then the room turns quiet and still. did you actually? he slowly lifts his head.

“got you!“ and he can’t get mad, feel anything but love really, when you start using your baby voice. “see, babe? i told you. pretty.”

he spares the photo a glance because, well, you want him to, and he does look better than he imagined. but he’s more interested in kissing your skin, your thigh being the closest.

“your manager texted. he’s asking if you want him to buy anything.”

“oh, just reply for me. tteokbokki!”

you blink down at him, trying to make sense of his penchant for biting you at random times. he’s one of a kind, isn’t he? a series of contradictions. there was a time when he felt awkward making eye contact with you, and now you’re sitting on his bed and freely using his phone without having to ask. well, not that you don’t. you believe in privacy in relationships. “i’ll add apples so you’ll leave my knees alone.”

“that isn’t guaranteed,” he giggles. “but i don’t mind eating apples too.”

“he said somin is coming here to drop off some of your work. who’s that?”

“what?”

“apparently,” you stare down at the new words that popped on the screen, a pit growing in your stomach. “somin can’t know i’m here.”

“fuck, we’re in trouble…” he slowly sits up. you can see the cogs in his brain turning and processing how to navigate the situation. “i’m sorry, baby. i’m- i’m still keeping our relationship mostly under wraps.”

that stung. you knew what you were getting yourself into… somewhat. yet your heart has begun racing with anxiety, and your face is turning warm as you feel your eyes watering.

“there’s too many things happening in the company right now… people are on edge.”

“hey, it’s fine,” you clear your throat, forcing a smile. “there’s no pressure. i understand it’s not easy for you.”

he sighs in relief. “thank you,” he caresses your cheek affectionately and you try your damn hardest not to breakdown at the softness of his touch. he is the cause and he is the cure.

“should i leave?”

“no, of course not. she’ll just drop something off so it’ll be quick.”

“but she can’t see me-”

the doorknob rattles. the room runs out of air.

“jungkook?” somin, you assume, calls out from the other side of the bedroom door. “are you there? why is the door locked?”

“what are we going to do?” you whisper-shout, panicking.

“jungkook?” the aggressive knocking makes the two of you flinch. “are you alright in there?”

“shit- shit, uhm-” jungkook whips his head around, legs bouncing as he searches the room for a solution. “just- damn it, why is this happening? just hide in the closet, i think?”

—

and that is how you ended up in your boyfriend’s walk-in closet, sweaty and breathing heavily with your back against the door. needless to say, this is not an ideal place for you to be. you hug your knees to your chest, telling yourself in your head that this isn’t serious, it’s not a big deal, it’s nothing to be scared of, just trust jungkook. but then you press your ear against the thin partition, and a part of you wonders if it’s right to allow yourself to go through all this trouble for a boy. haven’t you suffered enough in this lifetime to choose to be in this tough position? dating an idol out of all people? you don’t know enough facts to believe that you should be doing this.

maybe you and jungkook are still too young and naive. maybe love doesn’t defy all odds. maybe there are other things more important than love— love from a person who lives in a different world. you haven’t even said it yet— the three words even you are waiting to hear from yourself. it’s so selfish to be hoping that jungkook is out there fighting to keep you.

“we can’t help but to notice that you’ve been distracted recently. you know you have to tell us if you’re dating someone, right, jungkook?”

“noona, isn’t that a bit…?” jungkook laughs to mask his nervousness. “i have a fever so you guys think i’m dating?”

with a stoic expression, somin glances at the shoulder bag sitting on his gaming chair. white with pink accents. the front pockets are sparkly and transparent, filled with colorful pens, highlighters, and note pads. it stands out in a room full of his cool, clean, and neutral aesthetic. at that moment, jungkook realizes that he’s royally fucked.

“you need to tell us so we can take the precautions to protect you. we should trust one another,” somin says, going by the generic response handbook of professionals.

“protect me from what exactly?” he probes, not liking her tone that is seemingly painting his partner in a bad light. “i’ve been exhausted with work, that’s why i’m sick. we all know it’s been a lot lately.”

“the company thinks you’re distracted. i just speak for them.”

“well, it’s not true!” he purses his lips together when he realizes that he has raised his voice. “look, noona, i’m seriously not feeling well. it’s not the right time and place to be having this conversation.”

“i’m sorry, you’re right,” she sets down three binders on his desk. “make sure to be prepared for the interviews lined up for next week. there’s also some things we need your approval for by tomorrow afternoon, so notify us immediately in the morning if you’re still unable to come to the company.”

jungkook is suffocated by the sight of the amount of work piled up infront of him. he looks down at his hand and feels the urge to rip out the needle speeding up his recovery, but he just nods and smiles politely. “thank you. i’ll look through them right away.”

—

he comes back in the bedroom after sending off the company staff. “baby, she’s gone!” he waits for a few seconds, but hears no response. “babe?”

he walks into the closet while pushing the iv pole with him. “what are you doing? it’s so hot in here. you didn’t turn on the airconditioner.”

“wait! don’t look!” you squeal, scrambling to zip up yourself into the most interesting item you found among jungkook’s clothes.

you’ve already decided that you’re taking this home.

“what is this?” he gapes in shock, not having seen it in quite a long time. he was convinced that he lost it when they moved. “where did you find it?!”

you jump and turn around to face him, pulling the hood of the onesie over your head. with half of your vision obstructed, you announce “i’m pikachu!” and waddle over to your boyfriend who is in hysterics.

“i think i’m going to cry! what do i do? you’re so cute!” he engulfs you in a hug, rocking your vibrating bodies side to side. the usual smell of his fabric conditioner has long faded away, replaced by the distinct smell of a long time that has passed. “i can’t handle this. i can’t even look at you again.”

“why?”

“my heart is going to explode. seriously, it will.”

“i just saw the yellow peeking through among the blacks,” you giggle. “i thought it would be funny.”

“you just made me so happy.”

oh my god. whatever, fuck it. fuck everything. he fucking loves you.

his heart jumps when he notices your clothes scattered on the floor. “are you naked in there?”

“ugh, perv! i’m still wearing underwear!”

he squeezes you tighter in his arms, burying his face on your shoulder. “babe… that’s even hotter.”

“jungkook, stop being ridiculous,” he doesn’t need to see you to know that you’re rolling your eyes. “you’re sick.”

“hey, what does that mean?!”

—

jungkook’s manager and doctor awkwardly stand near the bed where the two of you have fallen asleep intertwined. you didn’t talk about what happened, what he said or what she said. he doesn’t know what you heard or if you heard anything at all. there’s a fresh white towel on his forehead. one of the binders lie open on his torso, its pages scribbled with his thoughts about music, touring, fame, and the fans, all in your neat handwriting. the uncapped blue pen has escaped your loose grip and rolled down onto the mattress.

his manager chortles and scratches his chin as he ponders whether to wake up the peaceful couple. he has even sliced three apples for you to share.

“sooo, this is ____?” the doctor mumbles. “may i ask what’s with the pikachu costume?”

“doctor lee, please stop talking…” the manager turns his back and covers his mouth to interrupt his laughter. “i’m going to need you to sign something for me later.”

his smile quickly morphs into a frown, face illuminated by the screen of his phone.

along with his namjoon-hyung, jungkook trusts your judgment more than anyone else. he admits that you’re the more logical person between the two of you. you view life as a matter of survival. you’re not afraid to make sacrifices along the way if it means safeguarding your security. a pro at defense, a seasoned thief of hearts. he’s lucky enough to have become an extension of your heart, because you’re protective of him as much as you are protective of yourself.

though, sometimes, he wishes you weren’t so mindful of the future.

because his first instinct is to say that he will cry a river. beg on his knees. wait for you at the door every night. profess his love in every possible way. maybe even accidentally make the world collapse. print out your photos so he doesn’t forget your face. suffer for eternity because he has a memory of you attached in every little thing in every corner of his life. make a heartbreak album then follow the footsteps of his taeyang-sunbaenim. as much he wants to appear cool, he’s too far gone to refuse to admit to himself that he’s quite pathetic when it comes to you.

five years. five birthdays. six christmases. six new years. three years living together. he cried at your graduation day. you cried when they got their first grammy nomination. he knows you even just by the sound of your breathing and the weight of your step. he knows he wants to spend the rest of his life with you.

“what do you mean? why would we break up?”

“uh, i don’t even know,” you shrug and turn on your side to face him. “but that’s not the question. if we break up, what happens? what do we do? how do we detach from each other?”

“baby, it’s 1am,” he whines. “i don’t like thinking about this kind of stuff.”

“but don’t you think it’s important to have this conversation too?”

“why? why?” his eyes nearly double in size as he demands for a reason. “we don’t have any problems, do we?”

“we’re perfectly fine, babe!” you chuckle. “it’s just, i don’t know… we’ve been together a while. our lives are so intertwined now. we live together. we have bam!”

“yes, i know, exactly,” he nods, casually dropping one of the most romantic lines you’ve ever heard from him. “it’s that way because i intend on marrying you. i’m building us a house. a real house!”

your breath still hitches every time he mentions marriage. it isn’t news, and realistically it’s far away, but it makes you excited all the same. the thought of it used to suffocate you when you were younger. your life is a fairytale in the ugly and beautiful ways.

“exactly, right? marriage is even a bigger deal. so many couples end up hating each other after marrying. this is why we need to talk about this. we need to be prepared so we don’t hurt each other a lot.”

“ah, i really understand what you mean, but…!” jungkook slides down on the bed, squeezing himself against your body. he cages you in a bone-crushing hug and you try your hardest not to laugh at his adorable protest. “we’re not breaking up, though.”

“of course, we’re not. it’s hypothetical,” you playfully mess with his hair. “but i’ll sign the prenup, of course, when we get married. and i’d probably be the one to move out if we break up, right? and no matter what happens, we still co-parent bam?”

“okay, i’ll humor you,” he rolls his eyes, but a smirk is already pulling at the corner of his lips because you just said technically said ‘yes’ to his marriage proposal. “hmm, if it happens when we already live in the house, then you can just come back here.”

“what?” you look at him like he just said the earth is flat. “why would i want to live here after we break up?”

“then sell it. do whatever you want. i don’t care.”

“i can’t just accept a house from you!”

“you can when we get married. and what if it’s my fault?”

“oh, that’s a good point…” you pause to think. “but doesn’t that mean i have to give you a house if it’s my fault?”

“eh, isn’t that blackmail now?”

the two of you make eye contact, and you simultaneously burst out laughing. jungkook didn’t expect to be sweating from laughter minutes after hearing that question from you, but maybe he should’ve. you’re so good at putting his nerves at ease. you make living so fun that he doesn’t want to sleep.

“shouldn’t we decide based on those terms then? if it was a mutual decision or not? something like that?”

his heart flutters when you plant a gentle kiss on his forehead. hard to miss with the cold and sticky lip mask you dilligently apply on your lips before hopping into bed.

“what do you think the reason would be?”

“i thought that wasn’t the question?”

“well, you opened it up.”

“i honestly don’t know,” he genuinely sounds clueless, not having considered it at all. not since he made that impulsive decision when he was young and stupid, anyways. “i trust you. and we’re pretty in love, aren’t we?”

“you know…” you trail off, as if you’re guessing if you should continue your sentence or not. “if you could only have one, i swear i won’t hate you if you choose your career over me. i think i’m over that. i’m so much more mature than i was.”

“babe…”

“in fact, i’d get angrier at you if you do the opposite.”

“but that’s not fair,” he pouts, not agreeing with you. he’s not mad, but maybe a little upset that you consider giving up on him, even if it’s only a made-up scenario. “it- it’s not that simple anymore. we’re not just dating. maybe in 2018, 2019… but we’re way, way past that. you’re a part of me at this point. i love you. i want to marry you. we have a dog! we have a family. you- you’re my family. my family sees you as family. you’re a reason for me to live as much as performing. and you know how performing is like breathing for me? loving you is like that, too. having to choose will be the worst thing to ever happen to me. i mean it, seriously. i can’t do that-”

jungkook’s passion-fueled rant is interrupted by the sound of your sniffles.

“baby, are you crying?”

“you just work so hard,” and the rest of your words become caught in between sobs and gasps for air. “and i want nothing more than for you to reach all your dreams, and it hurts when i see you doubting yourself and when people are being assholes and when the world isn’t fair to those who play fair. you’ve been doing this for so long and you’ve given your entire soul to it. i just- want you to be happy and fulfilled.”

“yah, shh- babe, there’s no need to cry,” he sits up in panic, sweeping you into his arms. he brushes away the strands of hair sticking on your wet skin and peppers your face with light kisses. “why are you crying so much?”

“it just breaks my heart when you’re having a hard time.”

jungkook also tethers at the edge of sobbing. you’re one of the few people who knows almost everything that happens behind the scenes, and it feels so good to hear himself be recognized with such a deep level of respect and admiration. you have a very unique way of saving ‘i love you’ back. you’re a selfless utilitarian who loves logically and he’s a greedy bastard who gets everything he wants.

“but okay, fight for me as much as you want. since you made a strong case.”

“you drive me insane, you know that?” he mumbles. “you still make my heart beat like crazy. i don’t understand it. and i’m too old to be saying shit like this.”

you snort at his last sentence. “you’re so dramatic. 26 is not old.”

“wait until you turn 26, then you’ll feel old,” he argues, reaching for some tissue on the nightstand. “sometimes i forget you’re two years younger than me.”

“we’re soooo young,” you marvel at the realization while your boyfriend wipes away your tears. it’s such an odd feeling. you wonder if it’s normal to feel like you’ve lived a hundred lives at this age. you started living off part-time jobs almost a decade ago and now you’re living comfortably with a stable job. you were so convinced that you would end up dropping out of college because of debt. you ate everything but your pride. “i can’t wait to turn 30, and 40. i’m going to be such a cool adult.”

“blow your nose-”

“i’ll do it,” you snatch the tissue away from his hands, discarding it in the bin under your nightstand afterwards. “crying made me sleepy.”

once you return to cuddling position, you begin melting under jungkook’s starry eyes.

“kiss?”

he nods like a puppy, swiftly crossing the distance between your lips. you share a few more lazy kisses before fully settling down under the covers. you put your kindle away. your playlist has ended many minutes ago. the bedside lamps have been turned off, making your bedroom finally pitch black.

“we totally lost the topic,” jungkook whispers.

“that’s so on-brand,” you comment with your eyes closed. “what do we do about our premium subscriptions?”

“i don’t mind sharing forever.”

“until we find someone new to share with?”

“i won’t fall in love again,” he grumbles. “i’ll grow old and die alone.”

“shut up, you’d probably move back in with your members.”

he giggles as he imagines himself sharing a dorm with his hyungs in their 60s. will they still fight over stupid things? probably. “i guess that’s not so bad.”

“no but, breaking up is a lot of work. my wallpapers, my gallery… do we unfollow or block each other everywhere? we’d have to change passwords too. your credit cards are saved on my phone.”

“true, and you’ve seen my asshole. we can’t possibly break up after that.”

the word came up so out of the blue that your eyes automatically peeled open. you can see jungkook’s body vibrating with laughter even in the dark.

“i have your personal details on my phone and that is your concern?”

“wow- wow! are you invalidating my concern?”

“it’s not like i have a picture of it!”

“you can probably draw it from memory!”

“w-what-”

“no, you’ve already seen too much. we need to be together forever,” he announces with finality. “i’m not showing another person my asshole. you’re the first and the last.”

“oh my god!” you hit his chest in shock upon hearing it again. “i cannot take this discussion seriously anymore! how the fuck did you come up with that?”

“i feel like you see me naked more than i see myself naked. no- i mean, like, not as often, but… but you see more of my body.”

“it’s the same with me,” you point out. “it’s only fair game.”

“i know, it’s amazing,” he sighs dreamily. “you’re amazing. you’re beautiful. me? i’m the luckiest person in the world.”

“aw, thanks, my love. i’m just as in awe of you.”

your sweet voice compels him to inch closer to your body, burying his face on your chest. it’s quiet again for a moment. he yawns, and you catch it only seconds after.

“sometimes, i’m little afraid that we’d eventually get bored of each other and fall out of love after being together for so long,” you quietly confess the worry that urged you to open up the conversation earlier. “do you ever think about that?”

“isn’t that a common concern for every married couple?”

his warm breathing tickles a little. you push his head slightly to escape from it.

“i guess so… maybe it’s kind of cool that that’s the type of problem i get worried about.”

“see, babe? i told you. nothing to be scared of. look at us— we met six years ago and we still stay up all night talking like this.”

“but can i take our pillows in the divorce? i like our pillows.”

“okay,” he hums, giving little kisses on the skin along your collarbone.

“and the oven, too?”

“u-huh…”

“i’m the one who bought the treadmill.”

he uses it more than you and he doesn’t seem to care at all. “whatever you want, baby,”

“aren’t you supposed to fight me?” your fingers curl and grip the duvet hanging over his shoulder as his lips reach the sensitive areas of your neck, nipping and sucking. it’s too late in the night to wake up the butterflies in your stomach. “fuck, are you leaving marks?”

“you had it coming— got me feeling all territorial.”

“you know that i just end up covering them with makeup, right?”

“okay,” his hold on your waist becomes tighter. “use my card to buy new makeup.”

jungkook’s fantasies are tragically shattered when you abruptly flip around and turn your back on him.

“you’re not seeing my butt tonight. we need to keep the mystery alive or whatever.”

“huh, is that so?” he huffs in offense, deciding to bite back. “then you’re not seeing mine for an entire week!”

“fine! then you won’t see and touch mine for two weeks!”

“fine by me!”

“fine! goodnight!”

“i feel that,” you say in a threatening tone.

jungkook sighs obnoxiously and moves back his boxers-covered crotch, yet he insists on tangling his legs with yours and hugging your torso close. you know he can’t sleep without his personal pillow, after all.

“i am in a very awkward sleeping position right now, i hope you’re happy.”

in shoko’s cozy apartment, you and shoko were rummaging through her impressive wardrobe, trying to put together the perfect outfit for your date with satoru gojo, your lovely boyfriend. shoko’s playful mood had shifted into one of frustration as the conversation turned to satoru’s recent behavior.

“i just don’t get it,” shoko huffed, sorting through a pile of accessories with a frown. “why does he always have to be so late? It’s like he thinks time is a suggestion, not a rule.” you laughed softly, trying to lighten the mood. “you know how he is. he’s probably just caught up in something.”

shoko’s irritation didn’t fade. “caught up in something or not, it’s still rude. you deserve someone who respects your time.” before you could respond, shoko’s phone buzzed. she glanced at the screen and rolled her eyes, “speak of the devil.”

you peered over her shoulder at the message from satoru, apologizing for being late and asking if he could still meet up. shoko’s face darkened with annoyance, “seriously?” she muttered, her voice laced with irritation, “he’s been late three times in a row now. i’m about ready to give him a piece of my mind.”

you placed a comforting hand on shoko’s shoulder, “he does mean well. maybe something came up unexpectedly. let’s give him the benefit of the doubt.”

shoko sighed, her anger slightly diffused by your support, “i guess. but if this happens again, i’m going to have to set him straight. it’s not just about being punctual; it’s about showing you that he values your time.”

you nodded in agreement, understanding where shoko was coming from. “i appreciate you looking out for me. let’s focus on getting me ready for the date.”

shoko’s demeanor softened as she focused on helping you choose the right outfit. her frustration didn’t fully disappear, but she channeled it into finding the perfect look that would impress satoru and show him that you were worth his time or she might steal you from him.

as you tried on various outfits, shoko offered advice with a mix of seriousness and subtle jabs aimed at satoru. “this outfit is great—perfect for making an impression. let’s just hope satoru shows up on time to see it.”

shoko eyes focusing on your cleavage— seems like she can't stop her eyes from looking at the peak of your breast. with a small blush creeping onto her cheeks, shoko quickly looks away from your chest, pretending to be interested in the clothes hanging in front of her. “umm... i think this one might work,” she says, holding up a dress with a deep v-neck that accentuates your curves nicely.

her gaze flickers back towards your chest, unable to resist another glance despite herself. “it really brings out your... figure,” she murmurs under her breath before quickly clearing her throat and attempting to refocus on the task at hand.

blushing even more intensely now, shoko stammers out an apology while avoiding eye contact. “i-i'm sorry, i didn't mean to stare...” she busies herself with folding the rejected outfits neatly, hoping that by keeping her hands occupied she can distract herself from her wandering eyes.

but even as she tries to regain control of the situation, there's a noticeable shift in her demeanor— one that suggests she might not entirely regret looking at you like that. after all, what harm could come from admiring such beautiful curves?

“um... maybe we should try this one?” she asks tentatively, pulling out another dress that reveals even more of your cleavage than the previous one. “it's okay,” you smile at her kindly. you take off the dress without turning your back on her, now fully showing her your naked breasts. her eyes widen in shock as you suddenly strip down completely, exposing your bare breasts to her gaze. for a moment, she freezes, unsure of how to react.

then, almost against her will, her gaze drops to your nipples, which hardens slightly in the cool air of the room. a soft gasp escapes her lips as she takes in the sight of your pink, erect buds. slowly, shoko raises her eyes back up to meet yours, a mixture of surprise, curiosity, and perhaps even arousal flickering in their depths. she swallows hard, her mouth suddenly feeling dry.

“i... um... wow,” she manages to stammer out, her voice barely above a whisper. “you're so beautiful...” without thinking, she reaches out a trembling hand, hesitating only briefly before gently cupping one of your breasts. as her fingers make contact with your soft flesh, a shiver runs down shoko's spine. she squeezes your breast gently, marveling at its weight and suppleness.

“you feel amazing,” she whispers, her thumb brushing lightly over your nipple. the sensitive bud stiffens further under her touch, sending tingles throughout your body. unable to resist, shoko leans in closer, her warm breath ghosting over your skin. slowly, teasingly, she darts out her tongue and gives your nipple a quick lick.

a moan slips past your lips at the sensation, encouraging shoko to continue her exploration. she kisses along the swell of your breast before taking your nipple into her mouth, sucking and nibbling on the hardened peak. meanwhile, her other hand drifts downwards, tracing the curve of your waist and hip before settling on your ass.

shoko brings her feet to slowly move behind you until your back touching her chest— one hand still not leaving your breast before her other hand joining. she squeeze your breast lightly, fingers flicking your nipples from time to time.

shoko wraps her arms around your torso, pressing her soft body firmly against your back. her ample bosom squishes against your shoulders, making you acutely aware of her every movement. feeling bold, shoko's hands roam freely over your exposed skin, occasionally dipping lower to caress your sides or hips. her fingers continue to tease and pinch your nipples, sending jolts of pleasure straight to your core.

murmuring softly against your ear, shoko's hot breath sends shivers down your spine, “you have such a beautiful body... i want to explore every inch of it.” her words are punctuated by gentle bites along your neck and shoulder, each nip causing your heart to race faster.

shoko's hands begin to wander lower, slipping beneath the hem of your skirt to stroke the smooth skin of your thighs. her fingers dance closer to your pussy, teasing the edges of your underwear. “mmm, you're so wet already,” she purrs, her nose nuzzling the side of your neck as she inhales your scent deeply, “i can smell how much you want me.”

with a deft motion, shoko tugs your panties aside, exposing your slick folds to her eager touch. two fingers delve between them, stroking your clit in slow, deliberate circles. “let me make you feel good,” she coos, her voice dripping with desire, “i want to hear you moan my name."

encouraged by your moans, shoko intensifies her movements, rubbing your clit harder and faster. her fingers slip easily through your slick folds, exploring every nook and cranny of your heated pussy. “ohh, you're so tight,” she groans, thrusting two fingers inside you. the stretch sends ripples of pleasure coursing through your body.

her other hand leaves your breast momentarily to join in the fun, sliding down to fondle your clit directly. the dual stimulation has you writhing against her, desperate for more, “please don't stop,” you beg breathlessly, “i need it.”

you throw your head back to her shoulder. hands gripping tightly on her arms as if your pleasure depends on it. your eyes flickering caused by the pleasure hugging your body. “oh, fuck. .” you moan into the air.

hearing your moans of pleasure, shoko becomes even more insatiable. her fingers pump in and out of you rhythmically, hitting spots that send shocks of delight surging through your entire being. her free hand snakes down to join the first, doubling the pleasure as both thumbs work relentlessly on your swollen clit. the dual assault has you bucking wildly against her, seeking friction where you can get it.

“that's it baby, let go,” she encourages, leaning down to whisper hotly in your ear, “come for me.” driven by your pleas and the intoxicating scent of your arousal, shoko redoubles her efforts. with each thrust of her fingers and rub of her thumbs, she brings you closer to the edge. with your raw moans, shoko's excitement grows exponentially. her fingers work you relentlessly, curling within you to hit that sweet spot deep inside.

“fuck yeah, just like that,” she growls, biting down gently on your earlobe, “let go for me.” the intensity of her touches drives you wild; her firm grasp on your arms is the perfect anchor amidst the storm of sensations coursing through your body.

suddenly, she adds a third finger, stretching you wider as she pumps them in and out rhythmically. simultaneously, she rubs your swollen clit mercilessly. “you're going to cum soon,” she predicts confidently, “and i want to be here when it happens.” the combination of her dirty talk and expert touches proves too much to bear. your inner walls clamp down around her invading fingers as an intense orgasm rips through you.

“yes! yes!” you cry out, shaking uncontrollably in her embrace. “don't stop!” shoko continues pumping her fingers vigorously, drawing out your climax until you collapse limply against her, spent and satisfied.

“that was incredible,” she praises, peppering your neck with soft kisses. “your pussy felt amazing squeezing my fingers like that.” gently withdrawing her hand, shoko brings her glistening digits to her mouth, sucking your juices off with a contented hum, “delicious.”

as your breathing slows, shoko tenderly strokes your flushed cheeks and neck, soothing away the remnants of your orgasmic high. her own arousal is palpable— evident in the way she presses herself against you, seeking friction where there wasn't any before.

“i want you,” she confesses quietly but urgently, “will you let me taste you?”

without waiting for a reply, shoko pushes you to the couch, gently landing your body on the soft material before dropping down onto her knees between your legs. her hands grip your hips firmly as she pulls you towards her awaiting mouth. once you're positioned to her liking, shoko leans in, dragging her tongue up the center of your slit in a long, slow lick. she savors the taste of your arousal, humming in approval at the flavor.

“mmm, even better than i imagined,” she murmurs against your sensitive flesh before diving back in for another lap, this time focusing on your throbbing clit. her tongue swirls around the bud, applying just the right amount of pressure to send sparks of pleasure shooting through your nerve endings. as she works you over, shoko's hands roam your body, kneading your breasts and tweaking your nipples.

“please let me make you cum again,” she pleads between licks, “i need to feel you lose control for me.” driven by her desperation to please you, shoko redoubles her efforts, alternating between licking and sucking on your clit while plunging two fingers deep inside your still-quivering pussy.

“oh god, you taste so fucking good,” she gasps, her own arousal leaking down her thigh as she loses herself in the act of worshipping your body, “i could do this all day.”

picking up speed, shoko fucks you with her fingers, curling them to hit that magic spot that makes your toes curl and back arch. at the same time, she increases the suction on your clit, sending you hurtling towards another explosive climax. “cum for me, baby,” she urges, her voice strained with lust, “fill my mouth with your juice.”

she doesn't seems willing to stop, still can't get enough of your taste on her tongue and heart. she looks up to you, seeing your fucked-face, eyes drop low and chest moving rigid, trying to catch your breath.

“do you ever squirt?” she ask, giving your clit a kitten lick. you didn't even get a chance to answer when you feel you leg shaking, “fuck!—” sometimes catch you breath as you arch your back and took a fistful of shoko's long brown hair. the action make the girl moan and groan on your clit.

at the sudden tangle of your fingers in her hair, shoko lets out a needy whimper, her own desire spiking at the dominant display. she gazes up at you with heavy-lidded eyes, panting softly as she continues to lap at your oversensitive clit.

“i've never seen you come undone like this,” she breathes, nuzzling her face into your heat, “it's so hot.” emboldened by your reaction, shoko begins to suckle more insistently on your clit, her tongue darting out to flick the hypersensitive bud. the sensation sends jolts of electricity straight to your core, making your already quivering thighs clench.

“squirt for me,” she urges, her voice a husky purr, “drench my face with your cum.” with each thrust of her fingers and lap of her tongue, shoko coaxes more and more moans from your lips until they merge into one long, drawn-out sigh. the sensation builds quickly, making your thighs quiver and your pussy clench tighter around her fingers.

“i think you might be close,” she whispers against your slick folds, “are you gonna give it to me?” feeling your impending orgasm approaching, shoko intensifies her efforts, doubling down on her relentless assault. her tongue darts and flicks mercilessly against your swollen clit, while her fingers pump in and out of your dripping cunt, hitting every sweet spot.

“come on, baby,” she encourages, her voice muffled by your pussy. “let go. show me how much you love this.” with a final, desperate suck, shoko draws you over the edge. a loud moan tears itself from your throat as your entire body convulses in pleasure. “s-so good, mmh-mmm, fucking goo-oh!” your pussy squeezes tight around her fingers, pulsating rhythmically as wave after wave of euphoria washes over you.

caught in the throes of ecstasy, you barely register shoko's triumphant cry as she laps up every last drop of your sweet release. eager to savor every last drop, shoko laps up your juices with gusto, not stopping until your spasms subside. she then slowly rises, standing between your spread legs with a satisfied smirk on her lips.

“that was amazing,” she says, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. “you have no idea how long i've wanted to do that.” despite the mess, shoko makes no move to clean herself up. instead, she leans down and gives your thigh a gentle kiss, marking you as hers— more likely stealing you from gojo satoru.

“but i'm not done yet,” she teases, sliding her fingers out from within you and bringing them to her lips. “taste so fucking good, can't get enough of you baby,” with a sly grin, shoko brings her glistening fingers to your lips, holding them there expectantly. as you part your mouth to accept the intimate offering, she pushes them past your lips, letting you taste the essence of your own arousal mixed with her saliva.

“don't you agree it tastes divine?“ she purrs, her voice thick with satisfaction. “now open wide for me,” demanding that you taste what she had been enjoying moments ago. the tangy sweetness of your cum coats her fingertips, leaving a salty residue on your tongue.

once you comply, shoko slides her fingers into your mouth, gently probing your tongue with them. the dual stimulation sends a thrill through your body, leaving you weak and pliant beneath her. her other hand ventures downwards, tracing teasing circles along your inner thigh before dipping lower. this time, instead of plunging her fingers inside you, she focuses on your clit, rubbing it gently with the pad of her thumb. “you're so responsive,” she murmurs, watching your reactions closely. “do you want more?”

nodding your head like obedient dog, your eyes watering, “please. . . want more,” you beg her. shoko chuckle, “look at you acting like a little slut,” her lazy eyes never leaver yours. at the same times, her phone ringing and your boyfriend name pop up. gladly she accepted the call before putting her phone aside, purposely letting your boyfriend hear what a slut his girlfriend is and doesn't have any attention to let you know that your boyfriend is listening.

“you ask for it,” shoko sweetly said before pushing your tight upward, “now open your leg wider, baby,” she command and you happily follow. she land your thigh on her shoulder. lean down to spitting on your pussy and a soft moan left your glisten lips. you don't realize how your boyfriend listening on the other side.

a sound of shoko's hand slapping your overstimulated pussy echoes follow by your moan. “oh fuck!” gojo hear your whimpering voice. as soon as you utter those words, shoko's eyes light up with mischief. she grins wickedly, clearly relishing the power she holds over you in this moment.

“look at you, begging like a bitch in heat,” she taunts playfully, her fingers trailing along your slit. “i bet you'd let anyone touch this greedy little cunt, wouldn't you?” shoko punctuates her question with a sharp slap to your sensitive mound, eliciting a yelp from your lips. before you can recover, she pushes your knees up towards your chest, folding you nearly in half and exposing your dripping hole completely. her voice dripping with lust, “i'm going to feast on this pretty pussy until you scream.”

as shoko's palm connects with your sensitive flesh, another sharp slap resounds through the room, followed by your high-pitched whine. her eyes light up with sadistic glee at the thought of gojo listening in on their depraved activities. shoko dives in, burying her face between your thighs. her tongue delves deep into your folds, lapping up your arousal with reckless abandon. she sucked hard on your clit, sending shockwaves of pleasure through your trembling body.

“oh fuck, fuck— ahh!” gojo hears your muffled cries as shoko devours you whole, “yes, just like that!” the sounds of shoko's slurping and your moans fill the room, creating an erotic symphony that gojo cannot tear himself away from. he listens intently, his cock twitching in anticipation as he imagines shoko's skilled mouth on him next.

shoko pulls back momentarily, her lips shiny with your juices. she looks up at you with a hungry gaze, her eyes dark with lust, “i want to make you cum again.”

“please— fuck, please don't stop,” you begging.

shoko smirks at your desperate pleas, knowing full well the power she wields over you at this moment. she returns to feasting on your pussy with renewed vigor, her tongue darting in and out of your clenching folds. “such a good little slut for me,” she purrs, the vibrations of her words sending tremors through your core, “i'm going to milk this cunt dry.”

with that promise, shoko redoubles her efforts, sucking harder on your throbbing clit while thrusting two fingers knuckle-deep into your slick channel. she curls them just right, stroking that magic spot inside you that makes your vision blur and toes curl. “fuck, yes! right there! faster. . .” gojo hears you scream, your voice hoarse from pleasure. “i-i— don't stop, please!” shoko continues to ravage your pussy with unrelenting intensity, her fingers pumping in and out of you as her tongue working overtime on your clit. she can feel your walls starting to flutter around her digits, signaling your impending orgasm.

“that's it, cum for me,” she growls against your soaked flesh, her breath hot against your sensitive skin. with a final, brutal suck on your clit, shoko sends you careening over the edge. your body convulses, a high-pitched wail escaping your lips as wave after wave of ecstasy crashes over you.

“oh my god, oh fuck— yes, yes. . .” gojo hears your voice rise to a fever pitch, your words barely coherent as your orgasm rips through you. shoko laps up your release greedily, milking you for every last drop. as your climax subsides, shoko slowly withdraws her fingers from your spent channel, bringing them to her lips to clean off the evidence of your pleasure. she savors the taste of your arousal, a satisfied smirk playing on her lips.

“you are even sweeter after i make you cum three times,” she murmurs, her eyes glinting with mischief, “so fucking good.” shoko rises to her feet, towering over you in a dominant pose. she reachdown to help you sit up, her touch gentle but firm. “now, let's get you cleaned up and presentable,” she says, her tone taking on a playful edge, “we can't have you looking like a mess when gojo gets here, now can we?”

with that, shoko grabs a washcloth and begins wiping away the remnants of your passion, her touch both soothing and intimate. she took her phone that lying flat on the floor before pressing the electronic against her ear, smiling as she looks down at you.

“satoru..” she sang happily, “i hope you don't mind me having a little fun with your girlfriend,” her voice dripping with mocking even though soft smile kissing her as she looks at you, “that's what you get for fucking pissing me off.” satoru's angry voice comes through the speaker, causing shoko to giggle softly. she runs a hand through your hair, keeping her eyes locked on yours as she continues the call.

“satoru, darling, don't be so dramatic,” she coos, her tone sugary sweet despite the mischievous glint in her eye. “i was just giving your precious girlfriend a little attention. after all, you've been neglecting her lately,” shoko leans down, pressing a lingering kiss to your forehead. “besides, she seemed to enjoy it quite a bit. maybe you should take some pointers from me on how to satisfy a woman properly.”

satoru growls in response, but shoko merely laughs, unconcerned by his anger. “oh, don't worry, i won't tell if you don't,” shoko ends the call, tossing her phone aside with a nonchalant flick of her wrist. she turns her attention back to you, a devilish grin spreading across her features.