eve

‘somewhere in northern italy…’ the familiar words flash across the screen of the cheap flat screen tv in your living room, the is sun peaking through the blinds, illuminating the room in golden beams of warmth. the air in your apartment smells like sweet vanilla and blueberry from the muffins you’d just baked and put in the oven.

it was that time of year where everything was a little bit looser, with the semester ending and summer break approaching, the days were longer, the sun set at 7pm and you found yourself smiling a bit more. the perfect time to rewatch “call me by your name” one of your favourite films ever.

you take off your baking apron, which was decorated with adorable little embroidery flowers along with mini kittens, a gift from sukuna. the same sukuna who was now about thirty minutes late after saying he was going to come over today so you guys could begin your annual summer festivities. it wasn’t unlike sukuna to be late, he always had something going on at the frat, but it was really irritating. i mean you didn’t even like blueberries that much, but you baked the muffins specifically because you knew how much sukuna liked them.

you grab a popsicle from your fridge and walk over to the couch, deciding you can’t be bothered to clean up the mess from baking, get comfy and resume watching the film. then about ten minutes later you’re heart almost jumps out of your chest when you hear the front door slam shut from down the corridor.

“i come in peace..and with snacks!” sukuna walks into the room, holding his hands up in surrender.

“oh my fucking gosh sukuna, are you trying to give me a heart attack or what?!” you jump, startled by the sudden commotion.

“shit my fault, forgot my bestfriend has a weak ass heart.” he chuckles, kicking his shoes off and already gravitating towards the kitchen to scavenge through your fridge.

“—wait. is that blueberry i smell?..” he says, sniffing the air.

“oh yeah, i baked muffins, butttt you don’t get any since you wanna’ be late again.” you shrug, turning your attention back to the film playing on the tv.

you were totally bluffing, you weren’t that evil, but you liked teasing sukuna.

“you wouldn’t..” he narrowed his eyes.

“oh i so would.”

“there’s no way in hell you can eat a whole batch by yourself anyway.” he shrugs, crossing his arms over his chest and leaning against the counter.

“you seriously underestimate me sukuna…in fact they should be done by now.” you reply, getting up off the sofa and pushing past sukuna peering into the oven at the golden treats.

you take them out the oven, careful not to burn yourself, and place them on the counter between the two of you. you pick up one of the muffins and slowly begin to take a big fat bite, all whilst staring sukuna right in his ruby red eyes.

“oh so you’re evil evil.” sukuna gasps.”

“mmmm~ so good.” you taunt, very proud with yourself.

“bro you don’t even like blueberries like that.” he retorts.

“i know, its for the love of the game.” you reply, a smirk making its way to your face as you wait for sukuna to give in.

a few seconds pass, then…

“fine dang it, you win y/n, what do you want from me, i’ll do anything for a taste of those muffins.”

got him. “hmm..i want a heartfelt sincere apology for you being late.” you reply.

sukuna raises on eyebrow, “really…? that’s it? an apology.?”

“yup, that’s it.”

“huh..alright bet, easy enough.” he says, standing up straight and clearing his throat very dramatically.

“i am so very, very sorry my amazing, wonderful, beautiful, talented, funny, smart and amazing at baking best friend for being late. i promise it won’t happen again.”

“how was that for an apology?” sukuna asks, looking exceedingly proud of himself.

“you’re so stupid” you can’t help but giggle as you grab a nicely designed ceramic plate from the cabinet behind you, plate up a couple of the muffins and push them towards sukuna.

“yeah and you love it.” he teases back with a mouthful of the dessert.

“you’re so lucky i do, idiot.” you roll your eyes at him, but can’t hide your smile.

because it was true, sukuna was an irritating idiot, but he was your irritating idiot and you wouldn’t have it any other way. you’ve known sukuna for as long as you could remember, but the memory of when you two met would forever be rooted in your brain chemistry.

you were in second grade and little you was sitting on the fake grass outside cross-legged. reading your favourite book, a habit that grew with you except now you’ve upgraded to novels and manga, whilst eating the packed lunch your mom made for you. when suddenly, the afternoon sun was blocked by a shadow. you look up from your book to see a little red haired boy with beautiful crimson eyes and mud on his knees holding a worm in front of your face.

“ewww! get that away from me, gross!” little you shrieks, inching away from the bug.

the boy only giggles, exposing his toothless grin and plopping down next to you on the grass, setting the little worm down somewhere in the distance.

“whatcha’ readin’?” he asks curiously, shuffling over even closer to get a closer look.

“dork diaries, my mommy bought it for me and its my favourite ever!” you exclaim, excited to finally be talking to another kid about something that interests you.

“huh.. that’s cool—anyway do u wanna’ play tag with me?” the boy asks.

“i don’t really like playing…” you continue to flip through the pages of your book, expecting the boy to leave and go continue playing with the other kids.

instead he pouts says, “awwh okay, can i read with you then?”

that shocked little you, because you weren’t used to people noticing you. you were always tucked away in the corner, nose buried in a different book, or drawing little doodles. you enjoyed your own company.

“you wanna read with me?…okay! but no more worms or creepy crawlies..” you scold, grinning from ear to ear at the excitement of someone wanting to talk to you.

“yayyy, and no more worms, i got it.”

he notices the lone blueberries left in your packed lunch and frowns.

“why aren’t you eating those blueberries?..they’re gonna feel sad if you don’t eat them!” he points to your pink lunchbox.

“that’s not true silly! and i don’t like blueberries they’re yucky and mushy…but you can have them if you want.” you giggle at the boys comment.

he doesn’t waste any time and takes a handful of the berries, stuffing them in his cheeks like a chipmunk. you burst out into fits of laughter, amused by the boy’s little act of stupidity and he follows shortly after.

you both sit there in the liquid gold sun, giggling till your stomachs hurt and your cheeks ache.

and ever since that day, you two were best friends. same middle school, same high school, and now same college. you smile at the memory, completely caught up in your own head forgetting you were still in the kitchen, the faint noise of the film on the tv forgotten, and the air warm with the lingering smell off sugar and blueberries.

“awe ya thinking about me?” sukuna coos, snapping you out of your daydream and back into the present.

“you wish, definitely not.” you scoff, walking back to the couch and plopping down with the rest of the muffins in hand.

which was a fat lie, because you totally were, but you weren’t gonna tell him that.

“yeah yeah, whatever.” he grins, following you over to the couch sitting next to you.

the sheer weight of him made the whole couch shift beneath you two and you catch yourself distracted by the way the light seemed to catch his eyes. sukuna was good looking, like really good looking, you weren’t going to lie to yourself and it wasn’t unknown news, everyone knew it including himself. you weren’t surprised why so many sorority girls would literally drool all over him, though sukuna never seemed to acknowledge them which you admired. ever since joining sigma rho he still stayed the same old sukuna, he didn’t change to fit in or fake being someone who he wasn’t.

“hey y/n, you good?..you keep zoning out like crazy..” sukuna speaks, once again snapping you out of your daydream.

“—what, oh yeah i’m fine, just tired or something.” you reply.

“yeah? you sure?” he moves closer and puts his arm around you pulling you into his side.

“i’m fine sukuna, promise.” you grin, shimmying out of his grip even though your attempts are futile due to his strength.

“good—oh shit yeah, i’ve been meaning to ask if you’d come to the frat party on saturday..” he asks, his arm still around you, but now his hand’s tracing patterns into your arm.

“sukuna—“ you start, already opposed to the idea.

“and before you say it, i know you hate the frat, and the parties—“

“and the people.” you add.

“and the people, but i really want you there y/n, seriously, hey who knows you might even enjoy it.”

“i don’t know…” you contemplate, considering the idea, but genuinely not wanting to deal with anything that goes on at those parties.

he pouts, “pleaseeeeee..”

“whatever, fine i’ll come, but you have to wash the dishes and clean up the kitchen in return.” you point to the mess still on the counter from your earlier baking.

he jumps up from his spot on the couch and gets straight to work, “yes ma’am.”

what an idiot. you think to yourself, grinning as you watch your best friend attempt to wipe flour off the counter, but only worsening it.

the sun begins to set, leaving the room painted in warm tones of gold and orange, as you sit back and already begin to dread this party you got yourself tied up in.

—————————————————————

it was saturday night and you were now smoothing out your hands on your outfit which you’d picked last minute, mini jean skirt, and your favourite light beige sweater which was decorated with small black cats all around it, all paired with a pair of uggs. you honestly didn’t even know what you were supposed to wear to frat parties, but you thought your outfit was cute and you felt confident. you even did your makeup a little differently and tried out a new hairstyle in hopes of trying to hype yourself a little.

you walked to the doorstep of the large house and stepped through the threshold.

shit.

you’re immediately hit in the face with bright fluorescent orange lights and the smell of alcohol. the booming sound of speakers blasting some rap song you’re not familiar with fill your ears as you try to move your feet and weave through the tight bodies already filling up the space.

you end up in the kitchen, where it’s a little calmer and hop up to sit on one of the kitchen stools. you take in the whole scene, couples eating off each other’s faces, freshman doing karaoke, a very intense game of beer pong. it was chaotic, and you don’t even realise your leg has started bouncing up and down and that you were fidgeting with your necklace, a nervous habit, till a familiar voice breaks you out of your trance.

“there’s my favourite girl.”

the voice startles you and you look up to see sukuna striding over to you, a smug smirk plastered on his face and red solo cup in hand.

“sukuna i fucking swear one of these days you’re deadass gonna’ give me a heart attack!” you yell over the music.

“glad to see you too.” he grins, thanks for actually coming.” he says, placing his free hand on the counter behind you, leaning closer so it was easier to hear.

“yeah well you didn’t really give me a choice did you.” you take the cup out of his hand and toss back the contents.

bad idea.

“ew oh my gosh what the fuck is that-“ you wince, take back by the sharp taste.

he snorts and takes the cup from your hand, “easyyyy, easy.”

you don’t even notice that you’ve still absentmindedly been bouncing your leg up and down till sukuna frowns and places a reassuring hand on your bare upper thigh.

the gesture makes your face heat up and your stomach flip. ‘stop. cut it out y/n.’ you think to yourself, it’s just the drink right?

“hey you okay?”

“—what, oh yeah just a little loud that’s all..” you dismiss, distracting yourself with your necklace once again.

“mm, you overwhelmed?” he asks, gently.

of course he knew exactly how you were feeling.

“yeah a little..i’ll be fine though.”

“promise?” he asks

“promise.” you reply.

sukuna knew that parties had never been your thing, ever since you were kids he found it cute how you’d always rather be reading, drawing or lost in your own little world. even though in high school, you broke out of your shell and became a lot more outgoing you still preferred to be in the comfort of your own home, that’s just who you were. and he loved it. he also could always tell what you were thinking or feeling just by you body language, years of observing your little habits meant that he knew you very well.

“alright good, tell ya’ what, we stay for an hour or two then after that i take you home, we get food and binge watch films of your choice.” he says, tracing small circles into your thigh.

you try and stifle a smile, he practically listed your ideal night, how could you say no?

“foul play, you used all the perfect buzzwords.” you grin

“nah, not my fault i know you so well.” sukuna smirks, pulling you onto your feet and leading you into the living room.

“alright c’mon drama queen, the guys are gonna think i dipped or somethin.”

—————————————————————-

sukuna leads you to a couch near the corner of the room where he sits down and drags you down with him and his arm snaking around your shoulders as you curl up into his side, knees up to your chest.

“cute sweater.” he teases, smiling down at the little black cats.

“you like it? it’s new, can you believe i got it fifty percent off?? such a steal.” you examine it once more.

you start rambling about things sukuna doesn’t even particularly care about, but he listens and watches the way your eyes light up and your smile gets bigger and brighter as you speak. it’s always been like this, you speak and he listens, getting lost in the sound of your voice and the gleam of your eyes, he loved it.

but his serenity is disturbed when he hears a yell from the other front room.

“satoru get off the fuckin’ chandelier you idiot!”

he groans, already dreading whatever bullshit he’s gonna have to deal with this time.

“—hold that thought, gotta go deal with these jackasses before one of ‘em breaks some shit.”

“okay, good luck.” you giggle.

sukuna enters the other room and immediately spots satoru, choso and suguru all sprawled out on the rug in front of the couch. satoru holding a half empty bottle of whiskey, suguru downing a beer and choso smoking a blunt.

he joins them on the floor, “so, the hell happened here then.”

“yo, ryo you should’ve fuckin’ seen it man, shit was hilarious.” choso drawls, smoke curling in the air around him.

“yeah i don’t even wanna know—damn satoru how much have you drank?” sukuna replies, eyeing the half empty bottle in his hands.

“pfftt, barely anything this is lightwork bro.” satoru slurs, proud smirk on his face.

“saw y/n here” suguru starts, tossing back the rest of his beer. “surprised she came.”

“hm? yeah, asked her to come.”

satoru snorts, “she has cats on her sweater right? damn, the girl’s cute as shit.”

“deadass, might need to invest in that i won’t lie.” suguru smirks, gaze falling back to the room you were in.

the fuck? sukuna wasn’t liking where this conversation was headed.

“what the fuck do you mean by that suguru?” he crosses his arms over his chest, eyes narrowing.

“he’s not wrong y’know, looks like the type to bake you cupcakes ‘nd shit.” choso adds.

“imagine a good fuck from her then getting some bomb ass cupcakes right after” satoru begins, taking another sip of whiskey. “that shit would be heaven.”

they had to be messing with him.

“what the hell is wrong with you guys? cut that shit out.” sukuna’s pissed now, “y/n doesn’t sleep around with fucking frat boys, she’s not like that.”

he stared at his three friends, completely baffled and disgusted at the way they spoke about you as if you were just another thirsty sorority girl. they didn’t get it, didn’t get you.

then all of a sudden the three burst into obnoxious laughter and sukuna deadpans.

“oh my god bro, you should’ve seen your face.” satoru chuckles, slapping his leg.

“i don’t get the joke.” sukuna spits.

“don’t worry man, we didn’t mean any of that crap.” suguru says, still clearly amused.

“yeah we were just tryin’ to confirm our suspicions on the fact you’re a hundred percent in love with y/n.” choso snorts.

oh.

sukuna didn’t even know what to reply to that because he could lie all he wanted, tell them it wasn’t true, but it wouldn’t get rid of that feeling in his heart, the one that wouldn’t leave him alone whenever he thought of you. who was he kidding? it was just normal affection anyone felt towards their best friend right? totally platonic…so why did he still feel that lingering ache in his chest.?

“whatever. i’m retiring for the night..later.” sukuna swiftly gets up and leaves, heading back to you.

“think we pissed him off?” choso asks.

“nah he’s mad cus’ he knows we’re right.” suguru takes the now empty bottle of whiskey from satoru who was now completely passed out.

—————————————————————

the party has died down a bit now, the music’s a little quieter and the atmosphere more relaxed. you’re still on the couch idly scrolling on your phone, to keep yourself from drifting off, when sukuna appears in front of you.

“oh there you are, thought i’d fall asleep before you got back.” you yawn.

“yeah sorry about that, they were being idiots as per usual.” he runs his hand down his face.

“i can imagine, anyway can we go now im like actually starving, anddd you owe me food.” you whine.

“of course you remember—was hoping you’d crash before we got to this stage.” he curses.

you giggle, “how could i, already thinking about what i want.”

“yeah i bet you are, love running my pockets don’t you.” he pulls you off the couch hand coming to wrap around your shoulders as you two walk towards the door.

you can only yawn in response, tiredness completely taking over as the cold night air sends shivers down your spine making you lean into the warmth of sukuna.

“you tired?” he asks, speaking into the crown of your head.

“hm..nuh uh.”

another yawn slips out, completely betraying your last statement.

“not tired huh? he snorts.

“shut up..”

“c’mon i know you just wanna get into bed, how about we reschedule our little evening and i make you ramen instead?” sukuna leans down to get a closer look at your face.

“fine…but i’m not forgetting that you owe me sukuna.” you look up at him, eyebrows raised.

“i know you won’t y/n, i know you won’t.” he grins.

—————————————————————

you reach your apartment, immediately kick your shoes off and run straight to your couch. your sunset lamp illuminates the room in a cool orange tone. sukuna follows shortly after sitting down on the couch right next to you. you crawl into his lap on instinct, your head resting on his hard chest. the position nothing new and familiar to you by now.

“so, how was your first frat party?” he asks, running a gentle hand down your back.

you hum, “okay i guess..still don’t know why you wanted me to come though..”

“cus i like having you around y/n, you know that…you just get me.” he says, hand still running up and down your back.

his words and the repeated sensation on your back give you those stupid butterflies again and make your face heat up. you try to stifle down the feeling and ignore it, because you know sukuna doesn’t think of you like that, ‘why the hell do i keep feeling like this?’ you knew damn why, but you wouldn’t say it out loud, not even to yourself, because saying it out loud is hard. so instead, you settle for humour and bury those feelings.

“don’t get all dramatic on me idiot.”

he faintly laughs at that, the sound almost not there, “not dramatic, just true.”

you smile into his chest, and you both sit there tangled up in each other, the sound of your breathing and cars passing in the distance and a million unspoken thoughts that neither of you brought up, but you have a feeling that things were changing.

—————————————————————

98% ~ amazing work y/n, great way to end the semester.

you’re standing in the middle of campus near the common area when the notification from student portal pops up. you reread the grade once, twice just to make sure you’re not hallucinating from the scorching heat beaming down on you. 98%. you passed. it felt like someone had just released the invisible strings that had been holding up your shoulders the whole semester. all the work you’d put into your final literature essay had paid off.

you couldn’t wait to tell sukuna, he’d promised that if you got over eighty percent on the essay he’d take you out anywhere and let you get anything you want. he had calculus right now so you rushes across campus with a smile plastered across your face.

you get to his class right in time, you see him speaking to gojo about something, and rush up to him.

“sukuna! sukuna look! i passed!” you squeal, shoving the phone in his face completely unable to contain your excitement.

“—woah, woah passed what, what am i looking at.” he asks, taking your wrist and steadying your shaky hand to get a better look.

“my english essay sukuna, i got a ninety eight!” you bounce up and down, steadying your hand so he can see.

“holy fuck, ninety eight? atta’ girl that’s amazing y/n, seriously.” he wraps you into a tight embrace, hugging you tightly.

the smile on your face is contagious as you pull back, “you know what this means right?”

“i sure do.” he sighs, “so what’s the first stop then.”

you tap your chin in contemplation, “hm..well i have been dying for a new pair of jeans..oh my god and there’s this new book place that opened..”

sukuna can’t help but smile at your enthusiasm, “god what have i got myself into..lead the way.”

—————————————————————

you drag him all the way your favourite book store off campus for your first stop. the place has that nostalgic orange lighting, with decorative signs and retro furniture in every corner. whimsy lamp posts and wooden bookshelves filled to the brim with different copies of literature are on display as you walk in.

“this place is literally you.” he states, taking in the whole scene.

“what does that even mean dude?” you look at him, one eyebrow raised.

“just like if you were a store this is what i’d imagine it to look like.”

“yeah okay whatever that means sukuna.” you roll your eyes and grin.

you take his hand in yours and lead him to the back of the store where the largest bookshelf resides.

the keychains on your backpack jingle as you excitedly move and grab every single book you’ve read that you can spot and start explaining the plot to him.

“….and then it’s like so cute because—hey are you listening??” you wave the book in front of his face.

“huh..yeah, yeah of course keep going i was interested.” sukuna blurts out.

which was a massive lie, because he was way to busy watching the way your lips moved as you spoke, how your pretty little eyes looked up and batted your eyelashes at him. he was mesmerised, you were beautiful, the way the sun made you glow you looked like a fairytale. he wanted so badly to just take your face and kiss those lips till all he could remember was the taste of your lipgloss—pause. what the fuck? this was y/n, his best friend y/n, so why was his heart suddenly beating and his face hot?

“sukuna, you alright? your face is like crazy red..” you ask, snapping him out of his daydream.

“oh yeah, nothin’ it’s just mad hot in here.” he shrugs, lying through his teeth.

“hm yeah it is..i’m almost done in here anyway, gonna get these two.” you grab the books and place them under your arm.

“alright let’s get outta here before i pass out please.” he begs.

you wait patiently by his side as sukuna pays for your books, then you two exit the shop and step back into the summer air. it’s the brink of the evening by now and the sun is ever so slightly beginning to set leaving behind a refreshing breeze that cools you down.

“thank you, i’m so excited to read these..you’re hearing all about them by the way.” you grip onto his arm as you two begin walking down the pavement.

“no worries, you deserve it im proud of you forreal, for acing that essay.” he says looking down at you with so much admiration in his eyes.

“thanks sukuna.” you reply, squeezing his arm.

“so where to next, miss shopaholic.” he sighs.

“hmm y’know i’m kinda tired of shopping, oh i know, can we go to that gelato place down the street?” you ask.

“fuck yeah, i’m down for some ice cream.” sukuna replies, a big grin appearing on his face.

“of course you’re smiling..” you roll your eyes, but can’t help but grin.

you two begin walking down the street to the gelato place, your still gripping his arm as you watch the cars drive by and the trees sway in unison to the wind. it was getting a little darker now, so that cool summer breeze began to pick up.

you loved summer, something about the way the sun shined and left the streets glittering, the way people gathered in the parks for picnics everyday and you woke up already feeling tranquil.

your heavy bag filled with textbooks and notebooks started to make your back ache, so you fidget a little in futile attempts to get comfortable.

sukuna, noticing your squirming, asks “want me to carry your bag?”

“no it’s okay, super heavy you’d probably struggle.” you tease.

“pfftt, i take that as a challenge.”

sukuna reaches behind you and grabs your backpack off of your shoulder with ease.

“super heavy huh?” he smirks.

“whatever, try carrying it on your back the entire day.” you roll your eyes.

you reach the ice cream shop and immediately go to the counter to look at the variety of flavours. you loved looking at the different colours laid out in front of you, it gave you that nostalgic feeling for some reason. you already have your order ready, you always get the same thing—vanilla.

“you ready?” sukuna asks.

“yeah.” you go to order and then tap your card, but sukuna beats you to it.

“i got it, your treat remember..plus i still owe you.” he nudges your shoulder.

he watched your smile grow as you both got handed your ice cream and you turn to him with those pretty eyes of yours and say “thank you, you’re the best.”

well shit. he was definitely blushing again.

“no problem y/n..don’t know why you always get plain vanilla though.” he teases, leading you two out of the shop back into the summer breeze.

“says you, i don’t know how you always get blueberry…i mean who even eats blueberry ice cream?” you shoot back.

you two settle on thee edge of the curb near the small beach a few miles off campus.

“don’t knock it till you try it sweetheart.” he takes a big bite into the scoop.

you’re close enough to be able to hear the calming crash of waves against each other and smell the salty smell of the sea water. you’re so engrossed in the hypnotic scene that you don’t even realise the vanilla ice cream was dripping down your chin.

“messy ass eater..” sukuna teases, tilting your face towards him and running his thumb across your bottom lip, wiping up the mess and then licking it off his finger.

you stare at him, butterflies again. those stupid butterflies and that fluttering feeling in your stomach that can’t seem to leave you alone no matter how much you push it down. it would only get bigger and bigger, leave a lingering feeling that got stronger everytime you were near him. you yearned for his warmth, his hands in yours, his lips on yours. the feeling was suffocating, but you couldn’t say anything, wouldn’t say anything because if you did it would only make things complicated and you didn’t want to risk losing him, it would kill you. so you just push it down and pray.

“shut up..” you mutter, turning your face away from him in embarrassment so he can’t see how much he’s affected you.

but you’re then distracted when the cutest most tiny little ball of fur strolls up to you.

“oh my god! sukuna look at it, s’ a kitty!” you squeal, passing your melting ice cream over for him to hold.

the little creature meows and crawls into your lap like you’re a cushion.

“awhh, hi there little one, you’re so adorable aren’t you?” you coo, stroking the kitten.

“it kinda looks like you” you say to him.

he raises his eyebrows, “did you just compare me to a kitten?”

the cat had reddish-ginger fur with little white spots all around it. it did sort of resemble sukuna.

“it does, except it’s way cuter.” you giggle.

“liar.” he grins, poking you in the side.

the kitty meows once again and hops out of your lap, running off somewhere in the distance.

“awh, bye bye.” you wave as the little feline runs off.

you take the rest of your ice cream back and then sukuna speaks.

“y/n?” he says, staring off into the distance.

“hm?” you’re preoccupied with finishing off your dessert without any of it dripping onto you.

“what do ya’ wanna do after college?..”

the question surprises you and you turn your head towards him.

“after?..i don’t know, i mean i’ve always wanted to travel, who knows maybe i’ll visit italy or something…”

travel with you, is what you really want to say. be with you, is what your heart desires.

“what about you?..” you ask, almost a whisper.

“i don’t really know to be honest..probably stay here.” he shrugs.

travel. travelling means leaving, means leaving him behind, he thought. he didn’t want that, he needed you with him, it’s always been like that, you and him.

you hum as you two sit there, and let the ocean carry away the weight of all the things you haven’t said, let the wind calm the storm inside your head.

—————————————————————when you get back to your apartment, you head to your room and get changed into your pyjamas as sukuna crashes on the couch, exhausted from the day.

you walk out into tiny polka dot sleep shorts and a matching thin tank top, perfect for hot summer nights.

shit. sukuna couldn’t help but stare at your perfect legs and the perfect swell of your breasts under your tank top—there it was again. those thoughts that normal people were definitely not supposed to be having about their best friend. but then again his head was a mess, a whirlpool of emotions and unsaid thoughts and feelings. he knew what it was deep down, but he chose to say nothing. it was easier keeping it all to himself than loosing you and ruining what you two had because you didn’t feel the same way.

but it was killing him, he was pent up, he hadn’t even looked at another girl let alone touched one for ages, and he now realised why. plus, the sexual desire he felt for you wasn’t making anything easier.

you cross the room, sit next to him and throw your legs over his lap. “you gonna crash here tonight?” you ask.

“uh yeah if that’s cool.” sukuna picks up the remote and switches on the tv, needing a distraction from the way your ass was rubbed up right against his hip.

“yeah, cool just don’t steal all the blanket this time or you’re getting kicked in the stomach.” you snort, snatching the remote from him.

“god you’re mean.” he grins

“you wouldn’t have it any other way, don’t lie.” you look up at him.

“got me there”

you’re both drifting asleep slowly, some cheesy rom-com playing on the tv when you hear sukuna speak tiredly.

“frat’s throwing an end of semester mixer..you gonna come?”

“another party? i’ll pass..” you say, rubbing the tiredness from your eyes.

“c’mon please, it’ll be less chaotic this time jus’ a small mixer with some of the other frat’s and sororities.” he pleads, caressing your leg.

“when is it?”

“two days away, sunday.”

“shit i can’t anyway, that’s my designated cleaning day..and i’m baking that day, sorry.” you say.

“man, gonna fuckin hate it if you’re not there.” he groans.

you giggle, “you’ll be fine drama queen..”

you drift off to sleep like that.

—————————————————————-

sunday

sukuna’s on the couch at the mixer, red solo cup in hand even though he hasn’t drank anything since he got it. he didn’t want to be here, being forced to make conversation with neighbouring frat members whose names he wouldn’t even remember in an hour, and a blonde sorority chick wouldn’t leave him alone. her high pitched voice going on about wanting to “get away from the party for a while”. everything was pissing him off and he just wanted to be back at your place arguing about something stupid whilst he helps you mix brownie batter.

“hiiii sukunaaa.” the blonde was back again, clearly a few drinks in.

he doesn’t even look her away, just returns a slight nod.

“you look a bit down, need me to cheer you up a bit?” she winks.

he looks at her now, expression stoic “how you gonna cheer me up huh?”

“why don’t you come find out…” she purrs, her hands all over him now, feeling up his arms, his chest, everywhere.

he feels sick. but for some fucked up reason he abides, he gets up and walks towards the staircase looking back at the girl.

“you comin’ or what?”

—————————————————————-

as soon as he enters some random bedroom on the second floor, the girl pounces on him, all teeth, nipping at ever inch of skin. sukuna can only stand there, his mind in a completely different dimension.

y/n.

that’s all he can think off as the blonde steps back and frantically removes her tank top.

y/n.

she pulls him onto the bed, her hands everywhere, reaching under his shirt searching for any inch of skin. your smile, your laugh, your face, your voice is all he can see. images of you in the apron he gifted to you, baking muffins and singing along to your favourite songs in your kitchen flash through his mind.

he doesn’t want this, never wanted this, the girls perfume is way to sweet, nothing like you.

“y/n.” he says out loud this time.

“what..?” the blonde scoffs, pausing.

“get off me, i need to go.” he spits, shoving the girl off and running out the room.

“whatever.” she rolls her eyes, putting her shirt back on.

sukuna runs down the stairs of thehouse, his heart pulsing and stomach turning. his own heartbeat is so loud in his ears that he doesn’t even realise that satoru was calling after him.

“—sukuna where you goin’ man?”

“think he finally came to his senses?” choso asks.

“hundred fuckin’ percent.” suguru replies watching his friend leave through the door.

sukuna feels sick to his stomach and he doesn’t even realise his feet are moving in the direction of you apartment. what the fuck was he doing? he knew exactly what he was doing, he thought that maybe he just needed a distraction, that he was pent up and needed release, so he tried to. but it wasn’t you and that made him want to throw up, but why? why? why? why.

“i’m in love with y/n.” he finally says, barely a whisper

“i love y/n.” he says again, louder now like he’s finally allowing himself to feel.

his feet are moving even faster now and his mind’s going at a hundred miles per hour, he couldn’t hide it anymore, couldn’t push it down, it was killing him.

he reaches your apartment in no time, enters the lift and pushes the button to the correct floor. he doesn’t even bother knocking, just uses the spare key you gave him for emergencies and busts the door open.

you’re vacuuming the floor when you hear it and it startles you so bad, you genuinely think someone’s breaking in.

“oh my fuck, sukuna you actually want me dead don’t you…—“

your words are cut off when he runs up to you and captures you in the tightest embrace you think you’ve ever felt. his face buried in the crook of your neck and hands squeezing your torso so tight, his breathing ragged and uneven.

concern starts to flood your mind and you run your hands through his hair in attempt to get him to calm down.

“sukuna you’re scaring me…what’s wrong why aren’t you at the mixer?..”

a few seconds of silence pass..

but then ever so quietly that you think you’re hearing things, “i’m in love with you y/n.”

you must be hearing things, you’ve finally reached the hallucination stage.

“what?..” you whisper.

he finally looks up, tears, in his eyes as he says, “y/n, i love you. you’re the only one i want, whether or not that’s as best friends or more. i need you.” his voice is so small, you’ve never seen him so emotional.

he continues, “i think i’ve loved you ever since that day in second grade on the grass, i didn’t go back and play tag with the others for some reason, but i’m glad i didn’t.”

it feels like you’ve finally come up to shore after drowning in your feelings for ages. “you’re stupid sukuna…why didn’t you tell me earlier.”

he drops his head back onto your shoulder, “i know i am, i didn’t say anything because i didn’t wanna ruin anything.”

your heart breaks, “if you’d told me earlier i wouldn’t have had to push my feelings so far down either.”

he looks into your eyes, the ones he wishes he could get tattooed onto the backs of his eyelids so he could stare at them forever.

“what do you mean?” he mutters.

“i love you too idiot, have loved you forever.” is the last thing you say before your lips are on his.

the kiss is electric, so full of years of longing and unspoken feelings it feels like you can finally breathe properly again. sukunas hands are everywhere, trying to literally climb into your skin as your hands come up to run through his hair, you tug on the crimson locks and that earns a satisfied groan from him. he’s leaving trails of kisses down your neck, on your cheeks, anywhere he can. and you’re moving towards the couch before you even know it.

your back hits the couch and sukunas lips are on yours again, his tongue grazing your bottom lip, wanting in. you feel his tongue exploring the inside of your mouth before the kiss is broken and you’re both left panting. sukuna hovers over you and lifts his shirt over his head exposing his tan chest, and abs. you trace over the few tattoos painted across his body, mesmerised.

“careful, you’re drooling baby.” he smirks.

“shut up, i’m not.” you roll your eyes, leaning up on your elbows to remove your thin tank top.

you discard your shirt somewhere on the floor, leaving you in just your lacy bra and tiny pyjama shorts.

“fuckin’ hell you’re perfect..” he breathes, eyes taking in your figure.

“who’s drooling now?” you tease back.

“damn right i am, please i need to taste you baby, please can i?” he’s already trailing down your body and sliding your shorts off.

he settles between your legs, fingers running along the waistband of your underwear as he leans in and licks a long stipe along your clothed pussy through the fabric. sukunas eyes blow wide and light up in pure ecstasy as he continues licking through the now soaked fabric.

“…fuckk, so good. who knew my best friend had such an amazing pussy.” he groans.

your legs wrap around his head, the sensation sending vibrations through your whole body.

“take em off, sukuna, stop being such a t-tease..” you whine.

he removes his mouth from the soaked fabric, “didn’t hear the magic word in there baby.”

such a tease.

“p-please ‘kuna” you manage to force out.

all his restraint disappears at the use of the nickname and he hooks his fingers under the waist of your underwear and drags them down your legs, the damp fabric sticky due to the mix of your arousal and his saliva.

he eats you out like he’s been starved for days, tongue plunging in and out of your sopping cunt, wet lewd noises fill the air. the pleasure is only added to when he adds two fingers, starts thrusting them in and out of you and his thumb starts circling you sensitive clit.

“mm—close ‘kuna ‘m so close don’t stop..” you moan, your legs beginning to shake around his head and your toes curl in the air.

“yeah? that’s it, that’s my girl, cum on my tongue baby, give it to me..” he rasps.

the vibrations against your pussy send you over the edge as you orgasm. sukuna doesn’t stop, only continues eating you through it, lapping up all your juices with a satisfied moan.

he doesn’t waste any time and’s already unbuckling his belt and pulling his jeans and boxers down, freeing his thick cock. and oh was he massive, his cock was girthy and a little curved, the tip flushed a bright red and already dripping pre down to the base. he jerk it a few times, smearing pre cum all over all whilst staring at you with that sultry look and those enchanting ruby eyes.

“holy fuck you’re big..” you didn’t even realise you spoke aloud.

“yeah? don’t worry baby i know you can take it.” he mutters, leaning down to catch you in another deep kiss.

he spreads your legs wider and starts lining his cockhead against your entrance.

“i’ll go slow yeah? tell me if it’s to much okay baby?” he mumbled into the crook of your neck, thumbs rubbing circles into your hips.

you nod, already feeling the stretch as he pushes in inch by inch, your back arches and your eyes snap shut as you feel sukuna fill you. he bottoms out and his forehead drops against yours, both of you panting.

“you good? want me to move?”

you nod, the pain fading away and being replaced by pure pleasure and need.

he smirks, “use your words baby, wanna hear you say please.” he moves his hips in little circles, teasing.

“f-fuck how much times are you gonna make me beg…please sukuna need you.” you plead.

“that’s my girl.” he grins.

his hips start moving, slow thrusts at first then his pace picks up, brutal thrusts angled so perfectly they hit that sweet spot. you cover your mouth in attempt to muffle the lewd sounds you’re making.

“nah, don’t do that baby, let me hear those cute noises, let everyone hear how good i’m making you feel.” sukuna grits out, gripping your hips so tightly you’re certain it’ll bruise.

your eyes roll to the back of your head ad he continues thrusting and your hands fly to his back, scratching up and down trying to find anything to grip onto. sukuna’s completely rambling now, praise flying out every second, completely lost in pleasure.

“so so good, fucking pussy’s so tight and warm, so good for me aren’t you? yeah fuuckk me.”

your release is close, but too fucked out to even form coherent sentences you can only babble and make little noises, “close ‘kuna, so closee—so deep”

“yeah? me too baby, f-fuck, where do you want it?

“i-inside please, need you inside—“ you moan.

as soon as those words leave your mouth both of you cum at the same time, sukuna’s hot seed spilling inside of you, and you soaking his dick.

he lets out a string of praise, “fuck i love you, love you so much, so perfect for me”

and then he collapses next to you on the couch, pulling out and watching his seed drip onto the cushions beneath you.

“..you okay? i didn’t hurt you or anything did i?” he asks, sitting up on one elbow.

“i’m perfect ‘kuna.” you press a light kiss to his cheek.

“good—let me clean you up.” he jumps up and heads to the bathroom to get towels.

he returns and you sit up, allowing him to clean up the mess you two made off of you.

“can’t believe you couldn’t tell i was in love with you dummy” you poke him in the stomach.

“same here baby, why do you think i always wanted you at those parties.” he grins back.

you laugh and put your pyjamas back on, sukuna does the same and you curl up next to him on the couch like you always do, except now things were way different and instead of that heavy burden you felt free, comfortable.

the sound of cars driving past in the distance and college kids laughing outside filled the air as you two sat there.

“y’know..im looking forward to our sleepovers way more now..” sukuna says smugly.

“you perv.” you can’t help but chuckle.

“yeah you’re stuck with me forever now baby, maybe we’ll even go to italy together.”

“oh gosh, what have i got myself into..” you playfully reply, rolling your eyes up at him.

“love you y/n.” he kisses your forehead.

“love you too idiot.” you reply.

and as the sun sets, you know you’re going to remember this summer for the rest of your life.

and a part of you likes that a great deal; there is no sense of injustice with him, no upset that he is asking something of you that he cannot himself achieve. you and the rest of the dancers watch as his twists and bows, displaying himself to guide through the moves, and it’s such a striking thing to behold that you can’t bring yourself to mind.

still, his beauty is the hardest part of being his student. the cording of his muscles, the sleek ink of his hair, the lithe curvature of his movements, it’s torturous. all at once you want to dance as he does, want to make your audience feel as he makes you feel, want him to shed himself of all professionalism and touch you somewhere irrevocable. you feel terrible and silly wanting it, wanting him, but there’s no helping it, you think.

and anyway, you insist that this wanting you indulge in in the dark isn’t dangerous. there is no oxygen for it in the studio, nothing to nurture your fantasies, and so you have to believe that they will wither and die with time. 

of course, while you tie the ribbons of your pointe shoes around your ankles in the empty studio, you pray this fantasy death will happen sooner rather than later. it’s completely exhausting to be so constantly wondering what his cock feels like, and mr. geto likes to remind you that exhausted is no state to dance in.

you love arriving to the studio early like this. before the room is overtaken with the smell of sweat and resin, you can breathe in the marley flooring and stretch your legs wide, grateful. you seek out lonely moments to appreciate how rare it is that you’ve succeeded in ballet enough to make a living from it; you close your eyes and get overdramatically philosophical, and it’s a privilege. you love it.

and yes, fine, it secures mr. geto’s first five minutes in the studio for yourself. this cannot be helping your attempt to suffocate your wanting, you know, but then he’s walking through the door draped in fine linen and hair pulled messy to the crown of his head, and you go boneless.

“good morning, dove,” he calls over his shoulder, turned away from you as he sets his things down.

you don’t remember when he started calling you that, and you don’t know if he uses it with other dancers, but god how can you blame yourself for getting sticky for him when he addresses you that way?

“good morning, mr. geto,” you call back, trying to sound lazy with the dawn as you continue stretching. you watch your fingers splayed on the floor, the borders of each vinyl panel, anything other than his strides towards his seat at the front of the room.

he plops rather unceremoniously down, legs spread slightly and head tipped back as he groans something truly criminal. you can feel something hot and biting between your legs but you try to ignore it, looking up at him.

“exhausted is no state to dance in,” you say with a smile.

he does not lift his head—you wonder if he wants to cause you pain by forcing you to watch the curved tilt of his throat and jaw—but you can see from the movement of his cheeks that he is smiling a little.

“i’m not dancing, dove, you are.”

you roll onto your back and starfish out, sufficiently limber. “what sort of terror will rain down on us today?”

he does look down at you then, lip still curved enough to look like a smirk, and when his head tilts just slightly you die a little death. “terror? i’m never terrible, i know i’m not.” his fingers make a soft sound against his thigh as he taps on it mindlessly. “you’ll like the combos today.”

you can’t help but bark a little laugh. “you don’t mean that. that’s something you only say when they’re hard.”

a chuckle pushes out through his nose. “yes, i know.” and then, matter-of-factly, he adds, “you like it hard.”

and god you try not to draw attention to the innuendo in that comment. just as he says it the doors are pushed open with a low thunk and the rest of the dancers come filtering in, and so you have every possible opportunity to be normal and professional and not silly and terrible, but you are a silly and terrible woman, so your chest stutters on your next breath. and he watches. 

you choose to believe, for your health and happiness, that he still couldn’t quite discern what your reaction was, or why it would have happened. but you cannot deny the fleeting scent of smugness on him, or the way his jaw twitches when his eyes flit to you between greeting your colleagues. 

he must be, you decide as you come to take your place at the barre, a cruel and unusual man who has recognized your unrequited lust and wants to punish you for it. 

yes, that must be it, you assure yourself. 

the rest of class is excruciating. all the typical torment of watching the man whose bones you are so desperate to jump contort himself into beautiful shapes is mounted further by the way he watched you this morning, the way his head dropped to the side just so to see you fluster for a moment. 

you try to channel it into the combos. as you travel across the room, you work to carve the feeling from your chest and toss it outwards, anywhere else. your legs burn with your leaping and turning but you push harder, hoping you’ll reach some critical point at which the physical soreness of your muscles eclipses the fluttering behind your navel, but you can’t quite catch it. and every time you hope you might be close, you feel your fingertips just grazing a moment of forgetting, you catch his eye again, and something hungry pulses in your stomach.

you probably need to get fucked. you definitely need to get fucked, actually, because you’ll ruin all your leotards if this continues. 

sweat shines down your body by the time class is finally, mercifully over, and the plan has already solidified then. you’ll go out tonight, you’ll get well and sufficiently railed, and at long last you will be able to address your fucking ballet instructor properly. 

even collecting your bag from the floor makes your muscles scream. your steps drag as you shuffle about, removing your pointe shoes and slinging your purse over your shoulder in the waning light of the day. 

“was that your attempt at proving me wrong?”

you straighten, inhaling sharply. when you look over your shoulder, it’s only you and mr. geto in the studio again. he’s standing in the threshold now, body leaned against the door as he watches you finish packing. 

fuck.

normally you might relish this sort of attention from him, but at this point you feel overfilled with the smoke of your desperation and you need to breathe. you need to go to the club and release some of this pent up sexual energy. you need to get out before you spread your legs for him in front of the fucking mirror. 

you try to laugh lightly, but it sounds tired and reedy. “yeah, i guess not.” shrugging a little, you add, “couldn’t help it.” and you tried to use that tone of voice one uses when a conversation is over, for the first time since meeting him hoping he simply turns and leaves, but he stays static there, watching you.

you flounder, looking for anything else to say. you want to lighten the tension that’s pulling your hips towards him, so you put on a wry smile. “i’ll try less tomorrow.”

that makes him chuckle as he brings a hand up to massage one shoulder. inevitably you think of how it might feel under your fingers, how it might tense if you were riding him and he was using that arm to lift and drop you on his—

“i do have one note for you, actually,” he murmurs, and you try to mask the horror on your face as he begins walking towards you. “show me your grand adage from the last combo.”

you hesitate a moment, clutching your purse tightly with one arm and opening your diaphragm so he doesn’t see your lungs constrict. this is normal, you remind yourself, he is being a normal instructor.

and it’s true, this is normal, but he has abnormal sex appeal and you are abnormally tightly wound and and he has never adjusted you with his hands before. this is a terrible, horrible, grotesque idea, but what are you supposed to say? no?

you drop your things slowly at your feet, tracking the sweeping of his eyes along your movements. with your hands empty again you stand still a moment, surely looking as bewildered as you feel, but he nods slightly: go ahead. 

you steady the soft tremble of your fingers as you extend your arms outwards, aligning your spine as your leg extends behind you. your core engages to keep your hips from tilting upwards, chin high to create a sloping line from your neck and down your torso. even though you do not—cannot—look mr. geto in the eyes you can feel him watching, your muscles twitch when he assesses them, fluttering like little birds under your skin.

“yes, that’s it,” he says, low, behind his teeth. he begins to walk around you, and if you didn’t know any better you’d think he was trying to make you feel predated. 

two things happen at once. you realize—and the weight of it nearly buckles your knees and takes you through the floor of the studio—that he is not going to show you want he wants by doing it at precisely the moment one long finger brushes the under side of your thigh. there isn’t even anything promiscuous about where he grazes the fingerpad, but nevertheless you feel like an open wound, a nerve, only barely restraining a full body shudder at the feeling. what the fuck is he doing?

“you can lift this higher.”

you’re almost thankful that you scoff on instinct; it makes you sound less affected by this than you are. “i’m—i’m trying, but–”

and then you really do shudder, hot and tacky from the nexus of your legs as his hand grips your thigh in full, pulling it a centimeter higher and watching your body absorb the movement to balance. your breaths puff sharp and you can’t even attempt to stop them now.

his voice is no louder than a whisper but there’s no breath in it, all timbre and sound. “there, dove. hold that.” his hand pulls away torturously slow, and at such an angle that you feel the point of each fingertip as his palm falls away. you hope he’s spontaneously blinded so he can’t see the goosebumps erupting down your arms, but instead he leans an inch closer to you, close enough that you can feel the warmth of him, watching you strain to keep the position from just behind your shoulder.

“it makes it harder if you hold your breath.” you can hear the twitch of his lips in that and it makes it no easier for you to take in air, but you pull a trembling gulp of air in anyways. to please him, you suppose, because apparently that’s all you’re capable of doing.

he hums in approval, “that’s good enough, dove, thank you.” 

and no sooner do the words leave his lips are you dropping your leg and fleeing out the door, only barely remembering your bag.

~~~~~~~

you’re learning that your desperation for your ballet instructor is an exceptionally powerful tool.

earlier today, you pushed your body beyond its limit in the name of exorcising yourself of the curse of him. you were an outward force then, expanding and swelling and trying to expel the dark sweetness between your thighs.

now, haunting the neon shadows of this club in your highest, most painful heels, you think your desperation has a scent. you can’t remember ever being looked at in this way; from across the dance floor and behind the bar and in a far away corner, you catch men’s glances, all of them wolfish and interested. they can tell you need to be fucked, immediately.

you select the largest specimen you can find; a hulking mountain of a creature with a scar down one side of his mouth. he’s not quite handsome in the way suguru is handsome, it’s a louder, more insistent sort of attractiveness, but nonetheless you eye fuck him until he approaches you, knowing his weight will feel nice enough from behind.

he grabs at your side when he arrives in front of you, sliding a paw down your lower back. “come dance with me,” he rasps into your ear, and while normally you’d ask for the decency of exchanging names, tonight you’re sold.

you laugh as he tugs you into the fray, a throng of bodies pressed close and tacky with sweat. there’s a strange relief as he settles behind you, strobes flaring in your vision and his thick fingers around your waist. you can already feel how this ends, something sloppy and vaguely grotesque but you don’t even mind, you’re so coiled and greedy for this man you cannot have.

the music pulls you together and he grinds with you in time with it, pulling your ass against his jeans and twisting your hips back and forth. 

he runs his nose down the slope of your neck, feeling how pliant your limbs move for him. “you’re flexible, huh?”

with your head tilted back against his shoulder he brings one hand slowly up the front of your body, grasping loosely at your neck. you grin and nod into it, letting your eyes go hazy as you look up at the rigged lights and the rising fog.

you’re fucking soaked. you really would just like it if he’d bully his cock into you here in the middle of the dance floor so you can finally think straight, and you’re considering pulling him into the bathroom to do something truly indefensible against the dirty basin of a sink, but you feel his tendons tense around your throat and it makes you tilt your chin back down on instinct.

into your ear he asks, almost amused by what he’s seeing, “d’you know him?”

your heart sinks. 

whatever buoy you had wrestled between your arms was dissolving back into salt water, you’re slipping, you’re frantic, you’re looking across the dance floor and fucking suguru geto is there.

his hair is down and silky over his shoulders, which pull a white t shirt taut across the planes of his chest. you can see, even from here, the shadows of lean muscle, his body’s capacity for dance. the sleeves of his shirt are short enough that you can see, for the first time, the head of a snake tattoo peeking just below the hem. 

fuck.

and no wonder your enormous dance partner figured you knew each other; the way he’s looking at you is lethal, a sharp slice of a stare from across the room, a pointed watching. his lips twitch when he sees you notice him, something conspiratorial and entirely his own there. it looks as though he’s holding a live animal in his mouth, sly and coy and biting down on a moving thing behind his tongue. a single, sinewy hand lifts from his side and he waves.

fuck fuck fuck.

in a fleeting out-of-body event, you can appreciate the hilarity of this moment. it pulls a sound from your throat, almost a laugh, almost a scoff, too, and you stumble slightly out of the hold of the man behind you. “i—well, yeah, actually.” you have no idea what look you’re wearing, but when you turn to face your dance partner, it makes him chuckle under his breath. 

“you uh,” he scratches at his scar with his thumb, “you wanna go over there?” 

he’s teasing you—this much is obvious to you—and so much of you is desperate to tell him no, i’d like to stay right here, and grip to the veins of his forearms and let him take you home. but then you think of mr. geto’s hands along your thigh as he adjusted it and it’s almost like he has you between his fingers again, towing you towards him. 

“i–i’m sorry, i just think i should go and–” you gesticulate behind you, vaguely, reaching for something dignified to say, “and say hi.” a failure of the highest order.

the man in front of you laughs again, deep and from his stomach this time. he’s already tilting his body away from you, already letting you go, already sensing that the smell of your pussy was meant for the long-haired figure a few feet away. “you go right ahead, ma,” you think if he wasn’t so huge a person, his laughing would sound like giggling, “i’ll be fine.”

the sight of him slipping away from you makes you nauseous. you’re watching your own failure, all six feet and four inches of him, dissipating again into the sea of people, already under the manicured fingers of other women who aren’t waiting to arch for someone who essentially equates to their boss.

but there’s something secret and sweet to watching him go, too. standing resigned on the dance floor, accepting whatever honeyed trap fate has set for you, you can unburden yourself from this taxing process of trying so hard not to embarrass yourself. yes, you think, i will simply embarrass myself, and maybe whatever follows won’t feel so excruciatingly painful. 

geto watches you carefully as you slink to his table. he keeps the muscles in his face slack, neutral enough to obscure the meaning from his expression, but the faint pull of his jaw reminds you of this morning, of after class. despite yourself, you align your body properly as you take the six odd steps to stand at his feet, extending your legs the way you know he’d want in the light of day. 

he smells like musk and something botanical when you get close enough. you hope you don’t smell like your own slick. 

“it was sort of deja vu, watching that,” he begins. even under the beating of the music he refuses to shout, voice unfurling from behind his lips and just barely reaching your ears.

you wrinkle your nose a little. “how do you mean?”

the ice in his drink chimes with a flick of his wrist. “watching you dance.”

you tilt your head back and forth, feigning some sort of consideration. “no, i think this might be different.”

he’s smiling enough now that you can almost see his teeth. the part of you that is desperate to be cautious screeches that he’s playing with you, he doesn’t want you, but with each tip of your skull you can feel that voice liquifying. you hope it slips out your ear.

“how so?” he asks.

you do your best to keep a straight face. “well, for one, i don’t want your notes.”

he looks almost joyful to spit this back at you: “oh i have a few, actually.”

your laugh is too breathy and real to truly hear it against the ambient noise of the room, but he tracks it anyway, swishes his ice again. “you’re unqualified, unfortunately. this type of dancing isn’t your expertise, mr. geto—”

“suguru,” he interjects. “suguru here.”

your thighs twitch, almost stinging with need now, but you steady yourself with a breath, humming, “okay, suguru, this type of dancing isn’t your expertise. i only accept edits from experts.”

“i might surprise you, dove.”

you run your tongue along the front of your teeth. he’s asking you to play, you think, and so you raise your eyebrows and tilt your chin the way he does when he wants you to begin.

“well,” he takes a fraction of a step towards you and you match it backwards, pushed by the heat of him and the smell of his cologne, “i think you moved a little too quickly.”

you’re moving entirely in tandem now, him forward and you back, all the way until your head bumps a wall. cornered like this, he eclipses almost your entire line of sight, a vignette of dark hair.

“the part when you tilt your head back here,” and he gestures to his shoulder, “that’s the best part. you fell straight into it.”

something shudders up your legs and you squeeze them together, desperate for a moment of anything against the swelling button between them.

“they need to wait longer for it. makes it better.”

his smirk is slowly fading, something more intimate making space for itself across his mouth. if he recognizes the irony of this, he doesn’t show it, demanding simply: “show me.”

you have half a mind to gape at him, at what he’s offering, but instead you turn—stupid, whorish thing—as he asked, pressing yourself slowly to him. when your ass bumps against his pelvis he groans low. he’s rock hard against you, and a gasp moves up your windpipe but he has his free hand on your chin first, forcing your head back to his shoulder.

contorted like this, his nose grazes your cheek, his breath filtered into your ear. you whine, feline and soft, and he hums in return.

“yeah, it’s good, huh?” and he ruts his hips slightly into yours to emphasize his point, nosing your cheekbone. “so you have to start somewhere else.”

the hand on your chin falls away, moving to the small of your back where it bends back for him. he pushes his thumb to your spine, and then the rest of his palm, bending you forward at the waist. your hands come up to brace on the wall and you let your forehead fall there, too, letting the cool concrete tether you to whatever sanity you have left.

he exhales like veneered restraint watching you tilt, feeling the extra push of your thighs against his cock twitching in his pants. “yes, dove, like that.” he grinds against you in earnest then, dragging the clothed shaft of him over the globes of your ass. “he should work for it a little.”

he pushes again and you moan fully. it leaps from the wall to his ears and it earns you another drag, his fingers bruising against your waist.

“and then,” his composure is dwindling, you can hear it, and he ruts again, “once he’s worked up,” he drags the hand at your hip up your side, around your front, between your breasts to arch you back to him again. your back bows taut and impossible to meet him, head falling immediately to his shoulder this time, eyes squeezed shut. you wonder if your slick is running down your legs now, or if it’s still pooled in your panties. he finishes into your ear,  “then you come up here.”

you wiggle your hips against him, needy, and he grunts. “what did he say to you?” he grits out.

your capacity to think is low, practically panting like he’s already inside you. “huh?”

“when he had you here, he said something that made you laugh, i wanna know what it was.” with his hand fanned across your stomach he can pull you tight against his thrusts.

“h-he, he said i—fuck suguru, i-”

“come on, little dove,” he coos.

your eyes flutter open to find him watching you, purple eyes skidding across your skin. “he said i was flexible,” you huff.

he smiles like he’s going to eat you. “oh yeah? and did you tell him it’s because your mr. geto stretches you?”

your fists bunch and pull against the wall. you’re certain he can feel you clenching through your dress. your mr. geto, jesus. “n-no,” you breathe.

“oh, that cuts deep, dove,” he tuts, but he fucks against your ass again anyway, “i work so hard to stretch you open and you’re not giving me credit?”

you find yourself with the fleeting and miraculous wherewithal to laugh, light and towards the ceiling. “i’ll tell him next time, then.”

that makes suguru laugh, too, the both of you almost manic with the truly absurd suggestion that you would ever be touched by anyone else.

you feel very suddenly like a stray dog at his doorstep, scrap-fed by his hand, bony and waiting for something warm to be tossed out again. the fear that he doesn’t mean this the way you’re taking it, that he wants you only briefly, chokes you still.

“are you drunk?” you ask him.

he lets you feel the frenetic pattern of his breathing against your neck. “no.”

and then even smaller, you can’t help it: “are you messing with me?”

slowly, he brings the hand with his drink up, extending his forefinger out around your front. it’s cold from the glass as it taps on your chin once, twice, and then drags down the line of your throat. “no.”

and you aren’t quite sure how you would describe what you feel move through him then, a trembling sort of shake, maybe, but as it buzzes through his hips he thrusts the momentum up into you. later, you would come to realize this was the sensation of him, at last, deciding something he could not take back.

“i think you left something with me at the studio today,” he murmurs. the electricity of knowing you did not leave something at the studio takes hold of your ribs and tugs. “you left in such a rush.”

“i think you know that’s you’re fault, suguru.”

he smiles small into the side of your face. “yes, i know.” a finger brushes under the swell of your breast. “i can drive you there to come get it.”

you’re beginning to squirm in his hold now, the beastly thing between your thighs drooling in full, usurping control of your limbs. “haven’t you been drinking?”

and suguru is all too pleased to bring his glass to your lips, tipping it slowly onto your tongue.

he’s drinking fucking sparkling water.

he isn’t even tipsy.

you’re nodding before you can even gulp enough air to say yes.

~~~~~~~

you barely make it out of his car before he’s on you. pressed against the passenger door, he kisses you like he wants to reach inside and pull out a rib. it’s teeth and tongue and your mewls in his mouth, and it makes him pull one leg up around his hip to grind slow against your clothed pussy.

he strokes his tongue along yours as he guides you to the front door, bucking into you when you bite down soft on his bottom lip.

“fuck,” he pants. “get inside.”

seeing the studio at night is strange. the moonlight glints off the mirror, bathing the room in silver streaks. stranger still is hearing geto come in behind you, locking the door with a low snick.

he passes behind you like a memory, stepping just to graze your back and shoulder before pulling away and towards his usual seat at the mirror. “stand center floor for me, dove,” he instructs.

your body moves without much thought. it’s so easy to do as he says here, to pervert the habit of following his directions as you stand at the center of the vinyl.

suguru runs a hand across his jaw, over his lips, watching you stand static as asked. you know how lust blown your eyes are already because you can see the black depth of them in the mirror behind his head. “stretch for me,” he sighs. 

a strange confidence feeds and swells in your belly, something alight and excited as you bend at the waist. your movements are no more salacious than they normally are, simple contortions to warm your hips and thighs, but you slow them enough to match the moment. your dress, too, heightens it; the hem teases the curve of your ass, your swollen mound, tight against you in ways your dance clothes aren’t. geto has sharpened the air to a fine point, and you teeter on it.

your head flips over, legs softly bent and then straight again, swishing open and closed. between each movement you glance up at him, swallowing thick at the shadow behind the tent in his jeans, the clench of his fist as it approaches his length. when you open your legs past second position and bend to stretch between them, he moans, unashamed, and you can tell from the lilt of pain in it that he’s stroking himself over his pants now. your pussy nearly opens in this position, faced away from him, and you feel the fever say his name. 

“your middle split now, dove,” he grips himself like he means to strangle, tipping his head back against the mirror to watch you over the bridge of his nose, adding, “please.”

with your hands splayed on the floor, you drop simply into it. when your clit bumps the cool flooring you whine in your throat, settling your weight. suguru is stroking himself in earnest over the denim when you peer up at him. “uh huh,” he pants, “and bend the knees now, just a little.”

your knees cant up and you tuck your tailbone, forcing your dress to ruck up around your hips and display, fully, the wet mess of your panties. the suffocated whine suguru sounds punches the air from your lungs, and you lean back onto your elbows behind you, looking to breathe, looking to survive for another moment.

you wish you could have a picture of the two of you this way; you entirely on display for him—and for yourself, too, as you cannot avoid your own reflection beside him—and your unflappably composed instructor, squeezing down the veins of his cock through the rough pull of his jeans, watching. and because you spend hours every day being directed by him, you know what he will ask you next before he even voices it, but you wait to hear it anyway.

“touch yourself for me.”

your fingers fly to your clit, drawing slow circles around, crossing over to feel yourself jolt. your hole pulses and spits, and suguru growls like he can see it from halfway across the room. the utter relief of friction, fucking finally, makes you tip your head back, moaning wild into the still air.

but then you hear his lips part to say something and you’re pulling your head back straight, still circling over your clit and then your entrance, meaningless patterns over your thong that make your toes curl in your heels.

“you know i never once—ngh, fuck—had the urge to adjust a student with my hands? i always hated that when i was in class,” he grits. with trembling hands, he begins to unbutton himself, pulling his cock out and tugging on it immediately.

god, he’s pretty. long and soft and leaning the way the rest of him leans, gliding between his fingers with the pearls of pre beading at his tip. 

“but i thought that if i,” he pauses to groan with you, “if i touched you once i could fucking forget about it.”

you speed your fingers with each word he says, each stroke of his hand over all eight inches of his cock. a far away voice registers that you’re whining, too, but your mind filters it away, tuned completely to suguru’s confession in the dark.

your smile is wry, and reveals as much as anything. “did it work?”

he laughs then, almost at you. “no, you know what dove, it didn’t really—hah—didn’t really work for me.”

your hips buck into your fingers, a buzzing coil now. “suguru,” you begin, but he doesn’t need to hear any more.

“i know,” he moans.

you have transcended his direction, you think, merged into him enough to comply without listening. he’s tearing his shirt and pants off as frantically as you tug your dress up and over your shoulders, and you’ve only barely shimmied your panties down your legs when he arrives in front of you, completely bare. you think suguru geto, tacky with sweat and need and cock nearly swollen purple, has achieved his own pinnacle, descending to his knees to meet you.

and there’s an ephemeral, fleeting moment, when you both simply watch each other in all the places you’ve kept obscured for so long. his eyes circle over your tits, the pert peaks of your nipples, the gleaming of your slit. you track the snake tattoo from the bulge of his shoulder and around his back, pupils flitting between him and his reflection.

suguru takes hold of both your ankles on each side of his narrows hips, squeezing once, and then gliding them up, up, around your knee, along the inside of your thighs. it dawns on you that he knows exactly where to press, where each muscle begins and ends, because of how much he watches you flex and extend. your breathing comes labored and round, small yips and whines when goosebumps push into his fingers.

he can’t help but tug your hips towards his bobbing cock when his hands arrive there. you squirm and twist to try and sink him inside but he holds you to the floor, jaw tight. 

“not yet, dove, i need to stretch you,” he grunts.

and you’re giggling before you can stop it. “you use a lot of double entendre, is that on purpose?”

he’s smiling now, too, but more than anything you think its a wicked joy with how your mouth drops open as he circles two fingers around your entrance. your arousal is so hot and so everywhere that you think you can hear it dripping onto the marley.

“keep your legs open.” he uses the tone of voice he employs during class and it only makes you gush more, but you do as he asks, tightening your outer thighs to hold yourself spread as he pushes two fingers inside.

“oh fuck,” you pant.

it seems to affect him in equal measure, cock twitching with each pull of his digits, lips parted ever so slightly. he scissors his fingers apart and back again, feeling along the inside of your walls, looking. 

“ah—yeah, yes, there,” you mewl, and he moans something sincere in turn. the pads of his fingers brush and swish along that spot and something behind your ribs is turning over, growing teeth. you whine out a small fuck and that’s it: suguru is gone.

in a single motion, he pulls his fingers from you, breathes in your protest of a whine, and lowers his hips to run the ruddy tip of his cock over your clit, down, down. you run your nose along his forearm as he braces them on each side of your head, feeling the brush of his hair along your shoulder.

his mouth parts directly over your ear like this, and you feel his hand squeeze your left thigh. “lift this for me.”

and as you extend it up to hook over his shoulder, legs spread in almost a full split below his hold, he notches his head inside, a lewd pop that echos up your spine and between your ears.

suguru’s head drops to your shoulder as he bares his teeth. “fuuuuuuck jesus christ.”

you’re no better, winding your right leg around his left and bucking your hips to slide him home. he indulges you this time—perhaps for the first time since meeting him—and cants his hips again. you’re so fucking wet and ready and open for him that he slides to the hilt that way, and both of you are reduced to animals then. the sounds between you are completely inhuman, and you can’t tell where yours end and his begin.

and suguru fucks you like he teaches: not slow, but intentional, precise, every movement with an insurmountable sense of purpose. 

and fucking bossy.

“ngh yeah, squeeze me like that again, dove.”

“oh f-fuck, baby, align your hips.”

“c-can you—haah—arch into me a little more? yeah, that’s right.”

with each driving thrust of his hips you rub your clit along his pelvis, warmth spreading behind your belly button and down each leg. suguru never quite recovered from that first thrust, forehead damp and still at your shoulder as he groans directions into the soft skin there. and your hands grab anywhere they can reach: into the roots of his hair, down the planes of his back, along the slope of his ass to feel the muscles grind.

the friction his happy trail makes with your clit is driving you wild, you’re fucking close, and he can feel it in the way you pulse around him.

with the sudden capacity to mock you he coos gently, “oh, little dove, are you close?”

and you can only nod and pant and whine like a bitch in heat, the crest of your pleasure tapping leisurely on the wing of your shoulder, ready to round the corner.

“hah—yeah, i can fucking feel it.” he adjusts his weight to one arm so he can band the other around your back, pulling your tits flush to his chest. the leverage only grinds him harder into you and you’re nearly screeching with the pressure. he wants to kiss you and you want to return it, but your lips meet open, exchanging air to be puffed back and forth.

“make a mess for me,” he encourages, each thrust more erratic than the last—he’s close, too—and every moan pitched higher. “c’mon, i—shit, unh—i wanna feel your pussy choke me.”

you come so hard you feel like you’re spinning, like you’re on stage, like there’s some great applause awaiting you. it detaches from deep in your groin and pulses outwards, gushing arousal and cream over suguru’s cock and entirely fragmenting you, boneless as he fucks you through it.

“fuckfuckfuck,” he bites the juncture of your shoulder with your neck, “i made this body, dove. you’re mine, huh?”

and hearing it, even from his own lips, takes him over, too, hips stuttering to a stop as he growls wild, seed spurting inside you, warm. your name, your real name, unspools from his mouth, and it sounds like thank you.

part of you expects, sweaty and still and plugged with suguru’s softening cock, that a great shame will dawn upon you now. you think maybe you should feel ashamed for letting him fuck you here, raw, his student.

but as you’re whining into each other’s mouths when he pulls out, as he smooths his hands over your stomach and thighs, as he kisses you again without the sort of demands he had before, the guilt doesn’t arrive.

suguru watches you closely—he’s good at that, you’ve determined—as he sits back on his haunches. you realize he’s waiting for that guilt to come, too.

“okay?” he asks softly.

you could laugh at him for that question, but you grin instead. “mhm.”

his chest unburdens a weight seeing that look on your face. you can see something gathering on his palate, too, something he likes the taste of. 

and then he spits it: “there’s a shower in my office bathroom.”

you really do laugh this time, full-bodied and sore and wet again.

~~~~~~~

you don’t think you’ve ever seen mr. geto with eye bags before. you don’t think anyone has. though, you suppose he seems the type to prioritize his beauty sleep.

or, most of the time, anyway. you couldn’t help that he wanted you again in the shower, and then at his desk chair, and then from behind with your knee propped against the barre, and then—

nobara bows into a pigeon stretch next to you, snickering as she assesses him in his seat. she heckles him: “exhausted is no state to dance in.”

your body seizes with embarrassment and delight all at once, and even though your chin drops to your chest as you stretch your hips, you can feel him watching you all the same.

nobara is watching you now, too, but you notice it too late. she stifles a giggle next to you. “is that a fucking hickey?”

~~~~~~~

thank you for reading !!! comments and reblogs always appreciated >:)

they said he didn’t go here. didn’t really go anywhere. they said he dropped out two years ago and started dealing just to keep himself afloat. they said he was intense, quiet, one of those guys you shouldn’t look in the eyes unless he looked first. and you, being you, didn’t think much of it. you had your little bubble: early classes, cheap ramen dinners, the soft hum of campus life that always made you feel like you were floating somewhere safe. you weren’t scared of him. you weren’t scared of anything, honestly—at least not people.

but the night you finally reached out, your hands were shaking.

you didn’t know what to expect when he texted back. his reply was blunt, almost cold, like he was doing you a favor he’d already decided he shouldn’t.

yea. i'll pu. what building?

it made your stomach turn in a way you couldn’t name. still, you sent him the address. you paced around your dorm, adjusting little things that didn’t need adjusting—pushing hair behind your ear, tugging the hem of your shorts, checking the peephole even though he wasn’t there yet. when he finally knocked, the sound was low, like he didn’t knock often, like he was used to doors opening before he touched them.

you opened it to a boy—no, a man—leaning against the frame with his hoodie up, breath curling into the cool hallway air. he was taller than you expected, with dark hair falling over his forehead and heavy eyes that looked like they’d seen years you hadn’t lived yet. he wasn’t intimidating the way people said. he wasn’t icy or cruel. he looked… tired. and wary. like he was holding himself in, keeping every emotion tucked tightly under his hoodie so no one could use them against him.

for a second, he didn’t speak. he just stared, eyes flicking down to your fuzzy socks and oversized t-shirt before dragging slowly back up to your face. it wasn’t a creepy look; it was a stunned one, like he hadn’t expected the person behind the door to be someone soft. someone warm. someone who smiled automatically when they were nervous.

“you uh… you asked for a pre-roll?” he murmured, voice deeper than you thought it’d be. not rough, but quiet, like he didn’t like wasting words.

you nodded, stepping back instinctively, letting him into your space without thinking. that was the first thing that hit him: you weren’t scared. you weren’t suspicious. you didn’t make him stand in the doorway like everyone else did, whispering through the crack with quick hands and nervous eyes. you let him in. like you were letting in a friend.

your dorm wasn’t pristine, but it was lived-in—mismatched blankets, an unfinished puzzle on your desk, notes scribbled across your whiteboard in pink marker. your scent lingered everywhere, warm and sweet and a little floral, like your laundry detergent tried too hard to be comforting. he didn’t mean to breathe deeper, but he did.

you didn’t notice him watching you. you went straight for your drawer, grabbing cash you’d set aside earlier, and you said something like, “sorry, i didn’t know if i should text you first or wait or— i’ve never done this before.” you said it in one breath, embarrassed, cheeks warm, eyes wide in the kind of innocent panic he wasn’t used to seeing. people usually came to him already high, already careless, already in their own world.

you were different. you were here. present. unguarded.

he almost softened right then.

he handed you the small bag, careful not to brush your fingers, even though your hair fell across your face in a way that made him want to tuck it back. “it’s fine,” he said. “you’re good.”

you counted the bills clumsily, apologizing for making him wait, and he leaned against your desk, hands in his pockets, pretending not to look at the way you bit your lip when you were focused. he didn’t realize he was staring until you looked up to hand him the cash, and his gaze snapped away like you’d caught him doing something unprofessional.

you gave a small, sweet smile and said, “thanks for coming. really.”

and that was the moment he fell. not the whole way, not yet. but something lodged itself in his chest, something warm and completely unfamiliar. he shouldn’t have stayed longer after that. he should’ve left the second you closed your drawer. he should’ve walked out like he did with everyone else.

but you were still standing close, balancing on your toes to reach something on your shelf, humming under your breath like having him there wasn’t strange at all. and he realized, too late, that you weren’t just another customer. you weren’t another name on his route. you weren’t someone he could forget once he got back to his car.

you were the first person in a long time who made him feel like he wasn’t doing everything wrong.

and that was where everything started.

it happens slowly, without either of you naming it. you text him again the following week, still using full sentences and polite phrasing, still overthinking your word choice like you’re emailing a professor and not hitting up a drug dealer.

hey! if you’re free later i was wondering if—

he replies before you even finish typing.

fs. time?

he tells himself he doesn’t care what time you choose. he tells himself he’s just being efficient. but when you say after my 6pm class? he rearranges two other drop-offs without thinking, shuffling his whole night around just to make sure you’re last. he doesn’t know why he does it. he tries not to think about it too much.

the second time he comes, you leave your door already cracked open like you were waiting for him. you’re on the floor by your bed, surrounded by open textbooks and pastel highlighters, hair tied up in a messy bun that keeps slipping. he steps inside, closes the door with his foot, and the soft click of it makes the room feel smaller than last time—like he’s intruding, like he shouldn’t be here, like the warmth in your eyes when you look up shouldn’t make his pulse pick up.

“sorry,” you say, brushing hair out of your face. “i lost track of time.”

you look flustered, overwhelmed, exhausted in that way college does to people, but you still smile at him like he makes things a little easier. he doesn’t know what to do with that. people don’t look at him that way. nobody smiles at him without wanting something attached.

he sits on your floor without waiting for an invitation—not because he’s comfortable, but because your dorm is too small to just stand awkwardly in the doorway. at least that’s what he tells himself. he leans against your desk, hood pushed back, fingers drumming against his knee, pretending he’s bored when actually he’s looking at the color-coded notes spread around you, the scribbled little reminders on your whiteboard, the half-finished iced coffee on your nightstand that’s more milk and syrup than matcha.

you hand him the money, careful not to touch his fingers. he hates that he notices the distance. hates more that he wants to close it.

you’re the one who breaks the silence this time. “do you… ever study anywhere?” it’s a dumb question, but your voice is gentle, curious, like you genuinely want to know him.

he shrugs. “not anymore.”

you lean back on your palms, legs stretched across the carpet. “did you drop out for a reason?” you ask it softly, with no judgment—just pure interest, like you’re asking why he prefers certain snacks.

he freezes. it’s the first time a customer has treated him like a person, not a vending machine with shoes. he considers lying, giving you the blunt answer people expect—money stuff, or shit happened, or none of your business. but something about you makes the truth slip out instead.

“i wanted to go back,” he says quietly. “still do. just… got stuck.”

you don’t pity him. that’s the shocking part. you don’t give him the tight-lipped sympathy most people offer. you just nod, slow and thoughtful, and say, “that makes sense.”

like he’s valid. like his story isn’t something to hide. like your universe could hold space for someone like him without flinching.

he looks away before you notice the way his chest tightens.

the next week, you offer him a snack when he walks in. a little granola bar you said you liked. he cracks it open without thinking, the wrapper crinkling between his fingers as he sits cross-legged on your rug again. he asks how your exam went. you tell him you passed, then shyly admit you wanted to celebrate but you didn’t have anyone to go with.

he chews slower, heart knocking against his ribs in a way he’s not used to. “you don’t have friends here?” he asks, trying to sound casual.

“not really. i’m still figuring things out,” you murmur. “i came here alone.”

he nods, staring at your hands more than your face. it’s weird, how much he relates to that. weird how badly he wants to say same. he doesn’t.

instead, he starts staying longer without noticing he’s staying longer.

he tells himself it’s because you talk too much. or because you always misplace your cash. or because you’re a little scatterbrained and he doesn’t want you to get scammed by someone else on campus. convenient excuses. all lies.

the truth is simpler, quieter, harder:

he likes being here in your room.

in your warmth.

in the soft, lived-in corners of your life.

and you—you’re so sweet it borders on reckless. you don’t see the shift in his voice when he says your name. you don’t notice the way he looks at your mouth when you’re writing something. you don’t feel his gaze trace the curve of your shoulder when you’re reaching for your notebook. you just think he’s polite. calm. normal.

you think he’s safe.

he’s not.

not for you.

not for himself.

but you keep texting him whenever you want a break from your homework, and he keeps answering like he wasn’t waiting for it. he keeps coming back, carrying too much inside him. little things start piling up:

he remembers your schedule.

he saves your favorite strain for you.

he brings a lighter because you always lose yours.

he walks you to your door even though he shouldn’t.

he keeps your number pinned.

he thinks about you when he shouldn’t.

and you—you let him in without hesitation every single time.

a routine starts forming between you.

and neither of you realizes it’s becoming something you won’t be able to undo.

it’s late. later than he usually comes by. campus is quieter than normal, too—that soft quiet that happens after midterms, when everyone’s too drained to party and too tired to pretend they’re okay. your lights are on when he walks down the hall, a warm glow leaking under the door like you’re keeping the whole floor alive by yourself.

you open before he even knocks, as if you were standing right behind it, waiting for the exact rhythm of his footsteps to stop outside your room. your hair is damp, loose around your shoulders, and your oversized t-shirt hangs off one shoulder in a way that makes his breath catch before he can control it. you smell like soap, like you just showered, like comfort in a way he hasn’t had in years.

“hey,” you say, soft and tired but trying to sound somewhat cheerful. “sorry, i’m kind of out of it. long day.”

you leave the door wide open, walking back toward your bed without looking to see if he follows—because you already know he will. it shouldn’t mean anything. it shouldn’t twist anything tight in his chest. but it does.

your room is dim, lit by a small lamp on your desk and the blinking light of your laptop. blankets piled up, notes scattered everywhere. you look like you’ve been studying for hours.

he hands you the pre-roll and you take it with both hands, gentle, grateful. “i was gonna smoke alone but… if you’re not busy you can stay for a minute? only if you want,” you add quickly, almost shyly. “i just don’t like being high by myself all the time.”

he knows he should say no. he knows this is the line—the moment he could still keep you in that safe box of “customer,” where things are simple, forgettable. but when you look at him with those soft eyes, tired and open in a way that makes you look younger than you are, something inside him gives.

“yeah,” he says, voice low. “i can stay.”

you smile like it’s nothing. like he didn’t just lose a little piece of himself saying it.

you sit cross-legged on the bed, patting the empty space beside you without thinking. he hesitates before sitting—not because he doesn’t want to, but because the mattress dips under his weight and your knee brushes his, and the contact sends something stupid and warm crawling up his spine.

you flick open the lighter he brought you last week—the pink one with a cute puppy on it, the one you said was cute—and spark the pre-roll. the first inhale is gentle. you close your eyes as you exhale, shoulders dropping as the tension melts. he watches you for a moment longer than he should, the soft glow of the lamp catching the curve of your cheek, the way your lips purse around the inhale, the way your lashes flutter.

you catch him staring when you open your eyes again, and he looks away too fast, jaw tightening.

you laugh. “do you actually smoke?”

he shrugs. “sometimes.”

“then… here.” you hold it out to him, and he hesitates again before bringing his fingers close enough to yours to take it. your fingertips touch—barely,he kind of touch that shouldn’t matter—and he knows he’s absolutely fucked.

he inhales, slower than you did, eyes half-lidded as he lets it sit on his tongue before exhaling toward the ceiling. you watch him with your knees pulled to your chest, chin resting on them, eyes wide and hazy with warmth. he can’t tell if you’re high already or if you just look at him like that naturally.

he passes it back. you take it, and something shifts. something subtle, invisible. your foot rubs gently against his calf, an absent-minded little movement like you forgot you’re touching him. your thigh presses closer to his. you lean into his shoulder every time you laugh, even though nothing is funny.

and he doesn’t breathe right.

“you’re really quiet tonight,” you murmur, leaning into him again without noticing.

“i’m always quiet,” he says, but it comes out strained, too raw.

“nuh-uh. not around me.”

that hits him too hard. he looks at you then, fully, and you’re already looking back, pupils wide, lips parted just a little, head tilted like you’re trying to study the shape of him. you’re close enough that he feels your breath against his cheek, warm with smoke and something sweeter. your fingers are on the edge of his hoodie, just resting there, like you didn’t even realize you were touching him.

“you okay?” you ask softly, brows pulling together.

he swallows. “yeah.”

you’re high enough that your thoughts spill out unfiltered. “i like when you’re here.”

you don’t even hear yourself say it.

but he does.

he hears it like a confession. like something he has no right to want.

his throat goes tight. his hand twitches toward your cheek and stops halfway, trembling before he curls it into a fist.

you look at him, head tilted, lips close to his jaw. “choso,” you whisper, as if calling him closer.

and he does. or maybe you do. maybe both. your forehead brushes his, and the room goes quiet except for your breaths mingling, warm and shared.

you could kiss him.

he could kiss you.

you're right there, mouths inches apart, your fingers curling in the fabric of his hoodie like you’re holding onto him for stability.

but he pulls back.

barely, just enough to stop the world from flipping.

your eyes blink open, confused, a soft pout forming before you can help it.

“wait please don’t go,” you murmur, voice thick and sleepy, already leaning back into his shoulder.

he tucks you under the blanket you didn’t realize you were sitting on. you sway, hazy, eyes drooping, and he lies you down gently, brushing hair from your face without letting himself linger too long.

you fall asleep with your hand curled in the fabric of his sleeve.

he stays until your breathing evens out and the smoke clears. he stays until he knows he can leave without waking you.

and when he finally stands, something inside him is burning.

because you probably won’t remember this.

but he always will.

the next morning you wake up warm, comfortable, head heavy with that soft cotton-candy fog that clings after a good high and good sleep. your blanket is pulled up to your chin, your hair is tucked behind your ear, and your lamp—the one you never remember to turn off—is dimmed to its lowest setting. you don’t remember doing any of that, but you assume you must’ve. you always get sleepy after smoking. it makes sense.

you don’t remember leaning into him.

you don’t remember your lips brushing his cheek.

you don’t remember asking him not to go.

you don’t remember almost kissing him.

you just remember laughing and warmth.

and then nothing.

you go about your day like it’s any other, slipping into your classes, scribbling notes, grabbing a coffee that tastes too strong. you don’t think to text him. you don’t think anything was strange. you assume he dropped off, stayed for a bit, then left like always.

but for him, the world shifted.

and he hates that you don’t feel it too.

choso wakes up in his apartment with the ghost of your weight still on his shoulder, your warmth still caught in the fabric of his hoodie, the memory of your voice—soft, hazy, saying please don’t go—replaying like it’s hooked under his ribs. he lies there for a long time, staring at the ceiling, trying to breathe past it. he tells himself it wasn’t real. he tells himself you were high, tired, not thinking clearly.

he tells himself he shouldn’t enjoy the memory.

shouldn’t replay how your lips hovered over his.

shouldn’t wonder what you would’ve tasted like.

shouldn’t crave the sound of your sleepy voice saying his name like it was soft around the edges.

but he does. god, he does.

and it terrifies him.

he can’t stop replaying the way your fingers curled into his sleeve, like you were attaching yourself to him. he can’t stop remembering how easily you melted when he tucked you in, how your knee brushed his thigh like it belonged there.

he thinks about how close he came to kissing you, how badly he wanted to, how the only thing that stopped him was the horrifying thought that you might wake up the next day and regret it.

and then—just because the universe enjoys irony—you text him that afternoon with a cheerful little, hey cho! do you have time later? :)

a completely normal text. a friendly, casual, innocent text.

you don’t remember. he realizes it immediately.

his stomach drops. something ugly coils low in his chest—a mixture of relief and disappointment and a kind of aching he doesn’t have a name for. he types back something short, something that doesn’t reveal the way his pulse is hammering.

yea.

he stares at the word before sending it, jaw tight, shoulders tense, trying to swallow the sharp, stupid hurt fighting its way up his throat.

because he shouldn’t be hurt. he’s your plug, not your boyfriend. he shouldn’t want you to remember, nor should he care this much.

but he does.

the next time he comes by, he tells himself to be normal. to be distant. to protect himself. but when you open the door, smiling like you always do, wearing those soft lounge shorts and that faded shirt that hangs off one shoulder, his chest lurches like he’s stepping into last night all over again.

you don’t blush. you don’t act nervous. you don’t even hesitate before turning your back to look for your wallet.

you just treat him like nothing happened.

and that’s when the fear hits him—the fear that he felt something you didn’t. that he crossed a line in his heart before anything ever happened in reality. that he is falling for someone who sees him as comfort, convenience, company, but nothing more.

so he pulls back.

it’s subtle at first. something tiny that you feel without understanding.

he stands by the door instead of sitting on your floor. he hands you your bag with quick fingers, barely brushing your skin. he gives one-word answers. he keeps his hood up. he doesn’t look around your room the way he used to. he doesn’t ask how your classes are going.

he doesn’t let himself linger.

when he leaves, the door clicks closed too fast. you stare at it for a moment, confused.

you tell yourself he’s probably tired. or stressed. or busy.

but something feels off, and it sits in your chest all night like a weight you can’t shake.

the more you text him, the more distant he becomes.

you send him cute little updates—a picture of your notes, a look what i cooked!!, a “do you know how to use the laundry machine downstairs bc i think i broke it,” small things you used to joke about—and he replies with:

nice.

lol.

dk.

maybe.

at first you think he’s just having a week.

then you start wondering if he’s mad at you.

then you start wondering if you asked too much of him.

then you start wondering if you said something wrong that night—the one that’s fuzzy around the edges.

he starts dropping off faster too. in and out. cash, bag, nod. gone. he doesn’t look at you long enough for you to read him.

you don’t understand why it hurts.

why your stomach drops every time he leaves too fast.

why you feel stupidly abandoned by someone who isn’t even yours.

you just know something changed, and you can’t figure out what it is.

but he knows. he knows exactly what changed. he let himself want you, and now he’s trying to pretend he doesn’t.

it happens on a thursday afternoon, the kind where campus feels almost too bright. sunlight spilling across the quad, students wandering in that lazy between-classes haze, everything warm and golden in a way that feels like it doesn’t belong to people like him. choso doesn’t come to campus unless he has to—the crowds, the laughter, the easy way everyone seems to exist here… it makes something in him twist a little. reminds him of everything he didn’t get to finish. everything he had to let go of.

he’s here to drop off for some frat loser who always buys too much and tips too little. it should be quick. in and out. no thinking, no drifting, no looking around.

but then he sees you.

you’re standing under one of the big trees by the library, notebook hugged to your chest, sunlight catching in your hair in this soft, ridiculous way he’s never seen on anyone else. he freezes mid-step, half behind a bench, instinctive—like his body stops before he can think. you look… happy. brighter than he’s ever seen you in your dim dorm light. and then he sees who you’re talking to.

nanami.

even choso knows who that is. the golden-boy type. the clean-shirt, clean-grades, clean-future type. someone who walks like the world makes sense under his feet. someone who speaks with a calm certainty that people trust without question. someone who looks like he fits here perfectly, naturally, like college isn’t a privilege or a second chance, but simply the next step in a life that’s always gone right.

nanami stands straight, effortlessly put together in a button-down and slacks like he’s on his way to a job interview instead of an afternoon lecture. he listens to you talk with this intent, gentle focus, nodding at whatever you’re saying. he’s smiling a little.

choso’s stomach drops.

he shouldn’t care. he knows he shouldn’t.

you’re allowed to talk to whoever you want. you’re allowed to have friends. you’re allowed to exist without him.

but watching you tilt your head toward nanami, watching your shoulders relax, watching the way you tuck a loose strand of hair behind your ear as he speaks… it hits choso deeper than anything has hit him in a long time. something ugly rises—jealousy, but also a hollow ache, the kind that reminds him exactly who he is and who he isn’t.

nanami is your world. choso is your shadow.

nanami is the kind of man you marry. choso is the kind of man you hide.

nanami is future. choso is survival.

he sees you laugh—a soft, shy sound you’ve never made around him—and it knocks the air out of him. he clenches his jaw, drops the frat guy’s bag into his hand harder than necessary, and walks away fast, hands shoved deep in his pockets like he’s trying to hold himself together.

he doesn’t hear anything the frat guy says. he doesn’t think, doesn’t breathe, doesn’t slow down until he’s back in his car with the door slammed shut and his forehead pressed to the steering wheel.

he feels stupid.

pathetic.

like he let himself believe in something that was never his to begin with. he thinks of you falling asleep against him. the way your knee brushed his. your breath on his cheek. he thinks of how natural it felt to have you curled into him like you belonged there.

and now he can’t stop seeing you leaning into nanami instead.

his chest aches in a way he can’t name. something that whispers he needs to stop before he gets hurt worse. before he ruins something for you. before he makes things complicated for both of you.

he turns the car on just to drown the silence.

and in that cramped, overheated bmw interior, with the taste of jealousy still bitter in his mouth, he makes the decision he’s been avoiding since the night you fell asleep on him:

he has to cut you off.

it’s the only way to stop this feeling.

he’ll finish tonight’s drop. maybe the next one too. but after that? he needs to step back. put a wall up. protect himself. protect you. make sure neither of you confuse comfort for something bigger.

he grips the steering wheel, knuckles blanching.

he tells himself it’s the right thing. the only thing.

he tells himself you’ll be fine. you’ll find someone like nanami. someone good. someone clean.

someone who isn’t him.

he tells himself that cutting you off is protecting you.

but deep deep down, in the tired corners of his chest, he knows one thing with painful clarity: he isn’t doing this for your sake.

he’s doing it because he can’t stand the thought of loving someone who smiles at another man like that.

you’re not expecting him to come that night. he’s been pulling away for days—short texts, quick drop-offs, no lingering, no warmth. you told yourself he was busy, or tired, or dealing with something personal. but a part of you keeps replaying that hazy night in your mind.

you don’t remember all of it, but you remember his shoulder under your cheek. you remember the warmth of him. you remember feeling safe. you don’t know what that means. you don’t know if it’s supposed to mean anything at all really.

you’re sitting on your bed, legs tucked under you, scrolling absently, when he knocks. it’s not his usual knock—not the quiet two-tap he gives when he knows you’re waiting. this one is firmer. like he's impatient and wants to get it over with.

you open the door, and he doesn’t step inside.

he stands there in the dim hallway, hood up, shadows clinging to him like he’s trying to stay hidden inside himself. he doesn’t look at you. not really. his jaw is tight, his shoulders stiff, and he holds the bag out like it’s something he needs to get rid of quickly.

“here,” he says, voice low, rough around the edges.

you take it slowly, waiting for him to step in the way he always does. he doesn’t move. doesn’t cross the threshold. doesn’t even shift his weight toward you. something cold sinks into your stomach.

“cho,” you breathe, trying to read him. “what’s going on?”

he shakes his head once, eyes fixed somewhere over your shoulder. “nothing.”

“you’ve been acting weird.”

“i’m fine.”

“you’re not.”

the words slip out gentler than you intend, and they hit him harder than you realize. he closes his eyes for a second—just long enough for the hurt to flicker across his face before he hides it.

“this is the last time,” he murmurs. “after tonight, i can’t come here anymore.”

it’s quiet. like he’s dropping a stone into your chest and waiting to hear it hit bottom.

you blink at him, stunned. “what? why?”

he steps back a little, like he needs space, like your confusion might pull him in if he stands too close. “it’s better if you… get someone else.”

you feel heat climb up your throat, not anger—something closer to panic, something sharp and confusing, because the idea of him not coming back feels wrong in a way you didn’t expect.

“did i do something?” you whisper. “just tell me if i did. i can fix it.”

his expression twists—something pained, something he tries to cover too late. “you didn’t do anything.”

“then why are you leaving?”

“because i have to.”

you stare at him, throat tight, heartbeat climbing up into your ears in a way that feels humiliating and terrifying at the same time. he keeps looking everywhere but at you, like eye contact might break him open, like he’s scared of what he’ll see reflected back.

you feel the burn behind your eyes before you can stop it—that helpless, aching sting that comes when something matters more than you want to admit.

“that isn’t an answer,” you whisper again, voice trembling this time, the crack in it impossible to hide. “choso, just—just talk to me. please.”

his jaw clenches. he shakes his head like he’s trying to shut the whole conversation down, like he already made his choice and regrets knocking on your door at all. but that only makes the pressure in your chest worse, makes the words spill out faster than you can filter them.

“you stay with me. you talk to me. you’re the only person who actually listens to me on this whole campus,” you breathe, the words flooding out warm and messy. “and now you just ignore me and pretend nothing happened? you act like i’m nobody? like none of this meant anything?”

your voice breaks—it’s quiet, fragile, barely held together by the thin thread of your composure.

“did i not mean anything to you?”

his head snaps up at that, eyes wide, almost wounded, like the question hit him somewhere tender and unguarded. he opens his mouth, closes it, breathes through his nose like he’s trying to steady himself. “don’t,” he mutters. “don’t say it like that.”

“how else am i supposed to say it?” you step closer, and he steps back again, like you’re dangerous, like you’re fire, like you’re something he shouldn’t touch. “you’ve been pretending i’m just another customer and you know i’m not. you know you don’t treat me like the others. you know you don’t—” your voice cracks again, softer this time, almost a whisper. “you don’t look at me like that unless it means something.”

he flinches.

and it hurts more than anything he’s said tonight.

“you’re making this harder,” he mutters, running a hand over his jaw, pacing one step back like he needs distance just to breathe. “i’m trying—fuck—i’m trying to protect you.”

your tears spill over—not dramatically, not shaking or gasping on the floor like on tv, just soft and helpless, like the kind you cry when you don’t want to but you can’t hold it in anymore. you wipe them away quickly, frustrated with yourself, but he notices instantly. his shoulders drop, something deep inside him twisting sharp and guilty.

“protect me from what?” your voice is soft and broken and so painfully honest. “from you? because you weren’t hurting me. you’re hurting me now.”

he squeezes his eyes shut like the words physically hit him.

“you don’t get it,” he says, voice strained and shaking at the edges. “you don’t understand what you’re asking.”

“then explain it,” you plead. “please. just—please explain why you’re doing this. explain why you can look at me every week like you’re… like you’re waiting for something, and then suddenly you act like you can’t stand being near me.”

he steps toward you this time—only half a step, but it’s the first time he’s moved closer instead of away. his breath comes out heavy, frustrated, the sound of someone who’s been holding something inside until it’s bruised his ribs from the inside out.

“i’m not ignoring you because you don’t mean anything,” he finally says, voice low and raw. “i’m ignoring you because you mean too much.”

you freeze.

the hallway seems to narrow around the two of you—the dim light, the hum of someone’s tv down the hall, the soft scent of your room still drifting out the open door. everything feels suspended.

“that night,” he continues, swallowing hard. “you leaned on me. you said things you didn’t mean. you don’t remember any of it. you don’t remember how close you were, how—how easy it would’ve been to take advantage of you. i can’t pretend it didn’t fuck with me. i can’t pretend i didn’t want more than i should’ve.”

you shake your head, the tears coming again, silent but steady. “you’re pushing me away because i fell asleep on your shoulder?”

“because i almost kissed you,” he snaps, then looks instantly guilty for raising his voice. “because i shouldn’t have wanted to kiss you. because i haven’t stopped thinking about it. because i can’t keep coming here and pretending you’re just someone i sell to. because i saw you talking to some guy on campus today and i realized—” he cuts himself off, jaw tightening. “i realized i need to stop before i lose my mind.”

“nanami?” you whisper, stunned.

he shakes his head like the name itself bothers him. “it doesn’t matter. the point is—i can’t do this anymore. i can’t keep wanting something i shouldn’t want.”

your chest aches in a way that feels almost physical. “why shouldn’t you want me?”

the question hangs there, trembling in the space between you.

he steps closer, barely, his breath catching like he doesn’t know how to answer without falling apart right in front of you.

and the argument turns into something else entirely—something full of things neither of you have said yet but both of you feel.

he freezes when your voice cracks, when your breath stutters, when the tears slip down your cheeks even as you try to brush them away quickly, embarrassed. something in him snaps—in that quiet, terrible way a person breaks when they see someone they care about hurting because of them.

“hey—” he breathes, stepping forward before he can stop himself.

you turn your face away, wiping your cheek with the back of your hand, but his fingers are already there, brushing gently under your eye. his touch is hesitant at first, like he’s afraid you’ll flinch, like he doesn’t think he has any right to touch you like this after everything he just said.

but you don’t flinch. you lean into it.

his thumb sweeps the tear that hasn’t even fallen yet. his other hand lifts, hovering by your jaw, trembling just the slightest bit before he lets his palm settle there. he exhales like he’s been holding his breath since the moment he knocked on your door.

“don’t cry,” he mutters, voice strained and quiet, like the words hurt him on the way out. “please don’t… not because of me.”

“then stop pushing me away,” you whisper, breath shaking, eyes watery and wide. “stop acting like i’m nothing to you. you’re hurting me more now than you would if you just—just told me the truth.”

his jaw clenches, eyes flickering over your face like he’s memorizing every expression, every tremble, every piece of you he told himself he had to forget.

he wipes another tear with the pad of his thumb, slower this time, like he’s scared to miss anything. “you mean too much,” he says, almost under his breath. “that’s the truth. that’s the whole fucking problem.”

your lips part, a soft inhale catching in your throat. he watches the movement like it’s dangerous.

“and you don’t even remember that night,” he says, his hand tightening in your sleeve again like it’s the only thing grounding him. “you don’t remember how close you were to me. you don’t remember what you said. you don’t remember—” his voice lowers, raw and exposed. “you don’t remember how bad i wanted to kiss you.”

you swallow, the sound small and shaky in the quiet hallway. “i remember how i felt,” you whisper. “i remember feeling safe. i remember wanting you there.”

his breath catches.

and then you say it—the thing that tips him.

“you could’ve kissed me.”

his brows pull together, eyes darkening. “you were high,” he breathes. “you weren’t thinking straight.”

“i’m not high now.”

the words hit him like a pulse under your skin. his hand on your cheek goes still. so does his breath.

the hallway feels close suddenly, like the air thickened around you both. you can hear his heartbeat, or maybe it’s your own—fast and uneven, but loud enough to echo in the silence between you.

you step closer, chest brushing his hoodie, your voice barely above a whisper. “and i’m telling you right now that i want—”

his hand comes up a little firmer against your cheek, thumb brushing your jaw like he’s grounding himself on the shape of you.

“don’t,” he warns softly, but it’s the weakest warning you’ve ever heard. his voice cracks on it. “don’t say things like that unless you mean them.”

“i do,” you whisper.

his eyes close for a moment, pained, overwhelmed, undone. “you’re killing me.”

“then stop running,” you breathe.

your tears cling to his thumb. your fingers curl into his hoodie, pulling him closer without even realizing you’re doing it.

“choso,” you whisper, soft and shaking, “kiss me.”

that’s the moment he breaks.

he doesn’t lunge at you, doesn’t crash into you. he leans in slowly, painfully, like he’s been waiting months for this exact second and he wants to feel every fraction of it. his forehead rests against yours first, his nose brushing yours, your lips close enough that you feel the whisper of his breath.

his thumb strokes your cheek, gentle, reverent.

“i’m not going to be able to stop,” he murmurs, voice almost breaking.

“good,” you whisper back.

and then he finally kisses you.

its warm and careful at first—the soft kind of kiss people give when they’re scared they’ll break the other person if they push too hard. his lips move against yours like he’s memorizing them, his hand cupping your jaw, the other sliding to your waist like he’s terrified you’ll slip away if he doesn’t hold you close.

you make a small sound in your throat, and it tears a sound out of him in return, a quiet, ragged breath against your mouth like he’s been starving for this.

when he pulls back just an inch, his forehead still pressed to yours, his voice comes out rough and breathless:

“tell me to stop.”

you shake your head instantly, fingers tightening in his hoodie. “i don’t want you to.”

his jaw flexes—a desperate, ruined little motion. “if i keep going… i’m not going to pretend anymore.”

“then don’t.”

he kisses you again—harder this time, deeper, like something broke open in him and there’s no going back.

you don’t even realize you’re moving until your fingers slide down his hoodie and you take a step backward, tugging him with you. the open door brushes your shoulder, the hallway air falling away as your room swallows the two of you whole. you don’t break the kiss—neither of you could, even if you tried— but it shifts when you cross the threshold, deepening in a way that feels like giving in.

your back bumps the inside of the door and he presses into you, hands braced on either side of your head like he’s trying to keep the you steady. he kisses you slow and hungry, like every part of him is finally allowed to feel what he’s been choking down for months. his mouth is warm, his breath rough against your cheek when he exhales through his nose.

your fingers fist in his hoodie, pulling him closer, pulling him down, pulling him into you like you’ve been waiting for this longer than you’re willing to admit. his body melts into yours, chest against chest, hips brushing yours in a way that sends heat curling low in your stomach.

he drags his thumb across your cheekbone, softer than any man like him should know how to be. “you’re sure?” he whispers against your lips, voice trembling just enough to give him away.