All the Things I Would Do, c. kamo CHAPTER 10
JJK, professor!choso x sorority!reader, college au
tw: college setting, underage drinking, mild language, voyeurism (non‑explicit), age gap/neighbor x undergrad, power imbalance foreshadowing, choso is basically your sugar daddy, he also gets hard, soft choso
masterlist.
You woke up to the worst taste in your mouth and the unfamiliar weight of someone else’s blankets.
For three seconds, you didn’t know where you were.
White ceiling. Dark curtain. The faint smell of smoke and laundry detergent and something warm.
Then the memory hit: the porch, the fight, his hands on your back, your face in his T‑shirt, the steady murmur of I’ve got you until you stopped shaking.
You were in his bed.
You shot upright so fast your vision went white at the edges.
“Easy,” a voice said from the doorway. “Try not to concuss yourself. I don’t feel like filling out incident reports on top of everything else.”
You blinked.
Choso leaned against the doorframe, mug in hand, hair tied back, sweatpants low on his hips and a soft, washed‑thin T‑shirt clinging to his shoulders. He looked…tired. Less like Professor Kamo, more like someone who’d been awake half the night worrying.
You looked down.
You were still in your dress from last night, twisted around you, tights half‑peeled, one shoe missing. The comforter was pulled over your legs. A glass of water and two pills sat on the nightstand.
“Did we—” You swallowed. “Did anything—”
“No,” he said immediately. “You cried on me and then passed out sideways. I exerted myself by dragging you two feet higher onto the mattress and finding your other shoe before you kicked me in your sleep.”
Heat crawled up your neck.
“Great,” you muttered. “Love that for me.”
He pushed off the frame and came closer.
“Take the pills,” he said. “Before your headache realizes it has options.”
You fumbled for the glass. Your hand shook just enough to slosh the water.
He sighed, took the mug to your nightstand, then sat down on the edge of the mattress, facing you.
“Give it,” he said, palm out.
You glared, but handed the glass over. He didn’t drink from it. He held it steady while you tipped the pills into your mouth, then lifted it so you didn’t spill on yourself.
“Small sips,” he reminded you.
“Bossy,” you said, muffled.
“Yes,” he said. “Annoyingly for both of us, it seems to be effective.”
You swallowed, then sank back against the headboard, eyes squeezed shut for a second.
“Do you always feel this bad after a hangover?” he asked.
“I don’t always drink like that,” you said.
“Good,” he said. “I prefer you conscious.”
You cracked an eye open.
“You’re very chatty this morning,” you said.
He exhaled, looking at you for a long moment.
“I was an ass last night,” he said. “At the door.”
You stared at him.
“That’s one word,” you said.
“There are others,” he said. “None of them flattering.”
You pulled your knees up, wincing at the way the dress dug in.
“I shouldn’t have come here,” you said.
“Maybe not,” he said. “But you did. And I opened the door. That part is on me.”
You didn’t know what to do with that.
He set the empty glass down and stood.
“Come on,” he said. “Kitchen.”
“I can walk,” you said.
“After you stop looking like you’re about to fall over,” he said. “Up.”
You swung your legs over the side. The room tilted.
His hand was there, firm around your wrist, steadying you.
“Barely functional,” he muttered. “And yet you thought porch hopping was a great idea.”
“Don’t,” you said, shame flooding back. “Please don’t start.”
He went quiet.
“Fine,” he said and apparently that was that.
He led you down the hall, fingertips at the small of your back, just enough contact to keep you moving in a straight line.
The kitchen smelled like coffee and toast. A plate sat on the table: toast, scrambled eggs, something bland and gentle.
“You cooked,” you said.
“I heated,” he corrected. “Calling this cooking would offend several cultures and my grandmother’s ghost. Sit.”
You sank into the chair.
He put the plate in front of you, added the mug of coffee, then stood there for a second, watching you like you were a lab rat he’d just presented with a maze.
“Eat,” he said.
You picked up the fork.
Your stomach rebelled for the first few bites, then cautiously agreed. The coffee helped.
He stayed standing, leaning back against the counter, arms folded. It should have made him look closed off. It didn’t. His gaze kept twitching back to your face, your hands, the way you were holding yourself like everything hurt.
“You remember last night,” he said finally. “All of it?”
“I remember enough,” you said.
“Define ‘enough,’” he said.
“I remember the porch,” you said. “Them. You. The door. The part where you were cruel. The part where you…weren’t.”
His mouth tightened.
“I saw more than I should have,” he said. “From here.”
“I know,” you said. “You made that very clear.”
Silence.
He pushed off the counter suddenly, came around the table, and stopped beside your chair.
“Move,” he said.
You frowned. “What?”
He hooked a finger in the back of your chair and pulled it a few inches away from the table, then sat down in it himself and tugged you, with annoying ease, sideways into the space he’d just vacated.
You landed half on, half off his lap, caught by surprise, hands braced on his shoulders.
“What are you doing,” you hissed.
“Preventing you from sliding off the chair onto the floor,” he said. “Calm down.”
“I can sit in a chair like a normal person,” you said.
“You are currently at war with gravity,” he said. “Humor me.”
You shifted, trying to get off. His arm came around your waist automatically, holding you in place. It wasn’t rough but it anchored you.
“Eat,” he said. “Before you talk yourself into vomiting on my kitchen tile.”
“You can’t just—” you started.
He picked up a piece of toast with his free hand, broke off a corner, and held it near your mouth.
You stared at him.
“You’re kidding,” you said.
“I watched you drizzle liquor down your throat like it was a sport,” he said. “You can choke down dry bread for me. Open.”
“Absolutely not,” you said.
He raised an eyebrow.
“You are hungover, underfed, and incapable of walking a straight line,” he said. “You came to my door because some part of you knows I’m annoyingly good at keeping you alive. Stop fighting me on this.”
Your cheeks burned.
“That doesn’t give you the right to treat me like—”
“Like someone I’m trying to keep upright,” he cut in. “Yes, it does. Bite.”
You should have gotten up. You should have thrown the toast at him and left.
You opened your mouth.
He fed you the small piece, watched you chew, then nodded like you’d passed a test.
“See,” he said quietly. “Not so terrible.”
“This is humiliating,” you muttered once you swallowed.
His arm around you tightened for a second.
“I know,” he said. “I’m sorry.”
The words were so soft you almost missed them.
You twisted slightly to look at him, your shoulder pressed against his chest. Up this close, you could see the faint shadows under his eyes, the way his hairline dampened with the heat from the kitchen.
He looked…fond. Aggravated, worried, but still undeniably fond.
“Why are you being nice,” you asked before you could stop yourself.
He huffed.
“You cried yourself to sleep on me,” he said. “You’re currently hungover in my Tupperware empire. And I called you a liar and a user and God knows what else at my front door. Being nice is the bare minimum.”
“You don’t have a Tupperware empire,” you said. “You have three containers and one lid that doesn’t fit anything.”
“Eat,” he said, but there was a smile tugging at his mouth now, small and unwilling.
You picked at the eggs with the fork still in your hand. His chin brushed your shoulder once when he shifted, just enough to make your head feel light.
“Why did you come here,” he asked suddenly. “Not the drunk answer. The real one.”
You stared at the fork.
“I didn’t want to be alone,” you said. “And I didn’t want to be with them, not like that. I didn’t— it didn’t help. It just made me feel worse.”
He was quiet for a long moment.
His thumb rubbed idly over the ridge of your hip bone where his hand rested.
“You come here when it’s that bad,” he said finally. “Not to pick another fight. Not to test me. Just…knock. Sober.”
“You literally told me not to show up at your door,” you said.
“I told you not to show up blind drunk while half the street is watching,” he said. “There’s a difference.”
“You’re sending mixed signals,” you said. “You know that, right?”
“Yes,” he said. “I am aware.”
You could feel his breath against the side of your neck now, warm and steady.
“Why did you ignore me all week,” you asked. “If you were just going to end up—” You gestured weakly at the plate, the kitchen, his hand on your side. “This.”
He let out a slow breath.
“Because looking at you felt like standing at the edge of a ledge,” he said. “And I was stupid enough to think that if I didn’t look, I wouldn’t jump.”
“And now?” you asked.
He hesitated, then leaned in, just enough that his nose brushed your hairline.
“And now the ledge is in my kitchen,” he said. “Eating toast on my lap.”
Your heart stuttered.
“You’re going to give me a complex,” you muttered.
“You already have several,” he said. “One more won’t make a difference.”
“You’re mean,” you said again, but there was no real heat in it.
His mouth ghosted near your temple.
“Easy, pretty girl,” he murmured, so low you might have imagined it. “You’re still shaking.”
You went very still.
“What did you call me,” you asked.
His hand paused.
“Nothing,” he said. “Eat.”
“Say it again,” you said, surprising both of you.
He swallowed.
“No,” he said. “Once was a mistake.”
“You don’t say things by mistake,” you said.
“Apparently I do now,” he said. “Finish the toast, then we can argue about my vocabulary.”
You made a face, but you took another bite.
He let you eat in silence for a bit, just his arm a steady band around you, his heartbeat a slow, infuriating drum under your shoulder.
When the plate was empty and the coffee mostly gone, he took both, set them in the sink, then came back and, to your surprise, didn’t push you off.
“You should shower,” he said. “You have raccoon eyes.”
“You’re very rude for someone who just made breakfast for me,” you said.
“I made you powdered eggs,” he said. “Set your standards higher.”
You shifted, testing his grip.
“Can I get up,” you asked.
“In a minute,” he said. “You stand too fast, you’ll faint, and then I’ll have to explain why my assistant has a concussion and was found unconscious in my kitchen in last night’s dress.”
“That sounds like a you problem,” you said.
“It is,” he said. “All of this is a me problem. You’re just the…unfortunate beneficiary.”
“Beneficiary,” you repeated. “That’s one way to put it.”
He huffed against your hair.
“You need to go home after this,” he said. “Nobara is probably planning a funeral.”
“She’ll plan yours when she finds out where I slept,” you said.
His arm tightened reflexively around you; then he forced himself to loosen it.
“No one needs to know,” he said. “I’m not ashamed of taking care of you. I’m ashamed that you needed it because of me.”
Your throat went tight.
“You keep saying you’re protecting me,” you said. “From you. From this. You know that’s not how it feels, right?”
“I know,” he said quietly.
“And still,” you said.
“And still,” he echoed.
You turned your head just enough to see his face. He was looking at you like you were something he wanted to put in a glass case and also something he wanted to shake.
“You can’t keep doing this,” you said softly. “Ignoring me until I break and then holding me together. It’s not sustainable.”
“I am painfully aware,” he said.
“Then what,” you asked.
He stared back at you, something like decision flickering in his eyes and then smoothing out.
“Then we try not to make it worse,” he said. “One day at a time.”
“That’s not an answer,” you said.
“It’s the only one I have,” he said.
You huffed, defeated.
“Fine,” you said. “But if you’re going to keep sitting under me while I’m a wreck, you don’t get to pretend I don’t exist in class.”
He almost smiled.
“Is that a demand,” he asked.
“Consider it a boundary,” you said.
He looked at you for a long moment, then nodded once.
“Fine,” he said. “No more pretending you don’t exist.”
He brushed a thumb absently over the ridge of your hip again, like he didn’t realize he was doing it.
“Annoyingly hard to do anyway,” he added under his breath.
You ended up finishing the toast in his lap pretending not to hear him.
You weren’t sure when, exactly, you stopped fighting him and just let your body go slack against his chest, but at some point the fork ended up abandoned on the table and your head tipped back against his shoulder, eyes half closed.
“You’re going to fall asleep on me again,” he said, voice near your ear.
“I’m listening,” you mumbled.
“To what,” he asked.
“You complain,” you said.
He huffed, the sound almost a laugh.
“Eat one more bite,” he said.
“You said that three bites ago,” you protested.
“Last one,” he lied, and you could hear that he was lying and still opened your mouth when he lifted the toast.
When the plate was finally empty, he shifted you carefully off his lap and onto the chair.
“Stay,” he said, like you were a skittish cat. “Don’t faceplant.”
He rinsed the dishes, set the mug aside, moved through his own kitchen like he wasn’t used to someone else in it. You watched him, the length of his back under that thin T‑shirt, the way his hands looked bare, without chalk or ink or a pen.
You realized, with a sudden jolt, that you felt…safe.
He turned back and caught you staring.
“What,” he asked.
“Nothing,” you said. “You just look weird without the tie.”
“Weird,” he repeated.
“In a good way,” you added. “Human.”
“Don’t spread that rumor,” he said, but his mouth curved.
You swallowed.
“I talked to the bursar,” you blurted, before you could lose your nerve.
The almost smile disappeared.
“When?” he asked.
“Yesterday,” you said. “I didn’t want to— I didn’t want it to ruin last night more than it already was.”
He came back to the table, braced his hands on the edge.
“What did they say,” he asked. Calm. Too calm.
You twisted your fingers together.
“There’s a number,” you said. “The balance. I have until the end of next month to pay it or I lose my registration for next term. Housing follows after that.” You forced the words out. “It’s…a lot.”
“How much,” he said.
You told him.
You watched the number land in his face: the faint tightening around his eyes, the way his jaw set.
“And you can’t cover it,” he said. Not judgmental. Just a fact he already knew.
You shook your head.
“Even if I picked up more shifts at the café and begged for extra hours here and sold a kidney behind the student union, it’s not—” Your voice cracked. “I’m drowning in two hundred dollar increments. That’s a tidal wave.”
He stood there for a second, staring at the table like it had personally offended him.
Then he straightened.
“Get up,” he said.
You blinked. “What?”
“Get up,” he repeated. “We’re going out.”
“I look like hell,” you said automatically, touching your face.
“Yes,” he said. “We’ll deal with that later. Now.”
“Where?” you asked, suspicious.
“The bank,” he said.
Your stomach dropped.
“No,” you said. “No, absolutely not. You’re not—”
“Do you trust me?” he asked.
You stared at him.
“Sometimes,” you said.
“Trust me now,” he said. “Get your shoes.”
“Choso, I’m not letting you just write a check for—”
“You don’t get to ‘let’ me,” he cut in, a spark of real irritation in his voice. “You told me what the problem is. I’m telling you what I’m going to do about it.”
Your throat burned.
“This is too much,” you said. “Rent is already— this would be—”
“Rent is what I should have charged you from the beginning,” he said. “I spent ten years being paid obscene amounts of money to have my name on spines. If paying your balance means I get to sleep at night knowing they won’t drag you out of this place, it’s not ‘too much’ for me. It’s basic math.”
“I’ll owe you,” you said, small.
He exhaled.
“You already do,” he said. “This just puts a number on it.”
“That’s not comforting,” you said.
“It wasn’t meant to be,” he said pointing to the vicinity of his front door. “Shoes. We’re on a schedule.”
You stood up because your knees were shaking anyway and arguing with him like this felt too much like the ledge he’d mentioned.
The bank was fluorescent and impersonal and smelled like printer ink.
You sat in the chair beside him in the little glass‑walled office, your name and student ID number a blur of digits as the woman behind the desk clicked and printed and told you what you already knew: cleared balance, account current, you’re all set for next term.
“See?” Choso said when you stepped back into the hallway. “Tidal wave, meet drainage system.”
“You can’t just—” You broke off, pressing your hand over your mouth.
You wanted to be sick.
You also wanted to fall on your knees and thank him.
Instead, you felt your eyes prick hot.
He noticed.
“Don’t,” he said quietly. “Don’t cry in here. I refuse to add ‘public spectacle’ to my list of sins today.”
You let out a wet laugh despite yourself.
“You can’t afford this,” you whispered.
He glanced down at you.
“You don’t know what I can afford,” he said. “And you don’t need to. This is mine to carry. Let it be.”
“That’s not fair,” you said.
“What part of your life has been fair so far?” he asked. “Take the win.”
He steered you toward the parking lot with a light touch at your elbow, as if he knew your legs might forget how to work.
In the car, you sat with your hands in your lap while he started the engine.
“Thank you,” you said finally, hoarse. “I don’t know how to— I don’t have language for—”
“Then don’t use any,” he said. “No speeches. No blood oaths. No bargaining.”
“I’ll pay you back,” you said, unable to stop yourself.
He smiled, small and crooked, like you’d confirmed something he already knew.
“Of course you will,” he said. “You’ll punishingly overachieve yourself into it. In the meantime…listen.”
He glanced over, waited until you were looking at him.
“You don’t tell anyone,” he said. “Not your mother, not your friends, not anyone you’d describe as ‘pretty chill, actually.’ This is between us.”
You nodded.
“I won’t,” you said. “I wasn’t planning to brag about having a patron.”
His fingers tightened on the steering wheel.
“That’s not what this is,” he said.
“What is it then?” you asked.
He thought for a second.
“Me trying,” he said. “For once, to use what I have in a way that doesn’t just make things worse.”
You looked at him.
“That’s a very dramatic way to say ‘I paid a bill,’” you said softly.
“You’re very dramatic,” he countered. “It’s contagious.”
You couldn’t help it; you smiled.
He saw it. His own mouth twitched in answer like a reflex he hadn’t meant to reveal.
He swallowed.
“We’re not done,” he said. “Buckle up.”
You realized where he was going only when he pulled into the parking lot of a department store you’d only ever walked past to feel poor.
“Oh, no,” you said. “Absolutely not. This is where the line is. The tuition thing is already—”
“We’re here,” he said. “Might as well take advantage of the parking.”
“I have clothes,” you said.
“You have a dress that you bought with guilt and poverty and a pair of boots that look like they were in a war,” he said. “You need a coat. Decent shoes. Pants without holes in strategic places. Come on.”
“Do you hear yourself,” you said. “You sound like—”
“Responsible,” he said. “It happens.”
He didn’t wait for your agreement. He got out, came around, and opened your door like you were going to bolt.
You didn’t.
Maybe you should have.
Inside, it smelled like new fabric and money you didn’t have. You kept reaching automatically for the clearance racks; he kept steering you away with a hand at the small of your back.
“That one’s half off,” you said, pointing.
“That one will disintegrate after two washes,” he said. “Pick things that look like they might survive a season.”
“You’re impossible,” you said.
“You’ve said that before,” he said. “It has yet to change my behavior.”
He pulled a coat from a rack—black, structured, heavier than anything you owned—and held it up in front of you, measuring.
“This,” he decided.
“That probably costs more than my entire closet,” you said.
“Probably,” he agreed. “Try it on.”
You took it from him, the weight of it real and solid, and retreated into the fitting room.
When you came out, you felt absurd. Like you’d borrowed someone else’s life along with their clothes.
He looked up from his phone.
Whatever expression he’d been wearing dropped off his face.
He just…stared.
“What?” you said, suddenly self‑conscious. “Is it ugly?”
He blinked once, slow.
“No,” he said. “Turn around.”
You did, cheeks heating.
He watched you in the mirror, his face unreadable.
“It fits,” he said finally. “And you don’t look like the wind is going to kill you anymore. That’s an improvement.”
“Glowing review,” you said.
“You want glowing?” he asked. “Buy a sequined jacket.”
Despite yourself, you laughed.
You turned back toward him and, on impulse, reached up to straighten the collar where it sat slightly askew from when you’d pulled it on.
His hands were in his pockets. He didn’t move.
You smoothed the lapel, fingers brushing the back of his knuckles where they peeked out.
“Thank you,” you said, quieter.
He smiled.
It was small and reluctant and beautiful, like you’d tricked it out of him.
“Don’t thank me for basic weather protection,” he said. “My selfishness likes you alive.”
“That’s a weird way of saying you care,” you said.
“Yes,” he said. “It is.”
He cleared his throat, stepped back.
“Keep it on,” he said. “We’re not done.”
He bought you boots next, ignoring your protests about the price, making you walk up and down the aisle until he was satisfied they wouldn’t ruin your knees.
He added two pairs of jeans, a couple of sweaters, a dress you touched once and then pretended you hadn’t, thinking he hadn’t noticed.
He had.
He waited until the end, then added it to the pile at the register without comment.
“Choso,” you hissed. “No. That one is—”
“You looked at it like a starving person looks at a bakery window,” he said. “It’s already in the cart. Don’t fight me.”
“You can’t keep doing shit—”
His look shut you up.
At the checkout, while the clerk scanned and bagged and the total climbed into numbers that made your head swim, he took his card out like it was nothing.
You watched his face as he signed.
You expected tension. Regret. Something.
What you saw was…satisfaction.
Like he’d found a lever that actually moved something and was surprised how good it felt.
“This is getting dangerous,” he murmured when you stepped away, hands laden with bags.
“For who?” you asked.
“For my bank account,” he said. “For my sanity. Take your pick.”
You shifted the bags, trying to redistribute the weight.
“Give me those,” he said, taking half out of your hands without waiting for agreement.
“I can carry them.” you started.
“I know you can,” he said. “That doesn’t mean you have to.”
Your chest did a stupid, painful thing.
You reached up before you thought yourself out of it.
You kissed his cheek.
It was quick, clumsy— you had to rise onto your toes a little— and you felt him go very still under your mouth.
“Thank you,” you said, pulling back. “For all of it. Not just the…stuff.”
He turned his head slowly, looked at you like you’d just moved a piece on a board he’d thought he understood.
“Careful,” he said.
“You already paid my tuition,” you said. “I think we’re past careful.”
His mouth twitched.
“Still,” he said. “I’m only one man. My self‑control has limits.”
“That’s reassuring,” you said lightly, because the alternative was admitting that your heart was pounding at your own daring.
He shook his head, the ghost of a smile still there.
“You’re trouble,” he said, not unkindly.
“You keep saying that,” you said. “And yet you keep doing this.” You lifted the bags pointedly.
“Yes,” he said. “I do.”
Back at his house, it felt weirdly natural to carry the bags into his kitchen instead of your own.
You set them on the table. He started sorting without being asked—this goes with you, this stays here.
“This stays?” you echoed, holding up a second mug you didn’t remember putting in the cart.
“I only had one decent coffee mug,” he said. “If you’re going to keep sitting in my office pretending to work while I’m grading, I’d rather not share.”
You blinked.
“You bought a mug for me,” you said.
“I bought a mug for my sanity,” he corrected. “You benefit. Drink.”
“You’re very bad at pretending this is all purely practical,” you said.
He gave you a long look.
“I’m aware,” he said. “I’m also done pretending you’re just a line item on my budget.”
Your breath caught.
He looked away first, picking up the bag with the coat and boots.
“These come with you now,” he said. “You’ll wear them to class. If I see you in that old jacket again, I reserve the right to be offended.”
“Yes, sir,” you said, automatic, before your brain caught up.
His eyes snapped back to yours.
“Don’t,” he said, low.
You swallowed.
“Sorry,” you said.
“You’re not,” he said. “That’s the problem.”
You stepped closer without quite deciding to.
“Maybe I like when you take care of me,” you said. “Is that so terrible?”
His jaw worked.
“It is for my blood pressure,” he said. “And your future.”
You lifted your hand, fingers hovering near his chest.
“You keep saying you’re bad for me,” you said. “I’m starting to wonder if you actually believe I get a say.”
He let out a breath that sounded like it hurt.
“You are going to ruin my life,” he said softly.
“You already said that,” you reminded him.
“Still true,” he said.
You hesitated, then stepped in, closing the last bit of distance, pressing your forehead lightly against his collarbone.
His hands hovered at your sides for a second, shaking just enough that you felt it.
Then he let them settle— one on your back, the other curling over the back of your head, fingers threading into your hair.
He held you like that, breathing you in.
“You’re going to have to stop doing that,” he murmured into your hair.
“Doing what,” you asked, voice muffled.
“This,” he said. “Being soft with me. It’s…not good for my resolve.”
“You’re soft with me,” you pointed out.
“Against my better judgment,” he said.
You felt him smile, just barely, where his cheek brushed your temple.
You smiled too, into his shirt.
For a moment, there was no bursar, no mother, no porch, no Kings. Just the two of you in his quiet kitchen, standing in the wreckage of his good intentions and your bad decisions, wrapped in a warmth neither of you could quite justify.
He pulled back first, reluctantly.
“Go home,” he said. “Before I do something we both regret.”
“You already did something,” you said. “Several somethings.”
“And I’m trying to stop the list from getting longer,” he said. “Take your things. Text Nobara before she mobilizes a search party.”
You gathered the bags, your new coat already heavier on your shoulders, your heart somewhere back on his kitchen floor.
At the door, you paused.
“Choso,” you said.
He looked up.
“Yeah?”
You chewed your lip, then decided to jump.
“You did good,” you said. “With me. Today.”
You watched his throat bob.
He looked away, then back.
“Get out of here, pretty girl,” he said quietly.
You should have left when he told you to, yet you didn't.
You hovered in the doorway, bags gathered in one hand, the other still curled around the strap of your new coat.
“Say it again,” you said, and you weren’t sure if you meant pretty girl or you did good or something else entirely.
He huffed a breath that might have been a laugh if he weren’t so tired.
“No,” he said. “You’re already insufferable enough.”
You stepped back toward him instead of toward the porch.
“Then I’ll say it,” you said. “You did good. With me. Today.”
He looked at you like you were a problem set he didn’t have the key for.
“That’s not how this is supposed to work,” he said. “You don’t reassure me.”
“I’m allowed to,” you said. “You can’t stop me from…feeling things.”
You heard your own voice crack on the last two words and immediately wanted to die.
He did, too. You saw it.
“Don’t,” he said softly. “Don’t look at me like that.”
“Like what?” you asked, stepping closer anyway, until the bags brushed his leg and you were looking up at him from too close.
“Maybe I just like you,” you said, and the honesty of it made your stomach flip.
His fingers flexed at his sides.
“Stop,” he said, but it came out wrecked, not stern.
You reached up and laid your hand flat over his chest.
His heart jumped under your palm.
“Tell me you don’t want this,” you said quietly. “And I’ll walk out that door.”
You watched the war happen behind his eyes.
He could have lied.
He didn’t.
“Wanting isn’t the problem,” he said hoarsely. “It’s all the things I do when I forget I’m not allowed to.”
“Then forget,” you said.
For a second, nothing moved.
Then his hand shot up, caught the back of your neck, and pulled you in.
The kiss wasn’t careful this time.
He kissed you like all week had been a held breath he couldn’t keep in any longer, like he’d thought about this too many times and hated every single one of them. His mouth met yours hard enough to make your teeth click, his other hand dropping to your hip, fingers digging in just shy of bruising.
You made a sound into his mouth, something helpless and needy, and felt him shudder.
He walked you backward until your shoulders hit the wall beside the door. The bags slipped from your hand and thumped to the floor, forgotten.
His body pressed along yours, solid and hot. You could feel how much taller he was, the way he had to tip his head down, the way your toes curled in your boots trying to get closer.
You fisted your hands in his T‑shirt, dragging him down.
He let you.
His tongue slid against yours once, filthy and slow, and you swore you felt his restraint snap like a wire.
He kissed you like that for a long, suspended moment— deep and hungry and too much, not enough— until you felt it, unmistakable: the hard line of him against your hip where his body had betrayed him completely.
You froze first.
He froze right after.
“Shit,” he breathed, tearing his mouth away like he’d been burned. He didn’t go far, his forehead rested against yours, his fingers still buried in your hair but the air between you felt suddenly cold.
You swallowed, chest heaving.
“Is that—” you started, then stopped, because there was really only one thing it could be and you weren’t that naive.
His jaw clenched.
“Well last time I checked I am a man,” he said, voice rough. “So... yes.”
Heat flooded your face, your whole body.
He squeezed his eyes shut, like maybe if he couldn’t see you, this would somehow be less real.
“This is where you leave,” he said, very quietly.
Your stomach dropped.
“You’re kicking me out?” you asked, hating the wobble in your voice.
“I am asking you,” he said, opening his eyes, “to go home before I stop feeling sick about how much I want you.”
You stared at him.
He looked wrecked. Not cold. Not disgusted. Just a man who’d run straight into the limit of his own control and was terrified of what came after.
You swallowed. “You’re not mad at me?”
His thumb stroked the curve of your skull, gentle.
“At you?” he repeated. “No.”
“Then who?” you whispered.
He huffed out a humorless laugh.
“Take your pick,” he said. “Myself. The university. Whatever god thought this was funny.”
“Choso,” you said, and the way his name sounded in your mouth made his eyes darken again.
“Don’t,” he said. “Please.”
“Don’t what?” you asked.
“Say my name like that and expect me to behave,” he said. “I can’t. Not right now.”
You could feel him still half hard against you. The knowledge did something awful and electric to your insides.
“Does it hurt?” you asked before your brain could stop your mouth.
His head thunked back softly against the wall.
“You are actually trying to kill me,” he muttered.
“I’m just—” you said, flustered. “I don’t know how this works. Not like this.”
He looked at you then, really looked, and some of the sharpness left his face.
“It doesn’t have to be complicated,” he said quietly. “I am going to walk away from you, and you are going to pick up your things and walk out my door, and we are both going to pretend, for the rest of the day at least, that I didn’t just press you into a wall and forget what century I live in.”
“That’s your idea of not complicated,” you said.
“Yes,” he said. “It’s the only one that keeps my job and your degree in the same universe.”
You chewed your lip.
“Do you regret it?” you asked softly. “The kissing. Not the…other.”
His eyes flicked to your mouth, then back.
“No,” he said. “That’s the worst part.”
Your chest twisted.
“Then why—”
“Because liking it doesn’t make it less wrong,” he cut in. “And if I keep going, ‘wrong’ becomes ‘irreversible.’”
He eased his hand out of your hair, fingers trailing along your jaw like he was memorizing the shape.
“Pretty girl,” he said, and this time you knew he meant to, “if you stay, I am not going to stop at kissing you. And I don’t get to do that to you. Not yet. Maybe not ever.”
Your breath stuttered at the implication buried in there— yet— and you saw the instant he realized he’d said it.
“Go,” he said quickly, almost pained. “Before I say anything else I shouldn’t.”
You bent, hands shaking, and scooped up the shopping bags.
He didn’t open the door for you; he stepped aside, gave you a clear path, like every inch mattered.
You paused with your hand on the knob.
“Text me,” you said, without turning around. “Later. Just…something normal. So I know you don’t hate me.”
“I don’t hate you,” he said immediately. “That’s the problem.”
“Prove it,” you said.
His answer came after a beat.
“All right,” he said quietly. “I’ll prove it.”
You stepped out into the cool air, heart pounding, cheeks burning, his taste still in your mouth and the ghost of his body against yours.
The door clicked shut behind you.
Inside, he leaned both hands on the wall and bowed his head, breathing hard, trying to decide which felt worse: how much he wanted to drag you back, or how much of him already belonged to the part of you that had looked up at him and asked if it hurt.