things to know: one-shot, wc: 10.9k, fem!reader, they're exes, lowercase intended, suggestive language, substance (ab)use (alcohol), addiction, depression, self sabotage, not proofread, angst, listened to habits stay high , iloveit , and i'll change for you on repeat when writing this, hurt/comfort, a bit of fluff and crack.
you practically wiped off the face of the earth after you and suguru broke up ten months ago.
well, to him you did.
suguru texted you a few times after the breakup just to see how you were holding up but you never replied. he came to realize a few weeks after that you blocked him and his obnoxious white-haired best friend on all socials, deleted his number, and were actively avoiding every spot he could potentially be at like the plague.
he figured it all out on his own. you weren't replying to his messages so he went to check your social media. he was greeted with a user not found page. when satoru noticed his best friend was more quiet and zoned out than usual, he snatched his phone from him to see what he had been staring at for the past ten minutes.
"oh, yikes." he started, giving the phone back to him. "no biggie. just check from my account— you're kidding. what the fuck did i do?!"
he saw you three times over the past ten months. the the first occurance was at the dispensary. he was on his way out and you were on your way in. he opened the door for you and you quite literally turned and walked away.
the second was at a friend's funeral. he passed way unexpectedly in a tragic accident. you paid your respects and the moment you saw he was also there, you left.
you found yourself another coffee shop, gym, grocery store, literally everything. you stopped going to places you had no business going to as well.
gas stations? you didn't drive, so you stopped.
the pet supply store? you didn't have a pet but he did. why bother?
shoko's house? he lives in the apartment complex right across from her's. they're closer and have always been closer. you didn't have to see her at her place anymore.
you also distanced yourself from any mutual friends you had just to lessen the risk of seeing him too. he was having breakfast with shoko when he learned that.
"how's she been? i just wanna know if she's okay."
"i wouldn't know," shoko shrugged, taking a bite of her breakfast sandwich. "she doesn't talk to me much anymore."
"can you figure out? she has me blocked on everything."
"ha," she chuckled while pulling her phone out. "serves you right. i'd do the same."
he really did want to stay in contact with you after the breakup, but he knew better. he knew you wouldn't be able to do that, and it was selfish of him to even expect that. he honestly didn't even know if he himself could hold that promise either, so he understood why you went mia on him.
you could imagine his surprise when he looked down at his phone and saw a call coming from you.
he was at the gym with satoru. suguru was like a night owl. he'd always prefer doing things at night. he'd tell you that's when he felt the most productive—and he was.
he worked an overnight job, did all of his school work at night, and in this instance, he was getting a gym sesh in past midnight with his best friend.
he had just gotten out of the shower after hitting back and biceps, ending the night with cardio. his towel wrapped low around his waist, water droplets dripping onto his body from his hair.
as he finished drying his hair, lotioning, and putting some clothes on, listening to his best friend yap about whatever the fuck, his phone lit up on the counter.
he thought it was strange that someone would be calling him at around 2am.
what was more strange was that your contact was showing up at this ungodly hour.
he almost didn't believe his eyes when he saw your contact name, still saved as 'baby' with a heart, and old contact picture of a candid smile he refused to delete, just like the rest of your pictures.
suguru picked up immediately, already assuming the worst. were you okay? safe? alive? his heart was racing and he began to panic.
"sugu?" you hiccuped.
his heart dropped to his ass.
"please, please. are you there?"
suguru pinched the bridge of his nose. "yeah. yeah, sorry. hey, bab–" he cut himself off after seeing satoru raise an eyebrow. "what's going on?"
"i don't know," you slurred, voice breaking because you felt embarrassed and really just wanted to crawl into a corner and cry. "i'm drunk. i feel sick. i was here with these new people and— and– they left without me." you hiccuped.
"and then there was this guy doing these dumb street interviews and i had to get away because he was annoying. i don't know what to do. i'm lost and alone and i feel like i'm going to pass out and i didn't know who else to call–"
"hey, calm down," suguru replied, trying not to make it seem obvious that he too, was freaking out. "where are you?"
"i was at the club. 44. and then i walked down some street. i don't know which way but i smell curry. not the good kind though. like really bad curry. i feel like i'm going to–" you gagged. "throw up."
"no, don't throw up." he covered the mic of his phone and looked over at satoru, who was frozen in one spot. "hurry up. put some fucking clothes on. we have to leave," suguru scolded.
he uncovered his mic, running off to grab his gym bag. "baby, can you do me a favour? put me on speaker and share your location with me," he asked you with a much gentler tone than he just did with satoru.
"no, i don't think i can," you answered, starting to get overwhelmed. "i just remembered your number but i have you blocked and my phone's about to die–"
"baby?" satoru questioned.
"hurry the fuck up or i'm going to leave you here."
you started crying on the other end abruptly, "why the fuck are you yelling at me?!"
"no, no," suguru took a deep breath in and out, "i'm sorry. i'm not yelling at you. i'm talking to satoru."
satoru quickly grabbed his things and they made their way to suguru's car. he pleaded you stay on the phone with him, to which you rambled on and on about how your phone was about to die and you'd try your best.
suguru pulled out of the parking lot. his phone connected to his car, and that's when satoru began connecting the dots.
"give me five. i'll be there in five. don't move, okay?"
"i can't move, sugu. my entire body feels so heavy."
"good enough. just give me five minutes."
you giggled a bit. "i'd be lucky if someone didn't kidnap me right now."
"don't say that," he scolded. "five minutes, okay?"
he had a pretty good idea where you were, considering 44 was the one club where you and suguru would actually enjoy.
oh right. the third occurance was the club. it was still a month fresh. you were with your friends when you saw him. you were pretty drunk so you didn't run away from him instantly. matter of fact, you looked happy to see him, and even danced with him for a while until the alcohol wore off.
you were at the bar, ordering some more cheap shots for yourself when suguru approached you.
"hey–"
"oh, hiii!" you sang. "you want one, sugu? here, let's have a shot together. it's on me."
he took the shot despite not wanting to drink tonight. he was dragged out of his shared home with satoru and toji because he was "sulking all day n night," according to toji, and how neither of them could stand it anymore. suguru could not say no to you. especially not after seeing you the happiest he had ever since the night you two broke up.
the dj had been playing a mix of your favourite songs.
the kind you used to scream in the car together with the windows down and the bass turned up too loud. music you'd dance to in the kitchen while waiting for your food to heat up. the tunes you'd hum under your breath absentmindedly and then deny doing when he pointed it out. suguru recognized it almost immediately. it made something twist in his chest before he could stop it.
you grabbed his wrist without warning. "come on," you insisted, already tugging him toward the floor. "this one's mine."
he should have refused.
he knew he should have.
he knew that. somewhere, deep down, he knew that.
but a month of not having you near him had done something ugly to his self-control. the second you touched him first, smiling at him like that, whatever sense he had left just folded. the word 'no' died in his throat before it could form, so he let you pull him.
the dance floor was packed. lights flashing overhead in soft, dizzying colours, bass crawling up through the soles of his shoes. people were too close, too loud, too sweaty, but then there was you in front of him laughing and swaying to the music and somehow none of it felt irritating anymore.
"how have you been?" you asked suddenly, like this was normal. like this was just another night. like you hadn't blocked him on everything and vanished out of his life so suddenly.
he stared at you for half a second.
"good."
you squinted at him immediately. "liar."
he almost smiled. "why ask if you're just gonna call me a liar?"
"i wanted to see if you'd lie."
"and?"
"and you did."
he shook his head. "i've been alright."
"you still staying up all night like a psycho?"
"i work overnight."
"that wasn’t the question," you teased.
"... yeah."
you frowned. "that sounds concerning. you should really get that checked out. i'm concerned for you."
"it's not concerning."
"suguru," you deadpanned, swaying a little closer with the music. "everything about you is a little concerning. i worry for you everyday."
that made him laugh for real. not a lot. just enough for his mouth to twitch and the sound to leave his nose.
your eyes widened immediately. "there he is. there's my sweet boy."
you looked so stupidly happy over something so small that it made him feel sick in the worst way.
he missed this.
he missed you giving him shit. he missed the way you'd look at him like pulling one reaction out of him was some great personal victory.
"fine. i'll get it checked out." he gave in. "what about you? how have you been?" he asked after a moment, quieter this time.
you shrugged like it was nothing. "same old."
same old.
like you hadn't cut everyone off. like you hadn't become a ghost. like there wasn't something tired hiding underneath your smile.
his hands stayed on your waist. your arms had moved up loosely around his shoulders by then, more for balance than anything else. at some point the space between you disappeared completely, and neither of you were the ones to fix it.
you tipped your head back to look at him properly, cheeks warm, eyes glassy. "i know you missed me, baby. i did too."
there was no accusation in it. no teasing, either.
he could have lied—probably should have. instead, he just looked at you.
and that was answer enough because your expression softened in that way he remembered too well. the way it only ever did with him. like something in you unclenched. his hand slid slightly higher against your back without him thinking about it, keeping you close. keeping you steady.
and that was when it hit him in one clean, miserable wave.
this was the happiest he had felt in a while.
not at the gym. not at work. not with satoru and toji dragging him around trying to fix him with noise, and routine, and sarcasm. it was here, with you halfway drunk and smiling against him in the middle of a packed dance floor.
the happiest he'd felt was standing in the middle of a crowded club, holding the girl he wasn't supposed to touch anymore.
that was until you suddenly snapped out of it.
you were still swaying together when something changed. your movements slowed. your hands loosened slightly where they rested on his shoulders.
suguru noticed immediately. "you good?" he asked, leaning closer so you could hear him over the music.
you didn't answer. instead, you were staring at him. really staring. like you were seeing him properly for the first time all night.
"… wait." your brows slowly pulled together. your gaze flicked down to where his hands were resting on your waist. then back up to his face. the haze in your eyes cleared just enough. "suguru?"
the way you said his name was different this time hit his gut. "what's up, baby? are you okay?"
panic flickered across your face. you stepped back abruptly, your hands dropping away from his shoulders.
"i—" your eyes darted around the crowded dance floor like you were suddenly trying to remember how you got there. "i have to go."
"hey, wait—"
but you were already shaking your head. "sorry."
the crowd swallowed you almost immediately as you pushed your way toward the edge of the dance floor, disappearing between bodies and flashing lights before he could follow.
it was the last time suguru felt your touch.
"y/n?" satoru asked in a whisper, snapping him out of the memory.
suguru nodded his head and muted for a brief moment. "she's drunk–"
"i'm really trying to wrap my head around why you guys broke up." suguru shot a look at satoru. "what? don't look at me like that. you still love her. she still loves you. i don't get it."
suguru clenched his jaw and unmuted so he could avoid having this conversation.
he knew. in his brain it made sense at the time. he just didn't want to get into it with satoru. it was something he had already gotten into with his psychotherapist and psychiatrist and it was a painful awakening.
his gps was showing his eta to be thirteen minutes away. suguru kept his word and made it in five.
he found you sitting on the curb in a mini skirt and little top, heels taken off and discarded far behind you. your phone was still on, not having the chance to die before suguru had gotten there and you can hear the audio starting to screech in close proximity.
the moment you groaned with irritation, he ended the call. you looked up at him with mascara running down your face because of your little breakdown earlier.
when you saw him, it felt like time stopped.
the world stopped spinning, everyone and everything slowed down.
he was the light of your life.
after you and suguru broke up, not only had you become extremely avoidant, but you numbed the feeling and filled the void with the help of an expensive and impractical form of "therapy": alcohol.
you wouldn't drink all the time. it started off occasional, once every two-ish weeks when you would party with your friends on the weekend. you also had knew your limits that you didn't mean to exceed. you'd tell yourself it happens.
but the context made it concerning.
you'd brush off your friends' concerns, knowing deep down, they were right.
you should have listened.
every two weeks turned into every week, then every few days, then everyday, multiple times everyday where you were always blacked out.
seeing suguru made you want to bawl.
it hit it all at once. you hated that you let it get so bad. you needed help. you wanted to get better. seeing him made you realize that.
you still loved him.
and after all, loving someone means wanting to be better for them.
as he crouched down to reach eye level and placed his retro nike windbreaker over your shoulders, you felt immense shame. you didn't have it in you to look him in the eyes. you didn't want to know if he looked disappointed or disgusted at you.
he didn't.
he was just glad you were safe—and that you trusted him enough to still be there for you.
he took his time putting your arms through the sleeves and zipped it up for you. as he was doing that, you noticed satoru outside of the passager door, using his arms as support to lean on top of suguru's car.
"are you okay?" satoru yelled out.
you couldn't answer in time. you were bridal swept off your feet by suguru swiftly. his hands had come up automatically like second nature. one arm slid behind your back, the other under your knees.
you made a weak sound of protest as your feet leave the ground. "hey," you mumbled. "i could've walked."
"i don't think so," he replied quietly.
you could feel him—solid, warm, familiar in a way that makes your chest ache. he smelt like soap. for a moment your body relaxed before your brain could catch up. he adjusted his grip when you shifted, tightening just enough to keep you steady.
he walked around the car to where satoru's standing. suguru didn't look at him, "get in the back."
"the back?"
"yeah," suguru repeated. "the back."
"this is fucked up," he disapproved.
"you'll survive."
suguru opened the passenger door and lowered you into the seat carefully. he adjusted you when you slumped sideways, made sure your legs are tucked in properly, then reached across to buckle your seatbelt himself. he gave it a small tug to make sure it was secure.
"you good?" he asked for personal reassurance.
you nodded, already melting into the seat.
he pulled his jacket closer around you, tucking it up under your chin like you might get cold, then closed the door ever so gently.
satoru just stared at what was unfolding before his eyes.
"… wooooow," he dragged, closing the door. "i get booted and she gets princess treatment." he leaned forward between the seats. "you know, technically, you could've just let me sit there."
you giggled a bit. typical satoru and his old, rage-baiting antics. god, he was so dramatic.
"you complain too much," suguru shook his head while putting his own seatbelt on.
a little time passed. you were watching the streetlights slide by under the night sky when suguru stopped at a red light.
satoru slouched in the backseat, stretching his legs. "yo, i'm exhausted. there's literally no one out right now. just run the red."
suguru looked at him through his rear view mirror with a raised brow, "no. i'm abiding traffic laws."
you pointed forward immediately, poking his cheek. "aw, laws. i missed that about you."
satoru sighed dramatically. "oh my god. you've been gone ten months and you'ree already ganging up on me again."
"that's because you're annoying, toru," you reply like it's an instinct (it was).
"annoying is crazy."
"you quite literally thrive off getting on everyone's nerves. exhibit one, me. exhibit two, sugu. exhibit three, hime. should i continue?"
suguru let out a quiet huff of laughter before he can stop himself.
you squint at him. "did you just laugh?"
"no."
"oh my god. you so did."
satoru leaned forward between the seats, grinning, "don't lie. you've been miserable for months. that's the first time i've heard you laugh in a while."
"the fuck are you talking about? i didn't laugh," suguru lied. "now sit back. you're distracting me."
he scoffed. still leaning forward, "didn't you run like three reds getting here? now you're talking about laws and safety."
"that was different,” suguru retorted.
"how?" there's a brief silence. "yeaaaahhh, that's what i thought."
you hummed, pleased, "i like when he drives safe."
satoru chuckled, "careful. if you keep that up he's never gonna break a rule again."
"can you not?" suguru rubbed his temple.
the moment the car stopped, he was out of his seat, around the hood, opening your door before you can even unbuckle yourself.
suguru doesn't even let you try to walk.
"okay, okay," you mumbled as he reached for you. "i can–"
he doesn’t argue. he just lifts you.
again.
he pulled you in until your cheek pressed against his shoulder. you barely had time to protest before your body settled, heavy and warm and embarrassingly comfortable. you sighed without meaning to.
the lobby was quiet. almost too quiet. your voice echoed when you whispered. "you're gonna drop me."
"i would never, baby," he said, immediately, adjusting his grip instinctively, thumb caressing into your side. "you know that."
you do.
but that's what made everything about you two hurt more.
the elevator ride was slow. you sway slightly with the movement, fingers curling into the fabric of his hoodie without asking permission.
"all good?" he asked again, softer this time.
you nodded, "you're really strong, sugu."
"of course i am," he replied, softly yet snarkily, still holding you like you weighed nothing.
the elevator doors opened. he continued to carry you down the hallway like it’s nothing. you hadn't walked through these halls in months despite almost always being here throughout the five years you knew suguru, and the three you dated.
suguru exhaled and gestured toward the door. "you got it?"
"yeah, just one sec,” satoru replied, already fishing his keys out as they reach the door, glancing over his shoulder when he realizes suguru never put you down. "huh?"
"what?" suguru asked shifting his grip, steady yet antsy, thinking something happened to you while he couldn't see. "is she okay?"
satoru nodded, unlocking the door. "yeah. just looks like she's damn near boutta pass out."
"don't drop me," you mumbled as suguru walked into their apartment.
satoru huffed, keeping the door open, "surprised he didn't."
the apartment looked the same. it was dim and quiet at night compared to the chaos that comes throughout the day.
you always loved it here. the kitchen was on the left as soon as you'd enter, leading into the living room, and then three rooms—one for toji, one for satoru, and one for suguru. only toji's room was shut right now. he was probably fast asleep.
suguru placed you on the couch. you immediately sank into the cushions, pillows, and blankets that were laid out. he turned on the lamp near the couch on for a little more light.
"there," he starts, "stay."
you nod at his command, "i think i'm pretty good at that."
satoru snorts from behind you, toeing off his shoes, "liar. you ran off and got lost less than an hour ago."
suguru disappeared into the kitchen while you and satoru continued to bicker. he soon came back with a glass of water, crouching slightly to hold it out to you.
you handed the glass back when you're done, leaning sideways into the couch cushions. suguru pulls a blanket from underneath you and drapes it over you without comment, tucking it around your legs. his fingers linger for a second longer than necessary.
a comfortable silence settled in.
a little too familiar, like how it used to be.
"okay!" satoru slapped the couch, disrupting the silence, "i'm tapping out now. i'm sensing something coming and i don't wanna be in between that. don't have the brain power for that right now."
you frowned, "you're abandoning me?"
"yes. i am," he repeated. "love you, but i'm tired," he stretched. "let me know if you need anything."
"i won't."
"yeaaahh, we'll see about that. you absolutely will," he ruffled your hair before walking towards his room. "you know where i'll be."
suguru sighed, "go to bed."
satoru grinned at you, softer now. "night." you waved back.
the silence stretched once again. you could not look at him. you hadn't been able to look him in the eyes the entire night. you sat on the couch, everything coming back to you again. his words, his promises, his warmth, his touch, memories with him.
it was right about now where you wished satoru didn't leave. the alcohol was leaving your system rudely.
your throat began to close up again. it felt like wires were tightening up around your neck, making it hard to breathe, hard to regulate yourself.
unbeknownst of your state again, suguru excused himself momentarily, "i'll be back. i'm just going to grab something."
he went into his bathroom, scurrying through his cabinets and drawers knowing he didn't throw out the makeup wipes you left at his place in bulk. it took him a little to find them because they were hidden away at the back, but he got them. he read the packaging carefully, making sure they were still good to use. he grabbed an unopened pack, knowing they'd still be okay.
then, he went into his closet and looked through some hoodies. his fingers immediately recognized your favourite one he owned, also hidden at the back. it was just the sage essentials hoodie, but for some reason you loved it.
he remembered how the conversation went and could not help but smile sadly at the bittersweet memory.
"you need to stop stealing my clothes, baby. i'm running out."
"i mean, i could give everything back," you responded, sitting at your desk finishing a paper whilst in his hoodie. "not this one though."
"i don't even think i got to wear it yet," he stated politely, pointing out a fact. not offended, nor argument-driven, just calm and patient, like he always has been with you.
"girlfriend tax, sugu. sorry not sorry," you smiled. "in my defence, this is the only one that actually fits me well. the rest are like dresses on me."
"okay," he kissed your forehead. "it's yours. only because you look good in it."
he found your shorts he did not get to give back to you. they were thin, black shorts but he figured you'd be a lot more comfortable in these than the skirt you were wearing.
he had just stepped back into the living room when he saw you curled in on yourself, shoulders shaking, mascara streaked even worse than before. your top was gone, discarded somewhere on the floor without really thinking about it, overheated and uncomfortable. you were sitting there in nothing but your bra under the heap of blankets.
he froze for half a second, then hurried to you. he placed the wipes and clothes on the table across from you without looking.
"hey, hey, hey. what's wrong?" he asked quietly. "why are you crying?"
you tried to wipe your face quickly when you saw him standing there.
it didn't help.
you looked like a mess. you were a mess.
your eyes were red, lashes clumped, eyeliner smeared halfway down your cheeks, lips trembling like you were barely holding it together.
he knelt in front of you on the ground. he placed his hands on your covered legs and drew little circles into the blanket with his thumb. he was close enough for you you could feel his warmth again and it made something in your chest cave in.
"slow down," his voice remained quiet. "look at me. i only left for a minute. what's going on?"
you shook your head. "i can't," you whispered, voice cracking. "i'm sorry, i didn't mean to start again, i just— it won't stop. i don't know why it won't stop."
the rest dissolved into sobs.
he sat beside you, approaching you slowly. his arm slid around your shoulders slowly, cautiously, like he was testing whether you'd let him. his hand rested flat behind your head first, thumb brushing your hair lightly. when you didn't pull away, when you didn't tense up or tell him to stop, he tightened his hold just a little and guided you closer.
your body went with him without resistance.
your forehead pressed into his chest, right over his heart, and you hated how natural it felt. how your muscles relaxed on instinct, how your breathing shifted automatically to match his.
it was like your body remembered him better than your mind did.
his other arm came up around your back, folding you in completely now, holding you close in a way that felt both protective and familiar. his hand settled between your shoulder blades, firm and steady, fingers spreading slightly like he was grounding himself as much as he was grounding you.
you could feel him everywhere.
the warmth of his body through his shirt. the slow rise and fall of his chest under your cheek. the quiet, steady rhythm of his heartbeat. the faint scent of his shampoo and cologne that clung to him, something you'd always associated with comfort.
you clutched at his shirt without thinking, fingers curling into the fabric like you were afraid he might let go if you didn't hold on. your grip was uneven and weak at first, hesitant, like you weren’t sure you were allowed to touch him like this anymore.
he noticed this, like how he noticed everything. his hand moved. it slid up your back slightly, pressing you closer, a silent reassurance.
it was okay.
you could.
your face buried deeper into his chest, and that was when the sob you'd been holding back finally broke free. it wasn't loud. it wasn't dramatic. it was quiet and ugly and shaky.
"shhh, calm down," he murmured softly, lips brushing against your hair as he spoke. "i got you."
one of his hands began moving in slow, steady strokes up and down your back, from your shoulders to the middle of your spine and back again. the motion was repetitive, grounding, something he'd done for you countless times before when you were overwhelmed or anxious or couldn't sleep.
and that was when it really hit him.
you never cried like this.
in all the years he'd known you, he could count the times he'd seen you properly break down on both hands, nothing more.
the night you'd spotted that trembling stray on the sidewalk and knelt down in the rain because you couldn't stand the thought of it being alone. he caught you tearing up a bit, but wiping your tears away before he'd noticed. he promised you he'd take it home, and he had.
the week your grandparents passed within days of each other, when you'd sat on his bed in silence for hours before finally curling into him and letting yourself cry, apologizing between breaths like you were doing something wrong.
the nights you'd gotten overwhelmed about school, work, and your future, staring at the ceiling and insisting you were fine until the pressure built up too much and cracked through.
that was it.
that was all.
every other time, you swallowed it. joked it off. distracted yourself. took care of everyone else first. you were strong to a fault.
you felt it in the way your body responded immediately, tension slowly bleeding out of you with every pass of his hand. your sobs softened into broken breaths, then into quiet sniffles pressed against his chest.
he didn't check his phone, didn't shift away, didn't rush you. he stayed like that the entire time.
"breathe," he whispered into your hair. "just breathe with me, okay? slow down."
he inhaled slowly, exaggerated it a little, held it for a second, then let it out. you tried to follow, even though it felt impossible at first. your breaths were uneven and shaky, but eventually, slowly, they started to match his. after a while, your sobs softened into quiet sniffles and broken little breaths.
your throat hurt. your head felt heavy. you felt empty and too full at the same time.
he never let go.
when you finally lifted your head, your eyes landed on his chest and you frowned faintly. "i got makeup on your shirt." there was a dark smudge of mascara, liner, and foundation smeared across his t-shirt from where you'd been crying into it.
he glanced down, clicked his tongue softly. "doesn't matter." he brushed his thumb gently under your eye, wiping away another tear. "what's going on with you, baby?" his voice laced with pure concern and ache, "please talk to me."
"nothing," you lied. "i've just been drinking. i'm tired. it happens. i'm sorry."
he tilted his head and raised a brow. "try again."
he saw right through you.
"i don't know," you finally admitted. "i thought i did. i always think i do. but i don't."
he waited.
"i didn't mean for tonight to happen like this," you went on. "i didn't mean to get that drunk. i didn't mean to lose my friends. i didn't mean to call you. it just keeps happening."
your voice wavered.
"i'm tired of pretending i'm okay," you whispered. "i'm not. i've been pretending for so long i don't even know what 'okay' is supposed to feel like anymore."
suguru knew that feeling all too well.
if anyone knew, it was him.
after all, that is why he had decided to leave.
he remembered the night clearly.
the way the words had tasted wrong the moment they left his mouth. even though it made him sick to his stomach, he knew he had to be mean, or else you wouldn't let go.
the way you had looked at him across the room like the air had been knocked out of you. he had told himself he was doing the right thing—that he was protecting you from the worst parts of him.
back then, his head had this constant, heavy fog. it was suffocating. every thought circling the same conclusion that he was dragging you down with him. every bad day he had, he started noticing the way you watched him more carefully. the way you tried to lighten the room when he went quiet, the way you carried both of your moods on your shoulders without ever complaining.
it had terrified him.
not because you were doing anything wrong, but rather because you were doing everything right.
you loved him enough to stay, and he had convinced himself that was exactly the problem.
so he left first.
he had told himself you would heal faster that way—if he stepped out of your life completely, you would eventually move on and find someone easier to love. someone who didn't come with the weight he carried around inside his chest every day.
he thought he had been doing you a favour.
sitting here now, holding you while you cried into his shirt, the idea felt almost cruel.
his hand slowed slightly on your back. "have you been drinking like this a lot?" he asked quietly.
you didn't answer right away. your fingers tightened slightly in his shirt. "… yeah." the word came out small.
"how long?"
you sniffed, wiping under your nose with the back of your hand before answering. "i don't know," you admitted. "a while."
he didn't need more explanation than that. the exhaustion in your voice said enough.
"every day?" he asked carefully.
you hesitated again. "most days."
suguru exhaled slowly in worry. "okay," he murmured. "that's okay. we'll figure that out."
you frowned faintly against his chest. "figure what out?"
"how to help you."
you pulled back just enough to look at him properly for the first time since the crying had started. your lashes were still wet, eyes swollen and red, but there was something searching in your expression now.
"why would you do that?" you asked quietly.
the question caught him off guard. his brows pulled together slightly. "what do you mean?"
"why would you help me?" you repeated. "you left me."
"because it's you," he said.
he stared at you for a moment like the answer was obvious.
because it was.
"i'm going to help you no matter what. any time, irregardless of what we are. you mean too much to me for me to not help you when you reach out."
"that's not fair," you whispered. "you can just say things like that."
suguru stilled, "i'm sorr–"
"do you know how hard it's been to stay away from you? i thought if i kept seeing you i'd just… keep coming back," you admitted. "and that felt worse."
his mind flashed briefly to the three times he had seen you over the past months. the dispensary. the funeral. the club.
every single time you had turned and walked away from him like he was something dangerous. he had thought you were finally moving on. he had thought you hated him.
"i missed you too much."
suguru felt something in his chest shift uncomfortably. it was the realization settling slowly into place.
you sniffed again, voice barely above a whisper now.
"i still love you. and i hate that i do."
"i know," he said softly.
your brows furrowed. "do you?"
"yeah," his voice was quiet, but steady.
you stared at him, searching his face like you were trying to figure out if he meant it.
"then why did you leave?" you asked. there wasn't anger laced in your voice, just exhaustion.
"because i thought loving me was hurting you." the words came out louder now. "i thought if i stayed you'd eventually start resenting me for it."
you shook your head faintly. "that wasn't your decision to make."
"i know. i know that now."
his hand slid gently to the side of your neck, thumb resting just under your ear where he could feel the faint rhythm of your pulse. he hesitated for only a moment before continuing.
"… i love you. i never stopped. not once."
your eyes glistened again, but this time you weren't crying. if anything, you looked stunned. like the idea that he might still love you had never crossed your mind.
your hand lifted slowly, brushing along the side of his jaw. you let out a shaky breath and leaned forward. "you're an idiot."
"yeah," he admitted easily. "i know that too."
he moved first, but it was slow. so slow you had time to pull away, to push him, to run like you had been for months. you didn't. you met him him halfway.
the first touch of your lips was impossibly soft. it was a gentle, questioning press that was more breath than kiss. it was hesitant, testing the waters after a ten month drought.
his lips were warm, softer than you remembered. they parted immediately under yours, a quiet, welcoming surrender. your hand slid from his jaw to the back of his neck, your fingers tangling in the soft hair at his nape, holding on for dear life.
his hands, which had been resting on your legs, flew to your waist, gripping you tight enough to bruise, pulling you flush against him until there was no space left. he gripped onto you like he was afraid you might disappear. one slid up your back, tracing the line of your spine through the blanket before coming to rest between your shoulder blades, pressing you closer.
he was holding you close, but it wasn't demanding. it was grounding, like he was making sure you were real, that you were really here.
the kiss deepened, but it never grew frantic. it remained soft, almost reverent. his tongue traced your bottom lip, a slow, deliberate sweep that made you shiver.
you opened for him without a second thought, a soft sigh escaping your throat as his tongue met yours. it wasn't a hungry exploration, but a familiar, comforting dance.
it was like coming home.
"i missed this," he murmured against your lips, his voice thick with emotion. "i missed you."
you could taste the faint mint of his toothpaste, coconut chapstick, the unique flavour that was just him, and it was intoxicating.
he shifted, turning you both slightly so you were leaning back against the couch cushions, his body hovering over yours without crushing you. the angle changed, and the kiss became deeper, more intimate. his hand moved from your back to cup the side of your neck, his thumb stroking the sensitive skin just below your ear. you could feel the frantic, unsteady beat of his heart against your ribs, a rhythm that matched your own.
this was the suguru you knew.
the suguru who kissed you like you were the most precious thing in the world, who could pour all the words he couldn't say into a single touch. you were melting into it, your body relaxing under his, your hands roaming his shoulders, his back, reacquainting yourself with the solid, familiar planes of his body. a part of you, the part that had been lonely and hurting for ten months, wanted more. it wanted to feel his skin against yours, to lose yourself in him until the pain went away.
"i love you," the kiss broke apart slowly, your foreheads resting together. his eyes were closed, his breathing unsteady. "fuck, i love you so much."
you didn't trust yourself to speak, so you just nodded, pulling him back in. this time it was less hesitant, more sure. it wasn't hungry or desperate, but thorough. it was like he was trying to memorize you all over again, mapping every curve and dip of your mouth. his tongue slid against yours, a slow, deliberate dance that sent a shiver down your spine.
"sugu," you breathed out, your head falling back to give him better access, your eyes fluttering shut.
"yes, baby?" his voice was muffled against your skin, the words a broken, worshipful thing. it was the name he was finally allowed to call you after ten months, and it shattered what was left of your composure.
"please, touch me."
he pulled back just enough to look at you, his eyes dark and serious. just as suddenly as it started, he stopped.
he pulled back, his breathing heavy and ragged, his hands still gripping you like he was afraid you'd vanish. his lips were swollen and red, his eyes dark and clouded with a mixture of lust and something else. something pained.
he didn't see the mess—he just saw you. he saw the girl he'd loved for years, the girl he'd broken, the girl he was desperate to put back together.
"i'm sorry," he whispered, his voice hoarse. "we can't."
your heart plummeted. shame, hot and sharp, flooded your veins.
of course.
this was a mistake.
you were a mess. a drunk, pathetic mess.
and he'd finally come to his senses. you tried to pull away, to retreat back into yourself, but his grip on you tightened, holding you in place.
"hey, look at me," he said, his voice gentle now. you couldn't. you kept your eyes down, staring at the dark smear of mascara on his t-shirt. "please, look at me."
you finally met his gaze, and what you saw there wasn't rejection. it was concern. it was that same soft, achingly familiar look he'd always given you when you were hurting.
"not like this," he said softly, his thumb stroking your cheek. "not when you're drunk. not when you're hurting. you deserve more than that, baby."
you just stared at him, your mind too fuzzy to process his words. he sighed, a quiet, resigned sound, and carefully untangled himself from you.
he knelt in front of you again, his expression unreadable. "come here," he murmured, gently taking your chin in his hand.
he pulled one of the wipes from the pack, the scent of cucumber and green tea filling the air. he was so careful as he started to clean your face, his touch impossibly light. he wiped away the tracks of your tears, the smudged mascara, the foundation that was caked around your eyes. he didn't say a word, just worked gently, his brow furrowed in concentration.
it was the most intimate thing he'd done all night.
more intimate than the kiss, more intimate than the desperate way he'd held you. this was suguru taking care of you, the way he always had. this was him seeing you at your absolute worst and choosing to tend to you instead of taking advantage.
once your face was clean, he set the wipes aside and picked up the hoodie. it was your favourite one, the soft sage green one that was perfectly worn in. "arms up," he instructed softly.
you obeyed, lifting your arms over your head. he pulled the hoodie over you, his knuckles brushing against your skin, sending a shiver down your spine. it swallowed you whole, the fabric soft and warm, and it smelled overwhelmingly of him. of laundry detergent and his cologne and something that was just uniquely suguru.
he then picked up the shorts. "can you stand up for me?" you shook your head, your body feeling too heavy. he just nodded, like he expected that. "okay, just lift your hips."
he hooked his fingers into the waistband of your skirt, his gaze fixed on your face, not your body, as he slid it down your legs and tossed it aside. he helped you into the shorts, his hands lingering on your hips for just a second longer than necessary before he pulled away.
he stood up, and for a terrifying moment, you thought he was going to leave you there, cold and alone on the couch.
he stood up and held out his hand. "come on."
"where?" you whispered, your eyes wide.
"just to sleep," he promised, his voice soft. "i'll take the couch. you need to sleep in a real bed."
you shook your head. the thought of being in his bed without him somehow worse than being on the couch alone. "can you stay here with me? please? just for tonight," your voice had that small, vulnerable edge again. "i don't want to be alone."
he looked at you for a long moment, his gaze searching yours. he looked at the tear tracks on your clean cheeks, the way you were clutching his hoodie, the raw fear in your eyes.
you were his weakness. his kryptonite, even. you always made him give in.
"of course. i'm not going anywhere," he murmured.
you shifted further onto the couch, making room for him. he adjusted automatically, lying down on the outer edge, his back near the open room, his body angled slightly around yours.
it was a subconscious, protective gesture, one he'd made a thousand times before. putting himself between you and the rest of the world.
you tucked yourself in against him, instinctively, your body remembering the shape of his even when your mind was a mess. your forehead pressed against the solid warmth of his chest, right over his heart, your hand resting lightly against his stomach.
you could feel the steady, rhythmic beat of his heart under your ear, a slow, comforting thrum that was already starting to lull you into a state of calm.
his arm wrapped around you without discussion, settling securely across your back. his other hand came up to rest on your head, his fingers stroking through your hair in a slow, repetitive motion.
your breathing evened out quicker this time. the exhaustion, both emotional and physical, caught up to you fast. the weight of the last ten months, the alcohol, the crying, the emotional whiplash of seeing him again—it all crashed down on you at once.
your body went heavy, your muscles relaxing one by one. within minutes, your grip on his hoodie slackened, your hand going limp against his stomach.
he stayed awake a little longer.
listening to the sound of your breathing, deep and even now. making sure you were really okay, that this wasn't another dream he'd wake up from alone. he could feel the gentle puffs of your breath against his neck, the soft weight of your head on his chest.
it was familiar and agonizing all at once. he pressed a soft, lingering kiss to the top of your head, his lips lingering in your hair. he'd forgotten what this felt like. he'd forgotten how right it felt to hold you like this.
eventually, his eyes closed too.
——
morning came in slowly.
satoru shuffled into the kitchen first, hair a mess, still half asleep. he stopped mid-step when he saw the couch. "... oh?"
toji followed. "what now."
they both looked down to see you and suguru tangled together on the couch, completely out, faces relaxed, breathing slow and synced.
"... oh." toji stared. "man, it's been months."
satoru grinned. "nah. i knew it."
toji groaned, opening his wallet. "you said by christmas."
"i said before the year ended. it's only the first week of december. technically, i'm still right. pay up."
"okay, but this isn't 'back together' either. they're just sleeping."
"look at them," satoru scoffed quietly. "that's not casual. you're telling me you and your missus don't sleep together like that?"
toji handed over the fifty with a sigh. "fuck you."
suguru woke up the way he always did. too early, half-aware, and still tired. and the first thing he saw was two faces hovering directly above him.
he jolted. "holy fuck—"
the sudden movement sent a shock of adrenaline through his system. before his brain had even caught up with the sight of satoru and toji's smirking faces, his body reacted on pure instinct.
his arm, which had been resting loosely across your back, snapped around you. he pulled you flush against him, your body shifting easily in his arms. he rolled slightly, curling his body over yours in a move that was both protective and possessive, shielding you from the unexpected intrusion.
your face, which had been resting on his chest, was now buried in the crook of his neck, your breath warm against his skin. he held you there, a solid, unmoving wall between you and his idiot friends, his heart slamming against his ribs as he stared up at them.
"suguru's awake," satoru whispered loudly.
"no shit," toji replied, his eyes fixed on the way suguru was practically covering your body with his own. "yeah, you win."
"see, that wasn't casual."
"not at all."
"what the fuck are you guys doing?" suguru scolded quietly, making sure you wouldn't wake up to their stupidity.
toji moved his head slowly, "could ask you the same thing. you back together?"
suguru rolled his eyes, "no."
"give me my fifty back," toji tried snatching the fifty back from satoru but he wouldn't budge. he ignored him, for now, and immediately focused on suguru again. "you fucking?"
"what time is it, holy," suguru sighed, tiredly. he glanced at his phone to see it was still just 7:25am. "it's too early for you to be running your mouth like that. watch it."
"okay, then elaborate," toji snarked. "what am i looking at?"
suguru's gaze softened for a fraction of a second as he looked down at you.
you were still fast asleep, completely oblivious.
your cheek was pressed against his shoulder, one hand fisted in the fabric of his t-shirt right over his heart. your legs were tangled with his under the blanket, your knee bent and resting against his thigh. even in sleep, you were seeking his warmth, his comfort.
he tightened his arm around you again, his hand splaying across your back, holding you even closer. it was an unconscious gesture, one that spoke volumes. he looked back up at toji, his expression hardening again.
"i don't know yet," he admitted, agitated. "now please, both of you, fuck off."
"aight, whatever," toji shrugged his shoulders. "i've got work in another hour and a half. hold whatever drama you guys are going to get into until then."
"suguru," satoru called out from the kitchen with his overly sweet morning coffee. "i've got class at 10:30. i'm practically begging you to wait until then."
"if your loud mouths shut up, you wouldn't have to worry about it," suguru scoffed. "if you guys wake her up, you'll have to deal with it. hide in your rooms until then or something."
you suddenly shifted. your body heavy and warm, a feeling of unfamiliar comfort surrounding you.
that was wrong.
your bed wasn't this warm. your pillow didn't smell like him.
the memories hit you then, not as a coherent narrative, but as a series of disjointed, sensory flashes. the thumping bass of the club, the burn of cheap vodka, the cold night air on your face. his car.
his hands on you. his mouth on yours, soft and questioning at first, then deeper, more certain. the desperate, aching want that had flooded your system, the way you'd clung to him, silently begging for more. the feeling of his body over yours, the solid weight of him, the worshipful way he'd touched you.
you pulled back quickly, sitting upright so fast the blanket pooled in your lap and the world tilted violently. your heart was suddenly racing, beating against your ribs.
the room felt wrong. too bright. too close. the air was thick with the scent of him—laundry detergent, his cologne, and something uniquely, painfully suguru.
your eyes landed on him.
he was sitting up beside you, watching you with a guarded expression. he was in a simple t-shirt with your makeup on it and sweats, his hair still slightly messy from sleep.
your gaze dropped on the hoodie you were wearing. your favourite one. the one you dropped off when he wasn't home months ago. then onto your discarded skirt and top, scattered in a neat pile near the coffee table.
your stomach dropped.
"no," you muttered under your breath, the word a choked, horrified whisper.
he stood up slowly, his movements careful, deliberate, like he was approaching a spooked animal. "hey. it's okay."
"don't," you said quickly, scrambling to your feet.
satoru and toji looked at each other frightened. they truly did not want to get caught up in this. they both snuck into the nearest room, satoru's, without being seen. however, they were still very much going to listen.
your head swam, a wave of dizziness washing over you, but you ignored it, stumbling back a step. "i don't remember getting here. i don't remember falling asleep."
your brain was racing ahead of you, filling in the blanks with the worst-case scenarios.
what had you done?
what had you said?
you remembered wanting him, remembered kissing him with a desperation that bordered on pathetic, but after that?
nothing. it was a blur.
"did i— did we?" you stopped yourself, the question catching in your throat. you couldn't ask it. you couldn't bear to hear the answer.
"no." he said gently, his voice soft but steady. "you called me. i picked you up—"
"i know that," you snapped, more panicked than angry. "i remember the club. after that it's just… bits and pieces. that's not good."
you bent down, your fingers clumsy and shaking as you grabbed your skirt from the floor. shame was flooding in fast, hot and suffocating. "i should go."
he didn't move, just watched you with an unnerving calm. "you just woke up."
"exactly," you replied, your voice tight, strained. "i shouldn't have stayed."
you turned and moved toward the door, your clothes clutched in your hand like a shield. you had to get out. you had to breathe.
his hand caught your wrist. "no."
"let go."
"we need to talk."
you finally turned to face him, your eyes wide and pleading. "i don't know what i did. i don't know what i said. let me leave, suguru. please."
"you told me you still love me last night."
the words landed between you like something physical. you stopped fighting him immediately.
your body went completely still, energy draining out of you all at once. you just stood there, your wrist still held in his gentle grip, your mind utterly blank.
"… what?"
he didn't soften it. didn't wrap it in anything. he just looked at you, his gaze steady and unwavering.
"you told me you still love me. we're going to talk about it."
the panic drained from your face in slow degrees, replaced with something quieter. heavier. more devastating. the shame was still there, but now it was mixed with a raw, terrifying vulnerability.
you had said that. you had laid your heart bare, and you couldn't even remember doing it.
your grip on your clothes loosened, your fingers going numb. the fabric slipped slightly, but you didn't notice.
the air in the room felt thick, heavy with the weight of your confession. your breathing steadied, but your chest felt hollow, achingly empty. you could feel the start of a headache brewing behind your eyes.
he finally let go of your wrist, but he didn't step away. he gestured towards the couch. "sit down. please."
you didn't have the energy to argue. you sank onto the couch, your clothes falling into a forgotten heap beside you. you wrapped your arms around yourself, a flimsy barrier against the cold reality of the morning.
he knelt down in front of you. he left a careful foot of space between you, a space that felt both a courtesy and a chasm.
he put the blanket back onto your bare legs. he leaned forward, really looking into your eyes.
"you called me around two," he started, his voice low. "you were at that club downtown. i told you to stay put, that i was coming to get you."
you just stared at your hands, picking at a loose thread on the couch cushion. you remembered that part. the desperate, lonely urge to call the one person you knew shouldn't answer.
"you were upset and drunk. i brought you back here. you didn't want to be alone."
he paused, running a hand through his hair. you could feel his gaze on you, but you couldn't bring yourself to meet it.
"we talked," he said. "we talked about the last ten months. about how miserable we've both been. and then… you told me you still love me."
your breath hitched. it was one thing to hear the words, another to hear the context. to know it wasn't just a drunken slur, but a confession born from months of pain.
"i told you i never stopped loving you either," he admitted.
the words hit you like a physical blow. you finally looked up at him, your eyes wide. he looked just as wrecked as you felt.
"we kissed. it wasn't just a drunken mistake. not for me, at least. hopefully not for you either."
"i remember that," you shook your head, confusion and warring emotions swirling inside you. "but i don't remember saying it.”
"i can tell," he smiled gently yet painfully. "but you did. and i need to know. was it just the alcohol talking or did you mean it?"
the question hung in the air, heavy and loaded. it was the moment of truth. the moment you had to decide whether to run back to the safety of your lonely apartment or to take a terrifying leap of faith.
you looked at him, really looked at him. at the dark circles under his eyes, at the way his shoulders were slumped with a weight you knew all too well. at the hope and fear warring in his gaze.
you thought about the last ten months. the sleepless nights, the forced smiles, the constant, dull ache of missing him. you thought about the flashes of memory from last night—the comfort of his arms, the rightness of his kiss.
you took a shaky breath, the words catching in your throat.
"i meant it," you whispered, the admission feeling both terrifying and like a release.
for a long moment, he didn't move, nor say anything. you were sure you'd made a mistake, that you'd just handed him a loaded gun and he was deciding whether to pull the trigger. the silence stretched, thick and suffocating.
then, you felt the couch shift as he moved. he closed the careful foot of space he'd left between you. his arm slid around your shoulders, tentative at first, and then he was pulling you into him.
you went stiff for a second, your body's instinct to protect itself warring with your desperate need for his comfort.
his other arm came around you, his hand sreading across your back, and he just held you. one of his hands came up to cup the back of your head, his fingers tangling gently in your hair, pressing your face into the crook of his neck.
that was your undoing.
the careful composure you'd been clinging to shattered. you didn't realize when, but you began to tear up again. it wasn't sad, but relieving—a release of months of pain you hadn't allowed yourself to feel. you clung to him, your fists gripping the soft fabric of his t-shirt, your body trembling against his.
he just held you tighter. he didn't shush you or tell you it was okay. he just let you have a moment, his own breathing ragged in your ear, his hand stroking your back in a slow, soothing rhythm.
when your tears finally subsided, leaving you feeling weak and hollowed out, you didn't pull away. you just stayed there, tucked against him, listening to the steady, reassuring beat of his heart. it was the most peaceful you'd felt in half a year.
"i'm sorry," you mumbled into his neck, your voice hoarse.
"you have nothing to be sorry for." he said, his voice a low rumble against your ear. "i'm sorry."
"it's okay, suguru."
you finally pulled back just enough to look at him, your face blotchy and your eyes swollen. he gently cupped your jaw, his thumb stroking your cheek.
"so… what now?" you whispered, the question feeling impossibly big.
he took a slow breath, his gaze serious. "first, you're going to let me make you some coffee and something to eat."
you wanted to argue, but the thought of food and coffee was suddenly overwhelmingly appealing. you just nodded, unable to find the words.
he stood up, pulling you with him. he kept a hand on your waist, steadying you as you swayed slightly. "go brush and wash your face. you know where my bathroom is," he gestured towards his bedroom. "i'll be in the kitchen."
you gave him a small, hesitant nod before disappearing into his room. the bathroom was just as you remembered it, tidy and clean. you grabbed a spare brush from his drawer and used his toothpaste.
you splashed cold water on your face, trying to wash away the evidence of your breakdown. you looked at your reflection in the mirror—at your puffy eyes and pale skin—and barely recognized the person staring back at you.
when you emerged a few minutes later. the smell of coffee filled the small apartment. you found him in the kitchen, standing by the counter, two mugs in hand. he was wearing that same soft, guarded expression, but there was something new there too. a flicker of hope.
"we're not just jumping right back into things," he said, his voice quiet, like he was reading your mind. "i know we can't. there's too much happened between us."
you looked up at him, relieved.
"we talk. for real this time. about everything. about why i left, about what you felt."
"okay," you agreed, your voice barely a whisper. "tonight?"
"it's up to you. whenever you want to, i'm here for you. i'm ready. you stay here tonight," he added, his tone leaving no room for argument. "you can stay in my room, and i'll stay out here."
"seriously?" you sulked. "i've spent months away from you and we can't sleep together?"
a hint of a smile played on his lips.
"it's not funny."
"i know, baby. we'll take it slow," he continued, his gaze fixed on yours. "one day at a time. we start over. we go on dates. i pick you up, i bring you flowers— everything we used to do."
"flowers, huh?" a small, watery smile touched your lips.
"roses, lilies, and tulips. he leaned forward and booped your nose. you scrunched it immediately after. "yeah, i still remember,"
"but for tonight, we can watch a movie, order some food, and talk about whatever you want to talk about."
you looked at him, at the hopeful, earnest look in his eyes, and felt something inside you finally start to heal. you nodded. "i'd like that."
his hand coverered yours. "we're going to fix this," he said, his voice full of quiet conviction. "i promise."
you squeezed his hand, a silent agreement. "i believe you."
"fucking finally, holy fuck."
you turned around to see none other than toji walking out of satoru's room. no one else has a more suggestive way of speaking. satoru followed him out, waving slightly at the both of you. and no one's more nosey than the two.
"i'm going to be late to work now because of you," he directed towards more suguru than you. he then ruffled the hair on your head. "missed you, kid. i'll see you later."
"still only a year younger than you," you remarked.
it was his nickname for you ever since you two met, which was eight years ago. he waved without looking and shut the door behind him. now your attention diverted to satoru.
"how are you?" you asked, discreetly wiping your eyes. "still annoying as ever, i assume."
"ha, ha, ha," he raised his brows and smirked. "i can hold what just happened, and last night over you, by the way."
suguru scoffed, "no you won't." he took a sip out his mug and gave him a stare.
"you're no fun," satoru sighed. "i'm doing wonderful. ask why."
pairing: bf!jjk men x chubby!reader | gojo, geto, nanami, yuji, megumi, yuta, choso, toji, sukuna
synopsis: still being new to your relationship with him, the two of you learn to grow more comfortable around one another. but he gets a little too touchy and you panic, scared he'll run away once he gets to know all parts of you...
cw: established relationship, chubby/curvy reader, heian!sukuna, toji and sukuna lowkey ooc but idc, cussing, insecurity, self-deprecating thoughts and words, reader is very insecure, reassurance, fluff, petnames
wc: 1k each
masterlist
ᯓ★ Satoru Gojo
You were currently making breakfast, early in the morning. What should’ve been twenty minutes of baking turned into forty-five, since this wasn’t your kitchen and you weren’t yet familiar with it.
That’s right, you were in your boyfriend’s kitchen. This was the first time ever that you’d slept over.
The two of you hadn’t gone there yet, you just fell asleep entangled with one another after watching a cheesy movie. You were grateful for how patient he was, never rushing you into something you weren’t a hundred percent certain of.
So to show your gratitude and affection, you decided you’d get up early and make him pancakes. You knew he loved his sweets at any time of the day.
After rummaging through every cabinet and drawer, you’d eventually managed to gather all ingredients and tools necessary. And now, you waited for them to cook over the stove, flipping them every so often.
Your intense focus on them was what made you inattentive to Satoru’s arrival into the kitchen.
“Morning.” he yawned, ducking his head under the doorframe to walk through.
You flinch a little, caught off guard by his presence. “Good morning… I didn’t hear you come in.” you glance at him over your shoulder, spatula still at the ready near the pancakes.
He simply smiled in response, before his eyes landed on the kitchentop. “What’cha making?”
You moved sideways to give him a better view of the food. “Pancakes. Thought you’d probably like something sweet.”
His eyes light up at the words ‘pancakes’ and ‘sweet’, and he makes his way over to you. “You know me so well.”
You chuckle softly before turning back to the stove, and flipping a pancake over.
“You should’ve stayed in bed with me longer though…” he speaks in a more hushed tone now.
You feel your cheeks flush just a bit, and let out a nervous laugh.
Standing behind you now—or rather, towering—his arms carefully wrap themselves around your soft waist, and he rests his chin on your head, watching you as you cook. “Thought you ran away from me,” he mutters softly, tilting his head to press kisses to your cheek, and down the curve of your jaw.
Unable to contain them, giggles erupt out of you at the ticklish feeling. “Satoru, come on, stop—” your shoulder meets the side of your face in an attempt to shield yourself from his affectionate attacks.
But he moves to pepper kisses on the other side of your face that’s still left unguarded. He laughs along with you, in between pecks, whilst letting out exaggerated kissy noises.
Your heart felt full in a way you never could’ve imagined. You couldn’t have been happier.
That was, until he’d started wiggling his fingers.
They tickled you all over, from your stomach, to your back, to your sides, and even your arms.
You squirmed, your body jerking in all directions while laughter bubbled out of your throat at the sensation.
“Satoru—” you breathed out desperately.
That only seemed to spur him on, as he continued with more precision.
This time, his hands slid under your shirt to meet your skin.
And that’s when your stomach dropped, your eyes shooting wide open.
You managed to grab a hold of his wrists, and tried pulling his hands away from your waist.
But he didn’t pay you any mind, obviously too strong for you to actually tug him away from you.
It wasn’t until you felt his thumb lightly brush over one of your stomach rolls that you mustered up newfound strength.
“I said stop!” you shout, pulling him away even harder.
At that, he finally pauses, and pulls his hands away and out from under your shirt, but keeps them hovering near your form.
Your hands are still encircled around his own, and he lets you catch your breath for a little bit before speaking.
“... You okay?” he asks, his voice soft, and his tone careful. At your silence, he feels the need to talk again. “What’s wrong?”
You’re still a little shaken, unsure of what to do or say. “Nothing—” you start but choke up.
He pulls away from you fully, and instead steps to the side to properly face you. He stares at you in silence, waiting for you to finish talking. But when you never do, he takes the initiative. “Did I do something wrong?”
You sigh deeply before turning the stove off. “No… you didn’t.”
He takes a step closer and keeps quiet. But you know he wants to know more.
“I just… I don’t want you to touch me there. Anywhere but there.” you cross your arms over your chest, as if to hide your body.
He looks utterly confused, eyebrows furrowed. “Why?”
You finally look up at him and deadpan. “Satoru, please… you know why.” your hands unconsciously clench around the extra skin of your sides.
He continues looking down at you, perplexed. But once he finally understands what you’re hinting at, his eyes soften.
“So that’s what this is about?” he mutters.
You look to the side, refusing to give him an answer.
“Look at me when I’m talking to you.” his hand finds your chin as he brings it towards him.
You reluctantly look back up at him. You feel your throat close up, and your eyes water.
He immediately brings you closer, hands cupping your face and thumbs near your eyes, ready to wipe your tears the moment they spill.
“I’m sorry, I’m being such a crybaby.” you sniffle as your vision blurs.
“What’re you apologizing for? Stop that.” he brushes some hair out of your face.
You lean into his hand, the plumpness of your cheek growing more prominent in doing so. He nearly melts at the sight of it.
“I’m not… I’m not nice to hold, Satoru. My body isn’t one to be held and loved. I don’t deserve that.”
Now he just looks offended. He stammers for a moment as his eyes widen. “And why not? Because you weigh a couple extra pounds?”
You nod against his palm, eyes closed.
“That’s such bullshit,” he scoffs. His face slowly inches closer to yours and he kisses your temple. “You’re beautiful.”
You open your eyes to roll them, your gaze landing on the floor. “Don’t lie to me because you feel bad.”
“I’m not lying—why would you even say that?” he asks incredulously.
Despite how bewildered and offended he looks, he’s still softly cradling your head and wiping your tears away.
“You care way too much what other people think, you know that?” he sighs. “I think you’re beautiful, and that’s all there is to it. I’m not worrying about your weight, or how your stomach looks in a shirt, or how you feel when I hold you. None of that ever mattered to me.”
You’re stunned, watery eyes wide open as you stare at him.
He presses a kiss to your forehead this time. “That last one might’ve been a lie actually,” he chuckles against your skin before kissing it again. “I like holding you. You’re soft, and warm, and… I just like it. I like you, okay? Stop overthinking it. You worry too much.”
Your bottom lip juts out as you feel yourself tearing up again.
“Aw, poor baby,” he chuckles again at the sight.
You huff in a frustrated manner. “God, what is wrong with me? I keep crying…”
He only laughs louder. “Nothing’s wrong with you.” He moves to pepper kisses all over your face, lingering on all of your features. “You’re just not used to being appreciated.” his voice softens.
You give up on trying to force the tears away, and just let them roll down your cheeks. The two of you stare at each other in silence. Your eyes sweep back and forth between his own.
Fluttering white lashes and bright blue eyes stare at you with love and fondness you thought you’d never receive, or deserve.
“Thank you.” you mutter silently, wanting to say more, but finding yourself unable to.
He kisses your cheek, smooshing his lips against it in amusement. Once he pulls away, he speaks.
“You’re welcome.”
ᯓ★ Suguru Geto
It had been a long day. Suguru always had long and tedious errands to run from dawn to dusk, but today had been particularly slow and arduous.
Which is why he was looking forward to falling asleep with you in his arms.
Originally, you were supposed to spend the night at your place like any other day. But after receiving a couple text messages from him complaining about his shitty day, you figured the least you could do was offer him comfort. So you’d gone to his place.
As expected, he arrived rather late, but you didn’t mind. Despite your protests and insistence on him eating dinner, he refused. The only thing he wanted was to sink into his king-sized bed with you tightly clutched to his chest.
With reluctance, you obliged.
So here you were, buried under the covers with Suguru. With his hair splayed out on the pillows and mattress, and his soft but tired features, he looked like he’d jumped out of a renaissance painting.
Usually, he’d be the one spooning you. But tonight, he just needed to be the one taken care of for a change.
His head was nestled right under your chin, cheek resting against your chest.
But there was something else different about him tonight. He was being far more clingy and touchy than usual. You weren’t sure if it was unconsciously done or not, but either way, it was starting to get to you.
His hands had started at a respectful resting place, your hips. But as more minutes passed, they slowly inched closer to the hem of your shirt. Eventually, he’d managed to slip them under the fabric.
You tried to ignore the rapid beating of your heart, and the heat rushing to your face.
His large hands splayed across the expanse of your back carefully inched up, up, and up.
Until you couldn’t take it anymore.
The second he touched a particularly pudgy area, you hissed, and pushed him away instinctively.
He opened his eyes in surprise and stared up at you.
You sit up, and stare back at him, equally as shocked.
The silence drags on as he slowly props himself up on an elbow. When he realizes you don’t plan on explaining yourself, he decides to take the initiative.
“Something wrong?” he asks, his voice slightly raspy from fatigue.
You open and close your mouth a couple times before finding the words. “No,” is all you can muster as you fold your legs closer to you under the blanket. Your eyes land on your hands as you fidget with them.
He eyes you skeptically, clearly unconvinced. “... you sure?”
You nod, still staring at your hands.
His firm palm encircles them, forcing you to look back at him.
“Don’t lie to me angel. Talk to me.”
You hesitate for a moment, but one of your hands moves to intertwine with his own. He returns the gesture almost immediately, his fingers tightly lacing themselves with yours.
You sigh deeply. “I’m sorry for reacting like that, it’s not because of you.”
He quirks an eyebrow. “What is it then?”
“I just… I wasn’t expecting you to touch me like that.”
He looks at you perplexed. “... So it is because of me?”
Your lips part, and you find yourself speechless.
He only chuckles, finding amusement in your inability to put him at fault for something. After a little while, he settles down, regaining a serious demeanor.
“Did you not expect it, or did you not want it?”
You’re once again stunned. How was he able to read you so well?
“... both.” you look away, guilty.
He brushes some hair out of your face and tucks it behind your ear, cupping your jaw to make you look at him.
“Can I ask why you didn’t want it? You don’t usually reject my advances.”
You shrug. “I know, but…” you trail off, letting silence take over.
“Use your words. I’m listening.”
“I don’t want you to feel those parts of my body.” You finally spit out. “You know… the bad parts.”
At your words, he finally sits up, as if having understood the gravity of the situation.
He calls your name. “... look at me.”
You do so, albeit reluctantly.
“There are no bad parts of your body.” His eyebrows are furrowed, and his jaw clenches tightly.
You feel a knot form in your stomach. “But I—” you choke up.
“None. Do you hear me?”
You grow quiet once more, and he can feel you slipping away from him, and back into a self-depricating spiral.
Without thinking twice, he pulls you by the waist and firmly plants you into his lap.
“I can handle you not wanting me to touch you because you’re not ready yet.” he starts, his hands trailing up from your sides to cup your jaw. “But I can’t handle you thinking of yourself in this way.”
You lean into his touch.
“You’re too beautiful to be having these thoughts.” He whispers. Suguru leans in, his nose nuzzling your own before he starts littering your face with feathery kisses. “So precious,” he hums against the plush skin of your cheeks. “Mine.”
You suppress a small whimper, feeling overwhelmed by his presence, and the complicated mix of emotions swirling in your head.
You wanted to believe the harsh voice in your head. The one that told you he wasn’t being sincere, that he’d eventually leave you, that you weren’t deserving because of the way you looked.
But it was starting to get hard to listen to that voice when he was holding you like you were made of porcelain. Like you were his most prized possession. Like he truly believed in every word he spoke to you, without an inkling of a doubt.
“Suguru…”
He shushes you. “Don’t argue with me on this.” He makes sure you’re silent by kissing you once more, stealing the breath right out of your lungs. Feeling your breath hitch against his lips, he pulls back just enough so you can breathe. In the meantime, he resorts to kissing the tip of your nose.
The two of you are silent for a while, simply basking in and enjoying the other’s warmth and proximity.
“… do you really mean it?” You finally ask, voice a little raspy.
“Every word.” He responds in an instant.
At his words, you feel your face flush even more, and you can now feel the warmth spread from your cheeks to the tip of your ears. Too flustered and winded to speak again, you decide to hide your face in his chest.
His arms wrap around you, and he presses a kiss to the top of your head.
“Go to sleep angel,” he says, although he’s already moving to bring you back down on the mattress along with him. His hand rubs soothing circles over your back.
He makes sure not to linger too much on the areas you were jumpy about, out of concern. But when he feels you melt against him, like you were meant to be right there with him, in his arms, he relaxes as well.
“Goodnight.” He mutters one last time before the two of you drift off into sleep.
ᯓ★ Kento Nanami
Saturdays were the best. You loved them because the weekend was just starting, and you didn’t have to worry about monday just yet.
Oh, and also because you typically spent your Saturdays at Kento’s place.
The two of you had taken the morning slow, only getting out of bed at eleven. You made breakfast (which was basically lunch) together, eating it by the window of his apartment.
And now, it was three o’clock. You’d been lying in his arms on the couch, lazing about.
He was holding up a book with one hand, glasses resting low on his nosebridge to read, while his other hand caressed your back. You felt yourself dozing off, your cheek smooshed against his chest while your arms remained loosely wrapped around his waist. You’d been lying down together for so long that your heart rates synced up.
Feeling drowsiness overcome him as well, Kento closed his book and set it on the coffee table within reach. His now free hand joined his other one on your back as he continued tracing patterns against the soft fabric of your cotton shirt.
You were slightly on edge. It’s not that you didn’t trust him or anything, it’s just that you were still new to this relationship with him. And you were also still unfamiliar with letting someone be so close to you physically speaking.
Of course, Kento knew that. That’s why he always insisted on going at your pace.
Which is why you assumed his unusual touchiness right now was not a conscious effort, but rather a product of his half-asleep state.
His strong and large palms carefully trailed down your spine as he pressed his lips to the top of your head.
Suddenly, your shirt lifted at the hem ever so slightly to let him in. The tips of his fingers affectionately prodding at your plush skin.
You tried ignoring it at first. He had been so patient with you, maybe it was time for you to make a little more effort and open up to him as well.
But when you felt his touch wander a bit too high up for your taste, you jumped out of his grasp, sitting up on the couch, still lodged between his legs.
That seems to wake him up, and slightly startle him. His glasses fall off his nose and land on his chest. He stares at you dumbfounded for a moment before picking them up and setting them on the table near his book.
“Is something the matter…?” he finally speaks up, propping himself on his elbows to sit up properly and look at you.
You stare back at him with guilt, and a hint of fear. Fear of disappointing him, fear of making him wait too much, fear of him finding you just as repulsing as you found yourself. Fear of having ruined everything.
He inches closer towards you without actually invading your space. “Hey, stay with me.”
You snap out of it. “... Sorry.”
He quirks an eyebrow, even more confused than before. “Don’t apologize. What’s wrong?”
You look into his sincere hazel eyes for a moment as silence passes. Letting out a sigh, your gaze darts to your lap instead. “It’s stupid.”
He sighs as well, but heavier, before running a hand through his hair. “I can assure you it’s not. I can’t force you to talk to me but—”
“I don’t want you to feel my rolls.” you cut him off, the words leaving your mouth before you can think twice. “Or my extra fat… or my stretch marks.” you add.
His mouth, still open from when you cut his sentence short, closes and he seems to contemplate something before answering.
“I… understand. I’m sorry for overstepping.” he looks away as well, unable to meet your eyes. “If I may ask… why?”
You scoff, but not in a mocking way. Moreso in disbelief. “Because they’re not nice to feel. They’re… ugly. I don’t want you to see that side of me.”
He finally meets your gaze again, this time with a scowl. “What did you just say?”
You feel your heart drop at his glare, but try to play it off by shrugging. “Kento, let’s be honest here… they’re not cute. No need for sugarcoating.”
He runs a hand down his face, and then massages the top of his nosebridge.
Oh, now you’ve done it. You knew it. You knew you weren’t ready for this. No one would ever accept you with your insecurities. And yet you still decided to pursue this relationship with him. You should’ve known better.
You wish a giant crack would appear in his floorboards and swallow you whole. You wanted to get up, and run out of his apartment. You wanted to disappear.
But you knew there was no running now. You’d put yourself in this situation, self-sabotaging as always.
“I’m sorry… forget I said anything.” you mutter, already moving to untangle yourself from his legs.
He stops you however, lightly holding onto your wrists and pulling you back down towards him, closer than before.
His gaze is still downcast and he sighs heavily. “Don’t go, I already told you you had nothing to be sorry for.” he looks up at you again, but this time his gaze is soft yet apprehensive, as if he was afraid of saying the wrong thing. He whispers your name before resuming, making sure he had your full attention.
“You don’t understand just how much it pains me to hear you talk about yourself in such a way. I have never, and I will never tolerate anyone speaking ill of you, including yourself.” slowly but surely, as if to give you the option to pull away, he tugs you closer until you’re a mere breath away from one another.
“I know it might be hard for you to believe me, and I know that flowery words won’t be enough to change the mindset you’ve clung to for so long. But I mean it when I say you’re beautiful to me.”
You feel your eyes start to sting, water pooling in the rims of your bottom lids. “How?”
The second he catches a glimpse of your tears, he pulls you into him, burying your face in his chest while you sob quietly. “I can’t explain it, words aren’t enough.” he whispers against your hair. “Just… trust me on this, okay? You might not love yourself at the moment, but know that I love you, more than you’ll ever know.”
Your hands fist against the fabric of his sweater as you continue crying.
“All I ask is that you try to see yourself the way I see you. You don’t have to do it overnight of course, but… I’ll be here for you.” His lips caress your cheek, now wet with tear tracks. “Along every step of the way.” his hand finds your chin to pull you away from his body so he can look you in the eyes.
Your eyes are bloodshot and glossy as you stare back at him. “... thank you.” you huff, trying to reign in your emotions.
He doesn’t say anything, instead opting for brushing your hair out of your face and caressing your cheek with the back of his hand.
“I love you,” he mutters. “Remember that whenever you find it hard to love yourself.”
You nod, and he swipes his thumbs against your bottom lids to dry the last of your tears.
ᯓ★ Yuji Itadori
The last time you’d seen your (recent) boyfriend Yuji was about two weeks ago. You were both swarmed with your own personal lives. And it was killing him, quite frankly.
At last, when you were both free, you’d invited him to spend a couple days at your place.
So far, you’d spent the whole day doing nothing and everything, and decided to finish it off with a movie marathon (his suggestion, of course).
Perhaps it was those two weeks without seeing you that had him acting so strangely.
He was being awfully clingy. But you didn’t mind. You had missed him too after all.
The two of you were laying on your couch with the only source of lighting being the tv. He was lying on top of you, head resting against your chest and his hair tickling your collarbone. His arms were tightly wrapped around your middle while his eyes stayed glued to the screen.
Your hands were nestled in his hair as you played with the spiky pink strands. You look down at him for a moment and notice the way his feet hang off the end of the sofa, the sight almost making you laugh. You’d suggested letting him have the couch so he could be more comfortable, but he had insisted that your current position was more than comfortable enough to him.
You couldn’t say the same however.
His hands made a very slow ascent on your body. One so subtle you wouldn’t have noticed if you weren’t so on edge and, well, insecure.
You try to ignore it at first, but when you feel him tenderly squeeze at your plush skin like it was something he always did, you couldn’t take it anymore.
You jumped, startled by the sudden touch. He lifted his head away from your chest and looked up at you as he rose to sit up. “What’s up? Is there a spider? I can kill it for you—” he starts, already looking around for a slipper or anything he could use to kill the arachnid.
You stare at him baffled. “What? No!”
He returns your stunned look. “Oh… then why’d you jump?”
“Because you—” you stutter, embarrassed. “Because you touched my stomach, and my… my rolls.”
“What? I.. I didn’t even realize.” His gaze softens, and his shoulders drop from their upright posture. “… sorry.” he scratches at the back of his neck and looks away.
You look down at yourself and hug your knees to your chest, seeking to cloak yourself from his gaze.
Yuji notices the gesture out of the corners of his eyes, and he feels a sharp twist in his heart. Like he knew there was more to this, and that it was bad. But he was too scared to push.
“It’s fine, don’t worry about it.” you shrug it off, still staring at your legs.
But that dismissal doesn’t do it for him.
“Why the stomach?” he asks.
You snap your eyes back up at him. “... What?”
“Why are you jumpy about your stomach?” he asks again, more firmly this time. “I mean… we’ve kissed and hugged and stuff. Why is it a problem now?” his head tilts, in genuine curiosity.
But the second he notices how defensive you look, he scrambles to explain himself.
“Fuck, wait, I didn’t mean it like that.” he drags his hands down his face and sighs heavily into them. A few seconds go by and he pulls away from them to glance up at you with furrowed eyebrows. “I just wanna know. But I’m not gonna force you into anything… of course.”
You relax a little bit, feeling more at ease.
He notices that and speaks up again. “I mean… it’s not because you’re insecure or anything, right? ‘Cause that would be kinda stupid.” he scoffs.
His small smile quickly fades once he takes in your silence and realizes that it is, indeed, an insecurity thing.
Your gaze drops lower.
“... Why? You’re beautiful.” he says it like it’s the most irrefutable fact in the universe. A fact that doesn’t even require evidence to be proven true. A fact he thought was an evident and unspoken truth between you two.
You fight the urge to roll your eyes. “Don’t sugarcoat.”
“I’m not—you seriously don't think you're beautiful?” he stares at you incredulously.
You lift your eyes to finally look up at him. But you freeze. You don’t know what to say, or do. You don’t even remember how you got in this situation in the first place.
You watch as his hands slowly reach out to rest on top of your knees. They trail down and caress the sides of your thighs, his eyes remaining on yours the entire time.
“Listen, I don’t know how you’re not seeing what I’m seeing, but… I find you pretty. Really pretty.” he mutters, refusing to break eye contact. “I’ve never looked at you and wished you looked different. A number on a scale doesn’t mean anything to me.”
The moment your eyes water and your knees drop in defeat, he pulls you into his lap with ease, as if you weighed nothing. As if your weight was nothing to him.
His arms wrap around your middle as you cry into his shoulder. He moves to lean back against the couch and shifts his hips so you’re more comfortable. He doesn’t say anything for a while, instead just letting you cry and vent out your frustrations.
He carefully strokes your hair until he feels your shoulders relax against him. “... you okay?”
You sniffle, trying to collect yourself, and pull away to look up at him through your wet lashes. His shirt is soaked, and the side of your face is still planted against it, but he doesn’t mind.
You blink a couple times to focus your vision before answering with a raspy ‘yes’.
He leans down but stops, hesitating for a moment as he scans your features. When he realizes you’re comfortable enough, his lips meet yours in a soft kiss. It doesn’t last long, but it’s enough to leave you dizzy.
“I’m the luckiest guy in the world, y’know that? To have such a beautiful girlfriend like you.” he presses a lingering kiss to your wet cheek. “There isn’t a single day that goes by without me thinking that. You’re the first thing I think of when I wake up.”
You wipe at your tears lazily, feeling fatigue take over you now. Your eyes now dart back and forth between his own before you whisper a barely audible ‘thank you’.
He only smiles in response. “Don’t thank me for that, seriously.” he chuckles.
You chuckle along with him because that was such a Yuji thing for him to say.
He feels a weight lift from his chest at the sight of you laughing, and leans down one final time to kiss your lips. “I love you.” he murmurs against them, his thumbs still gently carding through your hair.
The only thing that didn’t suck though—the one thing that kept Megumi pushing through everything—was the thought of coming back home to you lying in his bed.
With every step he took towards his home, he replayed the scene in his head another time.
He’d open the door to his bedroom, slam it shut behind him, shed the unnecessarily heavy jacket on his body, and fall straight into your arms while you welcomed him with that bright smile of yours he swore fixed everything.
And now, after his long and arduous day, he’d finally arrived.
He closed the door behind him, kicked his shoes off, and made a straight line to his room. But you weren’t on his bed like he expected you to be. You weren’t even in the room, actually.
Suddenly, the door leading to his bathroom opens, and you step out of it and into his room. “Hey, you’re back.” you smile and walk over to him. “Sorry, I went to turn the shower on as soon as I heard you come in.”
Once he finally sees you, he lets out a little sigh of relief. Megumi could not have been happier that you’d said yes when he asked you if you could spend the night over at his place.
You probably weren’t aware of it, but it meant everything to him.
Noticing he still hasn’t answered, you speak up again. “... I hope that’s okay with you.”
He walks over to you, ridding himself of his jacket in the process and tossing it in his laundry basket. “It is. Thank you.” He leans down, pressing a quick kiss to your cheek. “Give me five minutes,” he mutters before walking past you and closing the bathroom door behind him.
You go to lie down on the bed and scroll on your phone while waiting for him to wash up.
You were surprised he’d texted you so last minute asking you to come over, but you figured it was probably needed. Maybe he’d had a bad day and needed some company.
At least that’s the explanation you were choosing to justify how clingy he was being now that he’d gotten in bed with you.
The two of you were lying on your sides, your flush bodies buried beneath the covers as his front pressed into your back. His arms were wrapped around your middle while he rested his chin into the crook of your neck.
“... needed this.” he sighed against your skin.
Meanwhile, you were trying to hold it together. Sure you two have been dating for almost two months now, but you still hadn’t gotten this close.
He continued pressing the occasional kiss to your neck, while his hands found themselves at the bottom hem of your shirt.
“Um… Megumi?” you whispered, feeling your face burn up and your heartrate pick up.
“Hm?” he hummed, while his hands suddenly found themselves under your shirt.
“Megumi what are you—”
His fingers caressed the plush skin of your midriff.
Your face went pale, your heart dropped, and your hands moved to get his own off of your body.
He stills, and stops his trail of kisses up to your earlobe. He’s taken-aback, unsure of what just happened, but waits for you to elaborate.
“I… sorry, I—” you stutter and fumble over your words. Letting his hands fall against the mattress, you sit up. You throw a brief glance at him over your shoulder, and notice his stunned look. Clearly, he’s still waiting on an explanation.
“What’s wrong?” he finally asks.
“Nothing, I…” you start, but end up looking away from him. Your shoulders drop and you look down at your lap. “I just wasn’t expecting you to get so… touchy.”
“... touchy?” he repeats, confused. This wasn’t the first time the two of you cuddled.
You stay quiet, and your arms unconsciously move to fold themselves over your stomach, as if to hide it.
Ever the analyst, Megumi watches the gesture, and it finally clicks in his head. His eyes soften. “... Fuck.” he sighs heavily. “I’m an idiot.”
At his words, you look back at him again. Your eyes meet once more.
“I’m sorry.” he mutters. “I didn’t realize you wouldn’t like that.” he searches your eyes, waiting for a response.
“... It’s fine.” you reply dismissively.
“It’s not.” he states firmly. “I should’ve asked first.”
You nod at him once, with a hum.
Silence settles between the two of you, both unsure of what to say next. He simply stares at you.
“You’re not gonna ask why?” you finally speak up.
“Why what?”
“Why I don’t want you touching my stomach.” you change your sitting position to fully face him.
His eyes widen for a moment before narrowing again. “... No. Do you want to tell me why?”
Your gaze drops to your hands in your lap. “... It’s a stupid reason, honestly.”
He sits up, and places one of his hands over your own. “Clearly, it’s not stupid if it has you feeling like this.”
Your bottom lip starts to quiver, and you lower your head even further, unable to look at him.
His free hand moves to slot itself between your ear and neck, and he cranes your head to make you look up at him. “You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to.”
When you meet his eyes, you force yourself to take a deep breath. “It’s just…” you start, and huff out another breath to try and calm down. “I don’t like my body and I don’t want you to see it, or feel it, or… I just don’t want you to leave me because of how I look.”
For the first time since he’s gotten home, Megumi scowls. “Seriously?”
You say nothing, nodding instead.
“That’s—” he starts but stutters. “That’s fucking stupid. I’m not going to leave you just because of the way you look.”
“… You say that now, but—“
“I’m not going to change my mind, Y/N.” His thumb caresses your cheek. “And for the record, nothing’s wrong with the way you look.”
You shake your head, tears pooling in your eyes.
His eyebrows only furrow further at the sight of your disagreement. “You’re beautiful.”
“But I’m…”
“So? Do you really think I care about stuff like that?”
You bury your face in your hands to try and silence your sobbing. His hands let go of you temporarily to wrap themselves around your body and pull you in.
His palms caress your back a little awkwardly at first, but he manages to ease into it. He lets you cry into his chest until you calm down.
“I’m not good at this stuff, but… I meant everything I said, alright?”
You sniffle quietly, nodding against his shirt.
“... I should’ve done a better job at making you feel good about yourself. I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay,” your hands let go of your face to wrap around his neck.
Tentatively, he lies back down on the mattress and pulls you along with him. You follow him willingly, and nuzzle against the crook of his neck.
“... are you okay?” he whispers against the top of your head.
You take a deep breath before talking. “Yeah. Thanks.”
“Okay, good.” he swallows the lump in his throat. “Go to sleep,” he tilts his head to the side, and presses a kiss to your temple.
You nuzzle further into him before whispering a soft “Goodnight.”
ᯓ★ Yuta Okkotsu
Today had been rather uneventful for you. And you were grateful for that. It was one of your rare days off, and you’d taken the opportunity to soak in a bath, watch your favourite movie, and make yourself a good meal.
The same couldn’t be said for Yuta however. He’d been sent out on a last minute mission and was only just now done.
Usually, he’d be satisfied with just going home, showering the exhaustion off his body, and facetiming you until you both fell asleep.
But today he really needed to see you, and hold you.
You’d welcomed him with open arms of course. He wasn’t the only one missing his partner. Besides, you’d be lying if you said his tired tone when he called you earlier to ask if he could come over didn’t give you the urge to pamper him and take care of him.
You let him use your shower to freshen up. In the meantime, you rummaged through the drawer of his clothes that you kept at your place for something he could wear.
And now you found yourself sitting with your legs folded on your couch, with your boyfriend lying down, his head in your lap.
Your fingers had been carefully threading through his damp and dark locks for the past twenty minutes while you watched the tv.
Yuta, however, couldn’t care less about the show you were watching. He was turned away from it, in fact, and was instead looking up at you. Although he could barely keep his eyes open anymore.
Feeling himself drift into slumber, he shifted in your lap to make himself more comfortable, and turned so that he faced your stomach. One of his arms came up to wrap around your waist as he nuzzled himself closer.
You felt the color drain out of your face, and your heart drop.
“Yuta… what’re you doing?” you whisper, not wanting to disturb him.
A soft hum escapes him. “... missed you.” he mumbles against your shirt, and presses his nose to your stomach.
The second he touches you, you flinch away from him, sucking your stomach in.
That seems to stir him awake, and he opens his eyes to look at you.
“What’s wrong?” he sits up, and lets go of you.
Your hands fall from his hair and into your lap instead. You stare down at them in silence, not giving him an answer.
“Did I… did I do something wrong?” his face morphs into a frown. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.”
Your gaze snaps up to meet his, and you notice how glassy they look. “You didn’t—I’m just… not used to stuff like that.”
“Having your stomach touched…?” he questions further.
“That and other things…” you nod once, curtly, simply. Like you wanted the topic to die down.
But he doesn’t want it to. He knows this must be daunting for you, but he doesn’t want to bottle this up.
“Is there something wrong with your stomach?” he asks, his tone softer and quieter now.
You stare at him, slightly baffled. “Well… yeah.” you reply, as if the answer was obvious.
He tilts his head to the side, still not getting it.
“It’s pudgy.”
You expect to see enlightenment flash through his features, but it doesn’t happen. Instead, he still looks confused.
“So…?”
“So it’s bad, Yuta.”
He feels your patience wearing thin. “I-I’m sorry! I just don’t see what’s bad about that...” he scratches at the back of his neck and looks away.
You mimic him, and your eyes return to the tv as you let out a huff, folding your legs closer to your chest, your arms resting atop your knees and your face half-buried in them.
Once he notices your eyes aren’t on his anymore, his gaze trails back to you and he looks you up and down. Carefully reaching out for the remote, he pauses your show.
“Y/N, I…” he starts.
You stay quiet, your stare vacant.
“Please look at me.” he leans in closer.
You feel your eyes start to water, but manage to reign it in, and look at him.
“I’m sorry.” he whispers sincerely. “But I still don’t think there’s anything wrong with the way you look. I never have.”
“How can you say that when I…” you start but feel your voice falter, and a knot forms in your throat. The tears well up again, and this time a couple of them stroll down your cheeks.
He stands up from the couch to instead kneel on the carpet in front of you. A hand rests on your knee while the other cradles your cheek carefully. Once you lean into his hand, his thumb swipes at your tears, tracing patterns on your skin slowly.
“You’re beautiful. So, so beautiful, I don’t even know why you—” he pauses, feeling himself get off track. “Listen, I love you. But I don’t like that you doubt yourself so much.”
Your lips part almost immediately to reply. To apologize profusely about your insecurities. But, as if guessing your next move, he cuts you off with a tender kiss.
He pulls away, but remains close enough so that you can hear him as he whispers. “I know you can’t help it, and that’s okay. That just means I have to be a better boyfriend to you." his eyes dart back and forth between your own.
You return his eye contact, and it doesn’t take you long before you break down.
He immediately pulls you into his shoulder and lets you soak his shirt. His fingers thread through your hair soothingly as he whispers soft words of reassurance into your ear.
“I’ll do better from now on. For you. I promise.” He kisses your tear-stained eye corner. “I’ll help you see what I see when I look at you,”
You nuzzle into him further, your arms wrapping around his neck. He lets out a surprised huff from your tight squeeze, but quickly melts into it.
“I love you, and… thank you.” you mumble against the skin of his neck.
He continues rubbing your back soothingly. “... I love you too.”
ᯓ★ Choso Kamo
Choso was a very patient man. Especially when it came to the things he loved and held dearly to his heart.
You, of course, are no exception.
Despite his age, he was equally as new as you when it came to relationships. Neither of you wanted to mess this up, so you had mutually agreed on taking it slow.
You knew that about your boyfriend.
What you weren’t aware of was how much he’d been holding back ever since you officialized your relationship.
He loved praising you, showering you in words of affection and gifts, small romantic gestures he knew meant the world to you. But sometimes, even those things weren’t enough to convey the depth of his adoration for you.
He would never tell you, but sometimes just the sight of you was enough to make him fall to his knees.
He’s been trying so hard these past weeks to hold it in, to be good for you. But tonight, he didn’t have the strength to do so anymore.
You’d invited him over at your place, insisting you wanted to try out the new face masks you bought with him. He’d said yes in a heartbeat.
And now, a couple hours later, you were cuddled up on the couch, watching tv. Nothing unusual for the two of you, right?
Not exactly.
You had been iffy about physical intimacy of any kind with him. It’s not that you didn’t like him, you were just scared he wouldn’t like your body.
Choso knew about your apprehensiveness, but didn’t know about the reason behind it. He never asked, not wanting you to feel like you had to justify yourself to him.
Maybe that’s why he was underestimating your hesitance tonight. He had underestimated it enough to let his temptations get the best of him, and slowly push past your boundaries.
You were seated between his spread thighs, your back pressed to his chest, while his arms remained tightly wound around your frame in a bear hug.
You weren’t even sure of how you ended up in such a position. But now you had to try and ignore your rapidly beating heart as he kept his lips sealed onto a specific spot under your ear.
He wasn’t moving, or kissing, or sucking on the sensitive bit of skin. He was simply nuzzled there, comfortably. And that somehow made it worse.
His hands move to tighten their hold on your waist,
“Cho?” you whisper.
“Yes?” he answers, but continues his caresses.
Your breath hitches. “Can you—” you start, but falter the second his hand squeezes your soft belly. “Stop!” you shout in a panic.
He immediately lets go of you and lifts his head from your neck.
Your eyes are wide open in shock. Both from his sudden touch, and from you unexpectedly raising your voice.
“I… I’m sorry I didn’t mean to…” you start speaking but go speechless.
He remains quiet behind you for a while. “... Have I done something to upset you?”
You turn sideways with the intention of facing him properly, but your gaze is still downcast. “Not really, it’s just…”
His hands clench into fists at his sides, holding back from holding you. As clingy and affectionate as he was, he didn’t want to make you uncomfortable.
“I don’t want you to feel my rolls.” you finally explain with a sigh.
His hands relax, and his eyebrows furrow. “... Your what?”
Now it’s your turn to look confused. “My… rolls?”
He does a little head shake, as if still not understanding.
“The extra layers of fat on my stomach and back.” you elaborate even further.
His expression is solemn, if not, slightly angry. “What about them?”
“Choso…. I don’t like them, and I don’t want you to see that side of me.”
His eyes shoot wide open, and his lips part. “Why don’t you like them? I like them. A lot.”
“Because they’re fat… and ugly.”
A pang of anger flashes across his gaze, although it’s not exactly directed at you. “Stop it.” His tone of voice rises. “How dare you say that? They’re beautiful, just like you are.”
Beautiful? He couldn’t seriously mean that.
His hand flies to his chest and he grips the fabric of his shirt right above his heart. “Do you… do you not believe me?” His bottom lip starts to quiver. “I… have failed you as your lover.”
You’re stunned, and your hands hover in the air on either side of him, unsure of what to do. “What? No, that’s not true.”
Tears start welling in his eyes. “It is. I’ve failed to make you feel worthy and loved.”
You cup his face as you speak to him. “Choso, I’ve been like this way before you… you’re not the issue.” your thumbs swipe his tears away.
His hands rest atop yours on the sides of his face. “How long… have you thought of yourself like this?”
“I’m… not sure. For as long as I can remember, I guess.” you look away.
His hands carefully slide around your waist and he sits you down on his lap. “Well… it needs to stop. I refuse to let you think of, or speak of yourself in this way.” he sniffles, although now he sounds more sure of himself.
You look back at him, only to be met with a look of determination.
“I love you, and I want you to love yourself as well.” he mutters before burying his head in the crook of your neck. “So please… promise me you’ll see yourself the way I do.”
“It doesn’t work like that.” A light chuckle escapes you. “But I can promise that I’ll try.”
He pulls away to look at you. “That’s good enough for me. Just… please don’t use words like that again. They pain me.” he nudges the underside of your jaw with his nose. “You’re beautiful.”
You pull him closer to you, wrapping your arms around his neck. Leaning in, you whisper against his hair. “Okay… I won’t.”
A satisfied hum escapes him. “Thank you,” he mumbles before pressing a kiss right under your ear. “I love you.”
“I love you too,” you answer, right before he pulls you down on the couch with him.
ᯓ★ Toji Fushiguro
You were trying really hard not to overthink this. After all, you knew nothing crazy would happen. You’d told your boyfriend very clearly a while ago that you wanted to take things slow. And he’d agreed with no hesitation, of course.
So why were you so nervous about him spending the night over at your place for the first time?
He’d finished his work today (you weren’t sure exactly what his job was, but you didn’t want to force him for an answer), and had asked you if you wanted to fall asleep on the phone with him.
On a whim, you suggested him sleeping at your side instead. He hesitated, and asked you if you were sure, but upon hearing your insistence, he accepted.
Once he arrived, you’d eaten dinner together, watched trashy reality tv, and had offered him a change of clothes.
Now, you were both in your bathroom. He was brushing his teeth, while you were combing your hair.
Earlier, you weren’t so nervous. But now that you were getting ready for bed, it was starting to settle in.
Standing side by side in the cramped bathroom, with your shoulders touching, you occasionally glanced at him. But every time you did, he would already be staring at you with his signature lopsided smirk.
Looking away, your gaze returns to your hair in the mirror.
He spits out the toothpaste, rinses his mouth out and cleans the toothbrush before putting it away. You watch out of the corner of your eye as he uses the towel to wipe his face.
Once he’s done, he turns back to you, and stares at your reflection.
You try to ignore the weight of his gaze on you, and manage to keep your eyes glued to your hands as you continue brushing. “What?” you ask.
“Nothin’” His smile softens. “You look pretty.” he adds before snaking his arms around your waist, his chin resting on top of your head.
“Toji, I’m trying to brush my hair here.” you groan in annoyance, despite the blush forming on your cheeks.
“What’s the point? It’ll just get messy again when you sleep.” he chuckles dryly.
You roll your eyes.
His head dips down to press a kiss to your cheek. “I’m tired.”
Your heart stutters as you feel his fingers trail further down, and reach the hem of your sleep shirt. “... go to bed then.”
He hums, nuzzling himself against your neck and pressing another kiss. “Not without you.” His hands slip under your shirt, his palms laying flat against the soft and plush skin of your stomach.
“Toji!” You gasp, panic and jerk out of his grasp almost immediately while turning to face him.
His hands slip out of your shirt just as fast as they got in, and he looks down at you with wider eyes than usual.
Your eyebrows are knit together in a frown, and your shoulders are tense.
Guilt flashes across his eyes as he takes in your defensive stance. He takes a step back, letting his hands fall back at his sides.
“... m’sorry. I didn’t realize.” he mutters out, his tone quiet.
“Don’t apologize—” Your expression softens when you see him retreat. “I just… wasn’t expecting that.”
“Yeah, because you told me you didn’t want me to do stuff like that.” he states blatantly, holding himself accountable. “And I forgot, like a fucking idiot.”
You place the hairbrush back on the counter near your sink. You look away, not sure what to say now.
His jaw clenches tightly, before he speaks. “... Do you want me to leave?”
You rush to answer him. “No! God, no... I just— give me a minute.”
He nods once, a hand slipping into the pocket of his dark sweatpants, while the other rests on his nape.
You stare down at the floor, hesitant. Eventually, you decide it’s best to be honest with him.
“I panicked because I don’t want you to feel how…” you start, but trail off, struggling to find words that won’t make you sound like you’re begging for his pity or compliments.
“... how what?” he asks, although he’s soft, not rushing you.
You take a deep breath. “How big I am.”
He quirks an eyebrow.
“I mean, it’s not like you can’t see how big I am, I’m aware of that—” you fidget with your hands. “But… what if you find it worse once you actually feel it?”
Noticing the fact your gaze is remaining downcast, and that you don’t intend on looking up at him anytime soon, he places one of his hands on top of your own. You stop your fidgeting, and finally meet his gaze.
“That’s why you don’t want me to touch you?”
You seal your lips in a tight line before nodding.
He sighs. “You should’ve said so sooner. We could’ve resolved this a while ago.”
You tilt your head to the side with a quizzical look.
“I don’t mind that you’re bigger.” he states. “I like it.”
Your eyebrows raise, your eyes widen, and your lips part. You’re speechless.
He chuckles as he takes in your expression. “But that’s not the only reason I’m with you.”
Your hands move to wrap around his.
“... I love you. And the way you look doesn’t change that for me. Never will.”
Your lips tremble, and he immediately catches sight of it. Pulling you in, he presses you into his warm chest.
“I’m sorry for crying… and thank you.” you sniffle.
He shakes his head, pressing a kiss to the top of your head.
He waits a little while before pulling you away enough to see you properly.
“Do you really like that I’m… bigger?” you ask, skeptically.
He nods with a grin. “I thought you knew.”
You shake your head innocently.
“And here I thought I was being too obvious about it.”
Suddenly, it clicks. “Wait, is that—is that why you’re always staring?”
He doesn’t say anything, but by the way his grin only grows wider, you can guess the answer is a yes.
“I thought you thought I looked weird.”
“What? Fuck no.” he exhales heavily, before moving to pick you up, your legs wrapping around his middle. “Need you to lie down on me.” he speaks in a hushed tone as he walks over to your bed.
He can hear your heartbeat pick up in pace, and sits down on the edge of the bed.
“We won’t do anything you don’t want. I just…” he brushes your hair out of your face. “I wanna feel your weight on me. Feels nice.”
Your eyes dart back and forth between his own. “... okay.” you whisper.
He moves to slip you both under the covers, making sure at least half of your body is resting atop his.
“I love you too, by the way.” you add, resting your cheek against his chest as you look up at him.
You feel his scarred lip brush your temple in a soft kiss. “... go to sleep.”
ᯓ★ Ryomen Sukuna
Half a year had passed since you became betrothed to the king of curses. Although you knew about the arrangement years prior, it had only been officialized six months ago.
You were scared the night of your wedding. You shouldn’t have been, considering you knew what to expect. But you were still scared.
To your surprise however, he had asked you if you were willing. And upon hearing your refusal, he’d retreated to his own chambers in silence.
Ever since then, he’d honored your choice.
But in these last six months, things changed. Six months of longing glances, of not so accidental touches and brushes of hands and shoulders, of words left unsaid.
It was safe to say he had grown on you. You’d learned that although he was still the monster on the battlefield everyone claimed him to be, he had a different side reserved just for you.
As for Sukuna? The wait was killing him.
You had somehow managed to nuzzle yourself into the depths of his cold heart, and have stayed there ever since. He tried to stop it at first, but he quickly learned that it was no use in denying it anymore.
He loved you, because you’d taught him how to love.
But out of fear of scaring you off, and also because he found himself wanting to respect your wishes, he kept distance between the two of you.
So although you had spent multiple evenings walking side by side in the gardens with your arms linked, or hours in his library reading together in silence with your pinky fingers touching, neither of you had made a move.
The closest the two of you had ever gotten was sleeping cuddled up together.
The first time, he’d insisted on sleeping at your side when you’d fallen sick in the winter. He had berated you for being a weak human the entire time, whilst simultaneously holding you close enough so you could stay warm.
The second time, he had drunk one too many bottles of sake, and refused to let you go the entire night. You could only laugh to yourself as he kept you trapped in a bear hug, imagining how embarrassed he’d be the next morning.
The third time was tonight.
He’d grown restless from waiting. He wanted to be able to hold you without worrying about whether or not you would wake up the next morning or perish from a measly cold. He wanted to be able to feel the plumpness and curves of your body and remember the feeling, instead of clinging onto snippets of his foggy memory.
Hence why he’d called you to his chambers so late.
Six months ago, you would’ve been afraid to step anywhere near his quarters. But now? Now you trusted him.
So upon hearing his request, you assumed he’d want to do some late night reading again, or maybe listen to you play the koto like he sometimes liked to do.
But your heart jumped in your throat once you’d learned of his real reason for requesting your audience. You took a deep breath, trying to calm yourself down. This wouldn’t be the first time the two of you fell asleep together.
So, despite your heart hammering against your ribcage, you made your way over to his bed, carefully lifted the covers and slipped underneath them.
He didn’t take long before slipping an arm around your waist and pulling you closer to him.
Your noses nearly touching, you ducked your head, too flushed to face him. He didn’t force you to look back at him, instead focusing on mapping out the fullness of your waist with his large palm.
You focused on his touch as a way of distracting yourself from how close his face was to yours, but noticing how deliberate the caresses of his hand was, it only flustered you further.
“Sukuna…” you breathed out.
“... Hm?” he hummed absentmindedly, too focused on feeling you.
“What are you doing?”
“Nothing,” he whispered, before his hand moved further down, feeling the curve of your tummy.
Instantly, your hand flew to his, pulling it away from your body. He let himself be pushed away willingly, and finally stared at your face.
It was redder than he’d ever seen. And he could tell you were simultaneously flustered, and scared. Mostly scared. He almost hated himself for how attractive that was to him.
Upon noticing your hesitancy and silence, he takes the initiative.
“Speak.”
“... Don’t touch me there.” you answer, your voice barely above a whisper.
His hand fully retreats now and he even scoots away from you a bit.
“Why?”
Your gaze snaps up to his, and you look at him incredulously. “Simply because I don’t want you to.”
You expect him to taunt you, to smirk at you. But he does none of that.
He looks solemn as he talks. “That’s not true. Tell me the real reason.”
You seal your lips and stare at his neck instead of his eyes, out of fear that you’ll fold if you stare into them for too long.
He tenses, and his gaze lands on your stomach. “Are you injured?”
You shake your head and sigh deeply.
A beat of silence passes. “... Is it me? Do I repulse you?”
“What?! No!” you tilt your head back up despite yourself. “That’s not it.”
“Then what is it if not that?” he urges, his tone of voice rising.
“It’s the opposite!” you retort. He looks stunned by your shouting, but you continue regardless. “I don’t… I don’t want you to be repulsed by me.”
He looks at you in total shock. How could you, the embodiment of everything beautiful in the world repulse him, a monster driven by bloodlust?
“What the hell do you mean?” his eyebrows knight tightly together.
“You know what I’m talking about, don’t play dumb.” you roll your eyes, as if the motion could stop the tears from forming.
He only looks more baffled at your words.
“My weight, Sukuna. That’s the problem.”
“Your weight.” he repeats in disbelief, his eyebrows falling back in place.
“Yes, my weight. I’m all… pudgy and gross.” your tone grows quiet in your embarrassment.
His eyes narrow into a glare and he immediately spits out, “Watch your words when you speak of my wife.”
You scoff, before one of your hands rests atop your stomach.
“No one is allowed to speak ill of you. That includes you.”
“But it’s the truth. You can’t act like it’s not.” Your other hand moves to hide your stomach as well.
He lets out a dissatisfied groan, takes your hands away from your midriff, and instead lands your palms flat against his chest. “It most certainly is not.”
You hesitate at first but eventually lean into him.
His tone of voice softens at your gesture. “Who has put these foolish ideas in your head?”
You sigh once more.
“Tell me so I may have them executed.”
“No one, Sukuna. I grew up like this.”
He softens even more at the sound of his name slipping past your lips. “... Well get rid of them.”
You finally look up at him. “It’s not that easy.”
He meets your gaze instantly. “What is it going to take then?”
You shrug and shake your head once.
“Allow me to say this then,” he starts, and one of his hands moves to cup your jaw. “These thoughts and insecurities are beneath you. There is only one thing in this world that I am certain possesses true beauty in every sense of the word.” he tugs you closer to him. “And that is you.”
You feel the urge to deny his words, to pull away and call yourself berating things, but you hold back. Instead, tears well in your eyes and trickle down your cheeks.
He scoffs at the sight of your tears, but swipes away at them with the pad of his thumb regardless. “Cease these pointless waterworks. They’re unbecoming of you.”
“Sorry,” you mutter before nuzzling into his chest in an attempt to stop the crying.
He freezes at your sudden proximity, but quickly wraps his arms around you. Clicking his tongue in annoyance, he adds “I don’t need your apologies. Just stop.”
You nod against him.
His hand awkwardly and tentatively moves, caressing your back in what he hopes is a soothing manner.
“The next time you feel like this, come to me. I’ll make sure to extinguish these idiocies from your mind.”
“Okay… thank you.” You sniffle the last of your tears away, before leaning up and pressing a gentle kiss to his cheek.
He stays frozen in place for a moment, his eyes wide open. Eventually, he grunts out a small noise, acting as though he was annoyed.
He pulls the covers over you both properly. “Sleep.” he orders one last time before you drift off into slumber.
masterlist
a/n: this took soooo long to write because its such a sensitive topic and i didnt wanna mess it up
taglist for jjk works: @freyao7@henry-marchbanks-winter3
❤︎ SYNOPSIS: nanako and mimiko have a lonely papa—luckily for him, they’re master matchmakers. (alternatively, kids are smarter than we think.)
❤︎ CONTENT: f!reader, single dad!suguru, preschool teacher!reader, both are mid 20s-early 30s, and both are lonely asf, egregious usage of ‘y/n’ and this is your only warning, light angst, but mainly fluff, nanako and mimiko are very active participants, alcohol, first dates … 18+, minors and ageless blogs DNI.
❤︎ XOXO, PUMA: um. how does one interact with children.
♫ NOW PLAYING: back in love, suki waterhouse.
read on ao3 | 6.2k words | masterlist.
“MISS Y/N!” Nanako hollers. She always comes screaming into class, loud enough to make you to wince, loud enough to make you to debate whether it’s appropriate to tell a child that’s not yours to shut up. Mimiko trails right behind, clutching Mr. Bun tight to her chest. “Marry my Papa!”
And you, who was prepared to welcome your favorite girls with open arms—yes, teachers aren’t supposed to have favorites, but they do—stutter and falter. Nanako comes crashing into your knee, and somehow, knocks wind out of you in the process.
“Nanako,” Mr. Getō hisses from the entrance. He’s always the first parent here, work, you assume. Never too early, but early enough that you’re the only two adults in the room, early enough to barely miss the morning rush. You don’t mind the extra company, even if Nanako is a whirlwind and a half. And, as much as she tries to hide it, her twin sister isn’t much better. Just…quieter.
Mr. Getō turns to you with a polite smile, because that’s all he’s ever been—polite, kind, courteous. A bit distant. Not that you know many parents beyond drop off and pick up. If anything, you understand most of them through their kids. What Suguru’s daughters say about him, though, is beyond you.
“I’m sorry about her,” he apologizes, like his girls haven’t been in your class all year. Polite. You’d be lying if you didn’t say Mr. Getō was one of the more attractive parents, and unfortunately, all the single moms agree. The single moms, in their LuluLemons and Athleta and reusable Starbucks cups. You look down at your multicolored patchwork apron, the white dress underneath stained with every crayon and marker in your classroom. Yeah, definitely not his type.
Mr. Getō is clean—he’s made of sharp edges and hard lines, and you’re made of circles and vomiting rainbows. He’d definitely prefer someone clean and sharp like him. A business woman, maybe. With a really killer bob.
“It’s okay,” you wave it off before kneeling to give Nanako a proper hug. Lightly, Mimiko weasels her way in. “Did you two bring a lunch, today?
The question is superfluous—of course, they did. Mimiko is allergic to most things, and it’s a much safer play to simply bring food from home. But, if you forget to remind them immediately, they’ll forget to give it to you, and you’ll forget to remind them once the chaos of class starts. It’s an endless cycle of forgetting.
Nanako nods vehemently, digging into her themed backpack for two modern bento boxes, and hands them over with chubby fingers. “Yep! Papa made it!”
You smile and nod, getting to your feet to refrigerate them. With knees popping and aching on your way up, you wonder how long you’ll have until you feel truly, properly old. Mr. Getō lingers in the doorway, pays a swooning mother no mind as she unleashes her feral child in the room, and you find an excuse for small talk, because you can.
“What’d you make them?” You’re digging into the mini-fridge now, the one by the front door, and place their lunch boxes in the spot you always put them. Lower level, to the right. Mr. Getō shrugs in his suit like he doesn’t have somewhere to be.
“Just leftovers,” he says. You stand to your feet, brushing the apron off. “Tako sausage and omurice.”
“Awh, I love tako sausage,” you gush, and eye the room as it slowly begins to fill. Single mothers whisper behind your back. You know, becase your hackles raise. “I don’t know why, but sausage always tastes better squid-ified.”
Mr. Getō lifts an eyebrow. “…Squid-ified.”
“Yeah,” you nod away the stark reminder of exactly why you’re not this man’s type. He seems like such a no nonsense guy, and here you are, yapping.
“Well. If I knew that, I would’ve brought you some,” he offers with a kind smile, and your knees buckle. Just a little.
“Bah,” you wave the platitude away. “I’m an adult. If I really want tako sausage that bad, I can make it.”
“Do you?”
“Do I what.”
“Make it.”
“Oh! No.” You snort, suppress a giggle, and breathe. “I’m lazy.”
Crossing his arms, Mr. Getō rests a shoulder against the door frame. “Says the woman taking care of twenty gremlins on a daily basis.”
“Hey, they may be gremlins, but they’re my gremlins,” you say, eyes scanning the room. Yūji Itadori gnaws on a jumbo block. You should probably take it from him before he hurts himself. Thankfully (unthankfully) Mr. Getō checks his watch, and realizes—
“Shit, I’m going to be late. I will, um, see you at pick up,” he pushes away from the wall, smile never failing. Class is going to begin soon, anyways. Before you can respond, though, he perks up with an afterthought. “Oh, and—if Nanako says anything else, please disregard it. It’s not…she has a fixation, right now.”
You don’t even know what that’s supposed to mean.
“Um…okay?”
“Okay,” Mr. Getō exhales, wavering by the door for one more second. “See you at five?”
“Sounds good,” you smile, and avoid thinking about how it sounds like a promise. Lock the fuck in. You’re no better than any of the mothers that swoon under the smooth of his voice. And, you hate yourself for it, every single time.
Once Mr. Getō leaves, so do the rest of the parents—the mothers, lingering, hoping that he might give them a sliver of his day. Fools, you think, because they won’t get anything if it doesn’t concern Nanako or Mimiko.
You walk to the front of the room, taking Yūji’s block away from him on the way. Luckily, he’s not a crier.
“Okay, everyone! Quiet Coyote!”
“Papa’s crying again.”
“I know.”
“He’s lonely.”
“I know.”
Suguru Getō is such a good dad.
While this something you know, it doesn’t make your heart swell any less.
“See! He likes you, lots!” Nanako holds up the sticky note plastered to the interior of her lunch. You crouch to read, instead of taking the note and pulling it to your face.
have a good day at school! i love you both so much. please don’t give ms. y/n a hard time. (nanako)
And, while there’s no proof that ‘he likes you lots,’ you appreciate Nanako’s match making sentiment nonetheless. Mimiko eats quietly next to her. Eyeing the tako sausage in their bento boxes, your mouth waters. Just a little bit.
But, you brought a sandwich. God, adult food is so boring.
“Yes, your Dad is a very nice man,” you smile, and ruffle ginger hair. Nanako beams.
“Exactly! So you’ll marry him?”
“No, Nanako.”
Nanako whines at that, and even Mimiko seems a little disappointed. “What? Why not?”
You suppress a groan. How do you explain without alluding to adult concepts that run right over children’s heads.
“Because, that’s not how relationships work, Sweetie,” you sigh, and adjust your legs so your knees hurt less. “Both people need to be on board. It’s a partnership.”
Nanako frowns. “Pardnership?”
You hum and nod. “Yes. Like the buddy system—marriage is one big buddy system.”
“But,” her bottom lip warbles, and shit, fuck, “Papa wants a buddy.”
“And, he’ll get one,” you know he will, it just won’t be you. And, you’re fine with that, you barely know the man—he’s just nice to look at, and takes very good care of the only two angels on Earth. “But, he has to choose. You can’t choose for him.”
“But—”
“No buts, Nanako,” because, you really can’t have this conversation for much longer. “Eat your food before it gets cold, okay? Your Papa will find a buddy, soon.”
“But,” Nanako begins again, because she’s stubborn, and has never been a good listener unless she wants to be. “But, you’d be a good buddy—I want you to be his buddy.”
You sigh. Swallow. Pat Nanako on the head in hopes it’ll placate whatever is going through her little mind at the moment.
“Eat your food, Nanako.”
“Papa, why don’t we have a Mommy, yet?”
“Girls—you’re four years old. Papa need a little more time than that.”
“Why?”
“…Because.”
“That’s a bad reason!”
You’re a little lonely. You can admit that, at least.
It’s not easy—after wrangling 20 five year olds all day—to have the energy for much else but recuperation. You’ve gone on a few dates, during the summer when class is no longer an something to worry about. You make as much time as you can for friends, on the weekends, maybe once or twice a month, when you don’t have a laundry list of errands to run because you waited the whole week to do them. That doesn’t make your apartment feel any less empty, though.
Heating up the other half of your sandwich, you try to remember the last time you went on a second date. Your boyfriend from college, maybe? You both lived on opposite sides of the country, and it wasn’t long after graduation before everything fell apart. Most parents you meet are surprised that you don’t have kids of your own by now, but that’s not the case—the issue is that you have twenty of them, from eight to three.
(To five, if you count the after school program.)
The microwave beeps, and you take the sandwich out. It’s cold in the middle, you should’ve flipped it open, but you’re too tired to care. That’s been a reoccurring thing, lately—being tired. Being cold.
“But, you’d be a good buddy!”
Yeah. You wouldn’t mind a buddy, either, Nanako.
“…What are you two doing?”
“Nothing, Papa!”
“Girls—thank you. Now, go to bed. I won’t ask again.”
“Okay, goodnight!”
Click.
“There’s an h in spaghetti, Nanako—”
Now. As stated, Mimiko is just as bad as her sister. Possibly worse—at least, Nanako is easy to say no to.
“My Papa is sad—and you can make him happy.”
Yeah. That’s what she starts with. What the fuck.
She holds out a homemade card with two hands, thumb and index pinching both sides until it wrinkles. From what you can see, there’s a pink glittering heart on the cover, with the names Miss Y/N and Papa above in crayon and stilted handwriting. This is a form of guilt tripping you’re severely unfamiliar with.
You take the card—because fuck, are you supposed to just make her stand there?—and open it because you can. Curiosity killed the cat.
THEESE WEKEND
PAPAS HOWSS FOR SPAHGETI
You snort. It takes you way too long to understand ‘howss’ is house.
“Mimiko,” you sigh, because, out of the two sisters, “you know I can’t. Your Papa has to choose his buddy, remember?”
She lets out an exhale, curling a lip of frustration, and wow, Mimiko, the fuck. “Yes, but—he’s not choosing one.”
“And, that’s okay,” you smile, pocketing the card before kneeling to her level. This is totally going on your fridge, your feelings surrounding the situation be damned. “Maybe, he doesn’t want a buddy right now.”
“Then—Then, he doesn’t get to cry about it!” She stomps a foot, and you want to say who’s crying about what, but keep it to yourself. “He won’t even see Uncle Gojō anymore. Just—come this weekend. Please.”
You sigh. You won’t, but, “I’ll think about it, Mimiko.”
“Did you do it?”
“Yes.”
“Do you think—”
“Yes.”
“Did you know your daughters invited me to your house, this weekend?”
“I did not,” Mr. Getō huffs with levity, and you join him in watching the girls climb the monkey bars. It’s a few hours since school ended, and the afterschool program is in full effect. Luckily (unluckily), you’re in charge of that, too. It’s not like you have anything better to do.
You pull the card out from your apron, and wave the cover design in his face before opening it, and trying your best to stay true to the spelling. “Theese wekend…papa’s howss…for spahgeti.”
“Wow.” Mr. Getō runs a hand over his lower face, chucking before he asks, “May I see that?”
Gladly, you hand it over.
“This is what they were doing last night,” he realizes aloud. “I was wondering why there was glitter all over the floor.”
“Ah yes, she’s elusive,” you nod solemnly, remembering how many times that godforsaken powder followed you out the class and into the home. Mr. Getō lifts an eyebrow. “Glitter, I mean.”
He snorts, nods, and passes the card back like he knew you wanted to keep it. The twins finally notice their Dad waiting, and come bounding over, covered in a level of sweat and grime that only a child could tolerate.
It’s immediate—the way Mr. Getō lights up.
He kneels down with open arms, each girl taking one, squeezing and pulling with no care for his pristine black suit. He doesn’t seem to care, either, as he cradles both of their heads and leaves twin kisses in his wake.
“How was school?”
“It was great! Did you know bears sleep for so long?!”
“Miss Y/N is coming to our house this weekend.”
You gawk, and look at Mimiko with absolute betrayal, because that’s not what you said. “I said, I’d think about it!”
Mr. Getō looks at you over his daughters head with a grin in his eyes.
“Is she, now?”
“Yep, I invited he—”
“We invited her!” Nanako adds loudly, lifting a hand in the air like she’s still in class. “But Mimiko delivered the letter because no one can say no to her!”
You knew it. You knew it, that wretch.
Mr. Getō laughs and stands, patting his daughters on the head on the way. You sigh but keep a good natured smile, knowing you will be screaming about this into a pillow later.
“You two are scary,” he says with a smile, then redirects it to you, and you’re…
“Sorry, about that,” you breathe, because this is embarrassing. Beyond, actually, because it’s like his girls have a radar for your exact type—their dad.
“No, I should be the one apologizing,” Mr. Getō steps forward. Mimiko forces a conversation out of Nanako, a sidebar, away enough to give you two privacy. Both of their eyes drift, though. “I told you—they have a fixation. They’ll get over it.”
“Oh no, it’s okay,” you wave his words away with both hands. “I get it. Plus, it’s endearing, when it’s not…”
“Embarrassing.”
“Yeah,” your fingers curl into the bottom of your apron. “But um, you should, like, totally put yourself out there more—not that, um, only if you want, but y’know, you could have anyone! So, uh, go for it!”
Mr. Getō snorts, and the sunset dances in his eyes and turns them molten. He’s staring at you too much. You should probably put the anxiously supportive thumbs up away. “And, that was supposed to be…encouraging.”
You clear your throat. “Yeah, it was an attempt. I—”
“What’s your answer?”
What.
“What?”
“Or,” Mr. Getō tilts his head, edits the sentence. “What would be your answer. If I, um, asked you. For…spahgeti.”
You snort at the pronunciation, too focused on the way he smells to notice the fact that Mimiko and Nanako’s conversation has come to a lull. Now, they’re watching in rapt attention.
“Uh, sure—yes,” you blink, pinch your arm just to make sure this isn’t a dream, and—nope. It’s still Thursday. You’re still at school. Covered in washable paint. “Yes, I would, um, I like spahgeti.”
He laughs a little, and you scrunch away a smile. You want to hear that, again.
“Six on Saturday?”
“Yeah,” you nod, you keep nodding, you need to stop nodding. “Yeah, sounds great.”
“No, you cannot cook the spaghetti yourselves.”
“But—”
“Absolutely not—Mimiko, how’d you learn how to turn on the stove?!”
“…Watching you.”
Maybe, you shouldn’t be going to a random man’s house. But, that random man is Mr. Getō, and he has daughters—so it’s not like he’s going to murder you, right?
Though, you’re more worried about accidentally murdering yourself on the way. You don’t notice the bright orange hand until after you’re honked at, a third of the way through the crosswalk.
“Watch where you’re going!”
Well. Fuck you, too.
The bottle of wine feels weird in your hands—too heavy and too cold, and the closer you get to your destination, the closer you get to the expensive side of town, the lump in your throat swells to a softball. You get comfortable with regret when you knock on his door thrice, hurting your knuckles in the process.
Christ, Mr. Getō lives here?
It doesn’t take long for him to open the door…ostensibly, not in a suit.
It’s strange seeing him outside of school. The issue is, outside of school, you dress the same. Apparently, Mr. Getō doesn’t wear suits all day, in the comfort of his own home, and that’s…weird.
(Not that you thought he would—but also, he totally seems like the type of guy who would.)
“Ah, hello! Thank you for coming.”
Today, he dons jeans and a button down shirt, both oversized enough to be comfortable, but nice enough to be…nice. His hair isn’t as neat as it typically is, but half-up nonetheless, with a stray hair working its way out the hair tie. There’s a streak of green marker on his chin, and you giggle at it, gesturing to your own.
“You’ve got…um…”
Mr. Getō slams a hand over his chin with a groan. “Marker?”
He steps out of the doorway to let you in, and you take the opportunity with a smile. “Looks like it—”
“Miss Y/N!”
Nanako and Mimiko come screaming down the hall and around the corner. You take them to the chest—well, the waist—as Mr. Getō disappears to, presumably, wash the green off his face.
“You came!” Nanako beams. You give her a small smile, because the little girl has no idea what you went through, internally, to drag yourself out of your apartment this evening.
“I did,” you nod, and give a very happy Mimiko a soft glare. She doesn’t even waver. They both guide you to a pleasantly placed table in the dining room, decorated with the works—roses and candles and actual porcelain plates. You don’t even think you own actual porcelain plates. Certainly not due to your own volition. The lighting is warm, and cozy, and could easily put you to sleep.
They sit you at the head, fussing over your hair, your outfit, and apparently, the way you sit.
“Papa has been working all day,” Mimiko says as Nanako tries to push your chair in, but can’t, because she’s five and you’re four times her size. “He wouldn’t let us help. Be nice to him.”
That or else hangs heavy in the air, and you gulp. This isn’t intimidating at all.
Before you start to regret your decision for the third time, Mr. Getō comes out of the kitchen while patting his hands dry with a reusable towel. Immediately, the girls scatter—sprinting down a seemingly endless hallway, and duck into the third room on the left. The door slams shut. Then, a series of giggles.
“…I’ve never seen them move so quickly,” Mr. Getō mutters, and you laugh quietly in agreement.
But, now, without Nanako or Mimiko to fill the void with insanity, you don’t know what to say. Silence lulls, and it’s loud.
“Me neither.”
This…is awkward.
Mr. Getō seems to feel it too, because immediately, he gets the ball rolling, and points to the kitchen. “So, dinner is ready but, um, I don’t know if you want me to make your plate, or if you want to make your own, or…”
“I can make it,” you insist, standing to your feet and grabbing the very nice, probably very expensive plate. You pray that you won’t drop it, somehow. “I wanna see what your kitchen looks like, anyway.”
Mr. Getō chuckles, light and good-natured. And, if you sway, it’s not your fault. “Why?”
You shrug, following him into through a doorway. “Tells you a lot about a person.”
Mr. Getō makes a sound, a hum of contemplative agreement. And, the kitchen is…aggressively domestic. This is about to be the worst first date of your life, you already know—not because it’s going to end poorly, but because you kind of want this man. And, you can’t tell yourself the last time you’ve been on a second date.
Two bowls fill the island—one with spaghetti (spahgeti), one with salad—and a plate of garlic bread. It smells heavenly and your mouth waters, completely forgetting your mission to judge this man into unattractiveness.
(Though, there’s nothing to judge. All it says is that he’s quite organized, and loves his daughters.)
You notice a familiar drawing pinned to the fridge—it’s a simple one, with three stick figures holding hands, the two on the ends much shorter than the one in the middle. They stand on a poorly crayoned field, and the names mimi, nana, and papa are written above their respective figures in black crayon, along with a date in the corner.
“They drew that the first day of class,” Mr. Getō reminisces, coming around the counter to get a better look. The date lines up—as does the fact that you struggled to place it. “Came home ranting about how they wanted Miss Y/N to be their mama.”
You snort, and ignore every feeling in your being—including the weight of the plate in your hands. It doesn’t drop, though. “Kids have no shame.”
“None. Especially mine.” Mr. Getō adds, moving past you to rummage through a cupboard. Then, offering, “Water? Also—help yourself.”
As your eyes follow his arm when he gestures to the counter, your stomach grumbles on cue. It’s not your fault you don’t know how to cook. You nod, grabbing the giant plastic spoon, and try your best to not seem greedy.
“Yes, please! This looks so good, Mr. Getō, I—”
“Suguru,” he corrects, and you nearly jump. He’s behind you, now, reaching for something, you don’t know, you’re not paying attention. Suguru, your brain goes. Suguru, Suguru, Suguru—
“Y’know, I don’t think I ever knew your first name,” you realize aloud, taking the last spoonful you’ll allow yourself. He drifts away to fill the glasses with water, and you exhale, finally being able to breathe. You move onto the salad.
“That’s it?” He asks and hands you a glass, eyeing your plate. You gulp. Did you fuck up, already?”
“Have some more.” And then, he’s grabbing another spoonful of spaghetti—one much fuller than any of the three you gave yourself. “Please—I made so much food.”
“Well, yeah,” you defend. “But, y’know, Nanako and Mimiko are gonna eat some, so—”
“And, they’re five. They eat this much,” Suguru takes the plate from you (you’ve lost your privileges, clearly) and fills the spoon again, lifting it in the air like it represents ‘this much.’ “It’s okay if you don’t finish it, I just—I want to make sure you get enough.”
He hands the plate back to you, not before adding two pieces of garlic bread, much heavier than you found it. It’s accompanied by a sheepish smile, one that makes it seem like he’s digging a grave for himself deeper than necessary. Your heart swells nonetheless. Then, you stomp on it, chanting stupid, stupid, stupid, because, if you think he isn’t doing this just to humor his daughters, you’d be just that. Stupid.
“Oh!” You remember, “I also brought wine—I don’t know if you’re, like, a wine guy, or not, but—”
“Sure,” Suguru shrugs as he starts to fill his own plate. You waver with your own by the threshold, because you don’t know what to do otherwise. “There are wine glasses on the table. Let’s pop it open.”
“Yes, now kiss! K-I-S-S-I-N—”
“Shhhh—they’re going to hear us!”
“Opa!”
You love opening a wine bottle. You love the pop of the cork, the resistance from the air—but, you let Suguru open it this time. Because, God forbid your elbow goes flying, or the cork, and you knock over one of his lovely candles, and set his very nice place on fire. Suguru scrunches his nose with a smile at your exclamation. You remember where you are, again.
“Sorry,” you recant, and Suguru just shakes his head, slowly filling your glass.
“No—I like it when you’re comfortable.”
With that, he passes the glass back and smiles, and you…ignore what he just said, actually. Because, you’re already a hop, skip, and a jump from falling for this man, and there is absolutely no point in doing that.
“What do you do for work?” You ask instead, because anything other than small talk would turn garbled. Suguru eyes lift from his own filling glass, to you, like it was a question he wasn’t expecting.
“Oh, um, I’m a Lit professor, actually.”
“Lit as in…literature, or as in lit-lit, like turnt lit?” You’re reaching, you doubt the word lit is anywhere in Suguru’s vocabulary unless he means literature, but you just need to double-check.
“As in literature,” he chuckles, swirling wine around the glass like a professional. “I, unfortunately, doubt any of my students would refer to me as lit.”
“You never know,” you shrug, taking a bite. After a swallow and a hum, you nod. “This is really good.”
“Thanks,” he grins, and takes a sip of the wine. His eyes widen, like he wasn’t expecting it, but, “so is this.”
You thank him in return, and silence comes back screaming. You hate to say it’s because you’re stuffing your face, and you try to do so as politely as possible, but you are, and it’s not your fault—the food is good, and you haven’t found time in between grading obscure drawings and letter identification tests to eat today.
Suguru props a chin on his hand and watches you eat, swirling his glass again—you start to wonder if that’s just something he does with his hands. It isn’t until you realize his fork is clean, food untouched, that you finally falter. With food in your cheeks, no less.
“…Are you not hungry?”
Suguru blinks himself to the present, and whatever look he wore dissipates into his usual. He picks the fork up, after that.
“Yes, sorry,” he huffs a laugh at himself, seemingly self-deprecating. “You’re cute, is all.”
You start choking—partially, because you had the bright idea to swallow when he opened his mouth. You try to wash it down with wine, but when it only prickles the itch, you choose water instead.
“Sorry, was that too forward?” He asks, with a smirk, which makes you think he doesn’t mean it. Not in the genuine way, at least. You wave it off, recovering and trying to breathe through the embarrassment of choking on a noodle like a child.
“No,” you croak, though you want to say yes, but not in a bad way. “No, I’m just…”
You’re just what? Floored? Flabbergasted? Fucking sweating beyond repair?
“Flattered,” you finish. You should probably slow down on the food before you give yourself a stomach ache, but most of it is already gone. Suguru smiles as he chews behind a hand.
“Good.”
You are going to scream. What the fuck is this.
Because, you’re quickly beginning to learn, Mr. Getō and Suguru are two very different people. And, while Mr. Getō is hot, yes, Suguru is…
“What do you think they’re doing, right now?” Suguru’s eyes dart to the hallway, and you snicker.
“Probably eavesdropping!” You yell the last word, only to hear tiny feet scatter. Shaking your head, you mutter, “nosy.”
Suguru snorts. “Tell me about it.”
“Oh, I will,” you nod, unfortunately getting comfortable enough to yap. Well. There it goes—the second date. There it goes, sprinting out the door and on a flight to a different country, until the concept of a second date is no longer feasible. “Those two in class? Little rascals. Sometimes, I have to separate them.”
“Lucky,” Suguru laments with a chuckle. “Wish I could do that at home.”
You shrug, and take a sip of wine. “I’m complaining, but. They’re good kids. They’re smart, and they liven up the place. Even help other kids if they finish their work early—though, that’s mainly Mimiko…Nanako always finds something to do. You did good.”
“Thanks,” Suguru says, and suddenly, the burning candlelight is much more interesting than your face. “I get…worried, you know? That they don’t have a mom.”
“Sure, but,” and you look into the hallway again, wondering if the girls came back, how much of the conversation they can actually hear. “They’ve got you. And, from what I hear, you fill both roles spectacularly.”
Suguru shrugs. “I try.”
Suguru shrugs, and you overstep. Possibly. Maybe. “Am I allowed to ask what happened?”
“Oh,” he laughs, tight and bordering on bitter, with eyes trained tight on the plate before him. “I’m, um, technically not their dad. We’re related—cousins, but I’ve been taking care of them since they were babies. Their parents, uh, weren’t exactly up to the task.”
He keeps it vague but answers anyway. You take the hint, and don’t pry anymore. There’s a part of you that relaxes at that fact, the fact that there isn’t another woman, but you berate yourself for it immediately. It doesn’t seem like a good thought to have.
“Well—I think you’re the best dad they could ask for. This spahgeti? Fire.”
Suguru laughs, for what you realize, is technically the very first time—not around words or to hide behind, but an actual laugh, that rumbles from his belly outward with a smile that crowds his eyes. You want to hear it again, and again, and again, until you’re too dizzy, and have to get off the ride, or else.
He’s still smiling upon recovery. “You’re sweet.”
You frown, “but, I mean it!”
Suguru snorts, and looks back down to his plate. That smile doesn’t fade.
“I know.”
Dinner goes by faster than you want it to.
To stall, you offer to help with the dishes. Suguru doesn’t let you—but he does let you stay.
“—and then, she said God fucking shit.”
“No,” you gasp from your seat by the kitchen island. Suguru nods wisely.
“Oh, yes,” he hisses. You ignore the way his back works as he dries the last dish, opting to fiddle with a ring on your finger instead of drool, but, occasionally, lift to partake in the sinfully domestic sight. “I wish the walls weren’t so thin when I stub my toe, but.”
“But, they’re always listening,” you finish with a giggle, because, been there, done that. Suguru huffs in agreement.
“Yes,” Suguru laments, and after placing the dry dish into a cupboard, turns to you. “Top five most horrifying moments of my life when I heard her say it.”
“I can imagine. I…also stubbed my toe a while ago, said dammit, and we had a kid that wouldn’t stop saying it for weeks. Had to explain it to his parents and everything,” you sigh. The embarrassment from the whole situation comes back in full force as you tuck a head into your hands. He chuckles, placing the towel over the sink.
“Sounds like you have it worse than me.”
“Meh, only from 8-5,” you shrug, but he shakes his head.
“Exactly,” Suguru insists while resting a forearm on the island across from you. “And I have mine from 5-8—but only two kids, not twenty.”
“They wrangle each other, half the time,” you wave. “Quiet Coyote works wonders.”
“I’m sure it does,” Suguru chuckles, and stands up, pushing away from the counter. “Let me walk you out.”
Ah, yes. It’s that time, now, isn’t it?
Suguru walks you the few steps to the door, it not being too far from the kitchen. You’re about to say goodbye, maybe shake his hand or something else equally awkward—whatever people do after first dates when they don’t go horribly. But, the second you reach the foyer, little feet come bounding around the corner.
“You’re leaving already?”
“No, stay! We can have a sleepover!”
You giggle when Suguru sighs, getting down on a knee to turn to his daughters. “Girls—We’ve taken up enough of her time. Miss Y/N has a life outside of class, you know.”
Which, is false, but you appreciate the sentiment nonetheless. They whine and pout but Suguru has the last word, and after you hug them goodbye, he sends them to their rooms. Knowing them, they’re still lingering in the hallway, hiding behind a wall.
“Good to know they had fun, too,” you snort, and Suguru stands, fighting a smile and failing.
“Nosy little brats,” he mutters under his breath. Then, hollering over his shoulder, “Go to bed, you two!”
More shuffling feet, and you sigh. “They’re not going to bed.”
“Nope,” Suguru shakes his head in agreement. “Not at all.”
“Well, um, that’s my cue,” you say, stilted, and tightening the grip on your purse. “I should probably go before the trains stop running.”
“Oh! Yes,” Suguru says, like he forgot, and like he expected to linger with you in his doorway forever. “I had fun.”
“I did, too.”
Suguru makes no move to let you out—and you make no move to leave, because you don’t know how his front door works, whether you have to unlock before you exit, and would prefer to avoid embarrassing yourself after an genuinely decent night. Suguru scratches the back of his head.
“I was wondering, actually, if you’d like to go on a proper date,” he says it around a breath, one he was holding. “One without my daughters right around the corner.”
“We’re not listening!”
“…Like that,” he mutters, but you’re too busy trying to make sure your feet are firmly planted on his lovely wooden flooring, not floating in the air on cloud nine.
“Oh, as in,” you breathe, and promptly black out. Hopefully, you say something that makes enough sense. “Uh, yeah. Yep. Definitely down for that.”
“Okay, great,” he smiles, and it’s that smile again, the one you want to bottle and keep forever. “When are you available?”
“Oh, whenever,” you say, before you realize you should dial it back, dial it way back. “I mean—uh, preferably not school days, but I’m pretty free on the weekends.”
“How about a week from now? Next Saturday.”
Next Saturda—do you even have time to purge your closet by next Saturday?
“Sure, sounds good.”
“Ice cream, Papa!”
“No.”
“Pleaaaaase?”
“No.”
“Pretty please with a cherry on top?”
“…Fine.”
“Really?!”
Monday comes, and you’re fucking terrified.
Because, Suguru is a guy straight out of a YA novel—and you don’t know whether he asked you out again to humor his kids, again (you’re in denial), or if a guy that you actually find physically and emotionally attractive wants to go on a date with you. Again.
But, you’re about to find out, because—
“Good Morning, Miss Y/N!”
You put on a brave face, the bravest face you can muster. Also, just your luck, you’re running out of laundry, and instead of doing it Saturday night like you usually do, you went to Suguru’s. Sunday, you were too busy panicking to be useful. So, yes, maybe you have on the ugliest cat sweater you own—but it was either that, or a cacti shirt.
“Good Morning, girls, how was your weekend?” You ask, before quickly realizing playing dumb was not the way to go.
“It was good! You made Papa so happy he took us to get ice cream the next day, and he never does that!” Nanako tries to whisper, but she’s a child with little control over her vocal chords, and you flinch.
“Oh, really?”
Mimiko nods in agreement—but, before she can respond, Suguru is quick in ushering them deeper into the room and, more importantly, away from you.
“They need to stop telling on me,” Suguru chuckles as he returns to usual perch by the doorway. “Like, now.”
You giggle. “That’s all kids ever do, Sug—I mean, Mr. Getō.”
You’re sweating. That was a close one.
“Suguru,” he corrects, looking at you with eyes bordering on a beg. “Please.”
“Well, Suguru,” you say, swallowing panic when another parent gives you an appalled look. “Uh, how was your weekend?”
“It was nice,” he nods, watching the room. “My daughters harassed this woman into going on a date with me. Luckily, I already had my eye on her.”
Oh, you think, and try to wrack your brain for who it could be. Definitely not you.
Your stuck, actually, literally frozen, despite the sweat forming at the small of your back. Suguru keeps talking. “Six, again? I’ll pick you up.”
And, because your brain is stupid, and, you don’t know, maybe he wants to go on a hike or something—
“Wait—am or pm?”
Suguru snorts. “Pm.”
Oh. That’s like, date-date time. Though, you suppose it was last time, but this is an actual date, not a ‘my daughters won’t quit unless we do this’ date.
“Sure, yeah. Totally—six is great.”
Suguru squeezes your hand before he leaves for the day. His harem of single moms glare like you killed the child support they get from their divorcees. And you…
You almost forget to put Nanako and Mimiko’s lunch boxes in the fridge. Almost.
content: angst. pining. what to do when the man you want only want money?
Sukuna stole your heart.
And your wallet.
Snatching both in his calloused grip, dark red eyes glinting at you as he snuck it from your pouch, clearly assuming you were just another foolish mark as he murmured seductive words meant to distract you.
Clueless to the fact your own hand had slipped into his own pocket to pilfer your own prize, feeling for a handful of small coins and some jewelry he must have snatched from his previous targets.
He thought he won.
Started to walk away before he felt for it a few moments later and looked back to where you were waiting for him to realize what you'd done and come back to demand his stuff back.
As if any of it actually belonged to him.
He stormed over, dark red eyes squinting at you when you expectantly held your hand back and told him he'd have to trade you for it.
Really, you hoped you'd get his heart in the exchange, but you settled for striking a different sort of deal.
A partnership of sorts. Like-minded people working towards a common goal.
Robbing idiots with loose pockets.
You started small. Lifting a few coins here and there from fools who were none the wiser. Then you started aiming higher. Richer targets. Greater rewards for the risk.
Usually, you'd fall in front of the carriage of some noble, or stop a merchant on the street, distracting them long enough for Sukuna to swoop in and steal enough to make a profit off of while still going undetected. Celebrating your earnings together over ale at the tavern in the evenings, giggling while he grunted over doing the real work.
But sometimes, you'd catch his mouth curling up in a hint of a smile, his hardened stare softening when you laughed and teased him.
Perhaps you were just as pathetic as the rest of your marks. Because despite knowing he'd betray you the second it was convenient, or the moment you turned into a cost instead of a benefit, you still fell for his glares, for his grumbles. For all the fun you had in the moments in between your scores, for the rare times where he looked at you less like a burden and more like a friend.
You were just the moron that wanted more.
Dreaming of a day that his eyes would linger on you, where his stare would share the want that burned in yours.
But dreams were just dreams. And all your wishful thinking landed you was in hot water when one of your schemes finally went wrong.
It was such a simple one too.
A nice carriage was coming by, and he'd pretend to be a stranger accidentally knocking you into the street with just enough time for it to stop before it could seriously hurt you.
You'd done it enough times to know the routine. Had the rhythm of it already down.
So you knew the very moment it was all fucked.
When you hit the ground half a second too late, the carriage driver not having the proper time to react. The horses in the front neighing as they struggled to stop soon enough, one of their hooves hit your side hard enough to knock all the breath from your chest.
This time, you didn't have to pretend to be hurt as you reflexively rolled away from the impact, a sharp whine of pain escaping as your hands shot to press down on the now aching throb in the left half of your stomach.
You were sure Sukuna would call it off.
Actually come check on you once he realized you were hurt.
But when you felt a hand on your shoulder, a honeyed voice in your ear asking if you were alright, you glanced up to find a warm pair of purple eyes instead of the sharp scowl you were expecting.
Dark hair framing his pretty face, his features surprisingly gentle as he extended a hand to help you stand. His outfit was ornate, far finer than even the more expensive fitted suits you'd seen some of the other nobles wear, yet still subtle enough that someone without an attuned eye for it might miss the detail. But beneath the concern flickering in his gaze, there was an intelligence to it that made your stomach drop at the striking realization that perhaps you'd picked the wrong target.
Stealing worked best when you were taking something from someone stupid enough not to notice.
And you had a funny feeling the man in front of you noticed everything.
"Are you okay?" He pressed again, pinching your chin between his fingers to guide your attention back to him when you didn't take his hand, forcing you to face him as you held in a stunned squeak. Pierced by his scrutinizing focus, chest constricting tight as you tried to force air out. "Looks like you got hit pretty hard."
It was hard to think of something intelligent to say when his presence made you feel small. Like some insect who accidentally stumbled upon a much larger predator, looking up at him as you slowly parted your lips, "I-I think so."
"We still better get you checked out," he hummed thoughtfully, although you couldn't shake that crawling feeling under your skin as he hoisted you gently up. "My estate has an excellent doctor."
"I'm really okay," you lied, ignoring the throb in your side as you resisted the urge to look back to see if Sukuna had snuck off with some prize from the carriage's luggage yet, or if he needed you to buy some time. "I can just walk it off."
Or crawl back into your bed to sleep for a day or two until it topped hurting, but he didn't need to know that.
"Nonsense," the stranger murmured, slipping a hand on your waist that pressed a little too tight to be considered purely polite. "My carriage hit you, so you're my responsibility now."
"I-I don't even know your name," you stuttered, aware that this was quickly devolving further and further out of hand.
"You can call me Suguru," he offered a charmingly crooked smile, although it alarmed you more than disarmed you.
And before you could scramble for an excuse, he was leading you back towards his carriage, opening the door and calling out instructions to his driver to return to his estate.
What the hell were you supposed to do when his status was so much higher than yours? When anyone else would think it was absurd you were rejecting his kindness?
You caught a flash of pink, your head turning in a panic to see Sukuna, his name about to leave your lips before you realized what he was doing - leaving you.
Rushing away from the back of the carriage, not even throwing you so much as a spare glance over his shoulder before disappearing into the crowd.
You knew you shouldn't be surprised.
But it still stung. Heart sinking as his broad frame disappeared right as you were ushered into the comfort of a carriage, the man beside you softly murmuring that you could just stay the night with him depending on what the doctor said. Offering to let you stay as long as you needed actually so you could recover.
What would you even have waiting for you afterwards?
Sukuna already got what he wanted. He wouldn't care what happened to you. Not even if this Suguru never let you leave.
★ geto suguru’s guide on fraternising with the enemy.
pairing: slytherin!geto suguru x gryffindor!fem!reader
synopsis: geto suguru has been your greatest rival since your first year at hogwarts, always outdoing you in class and always getting under your skin. when he’s picked as the hogwarts champion for the triwizard tournament instead of you, you think you couldn’t possibly hate him more—until he corners you one evening and asks for your help.
tags: romance, angst, action, rivals to lovers, hogwarts!au. profanity, jealousy, mild violence, etc. please let me know if i missed anything!
word count: 24.1k
a/n: reposted from my old blog with minimal changes, for posterity.
The only thing worse than losing to Geto Suguru is being expected to smile about it.
When the Goblet of Fire coughs out the charred piece of parchment with his name written on it, it feels as though the entire Great Hall erupts around you. Hoots of excitement ricochet off the enchanted ceiling, mingling with groans of disapproval—chiefly from your housemates, who baulked at the audacity of a Slytherin representing Hogwarts. You, however, couldn’t join in either chorus. No, you sit frozen at the Gryffindor table, lips pressed tightly together in an attempt to keep your tears at bay.
Geto Suguru stands from his place among the Slytherins, shrugging off his best friend’s arm from around his shoulders. His head turns, and somehow, through the sea of cheering faces, his gaze locks onto yours. There is something almost incendiary in his look—smugness molded into a smile, something defiant in the tilt of his jaw. You grind your teeth, irritated.
Suguru is now the Hogwarts Champion, elevated above the rest of you. You are nothing more than the runner-up—a title no one cares enough about to utter aloud.
“Hard luck,” Utahime, your friend and the Head Girl, murmurs beside you, her hand light as a feather on your shoulder. Her voice is low and kind, yet utterly ineffective against the disappointment you feel. You give her a tight, forced smile, though your silence only seems to amplify her sympathy.
This wasn’t how it was supposed to go. Not after years of outpouring your soul into every spell and hex you learnt, every essay you wrote, every late night spent at the library. You had scraped, clawed, and bled for this chance, and somehow, despite all your efforts, Suguru had stepped in and robbed you blind. The betting pool Shoko and Mei Mei had organised suddenly feels cruel in hindsight. Everyone had bet on either you or Suguru—no one else had even come close to being a contender.
Your hands tremble slightly as you push back from the bench. You barely register the names of the foreign champions—Aleksandar Ivanov of Durmstrang, Amélie DuPont of Beauxbatons. You don’t care. The Great Hall feels stifling, so you stand up abruptly and begin weaving your way towards the exit.
The cool air of the corridor hits you like a balm, soothing the heat rising in your chest. You walk with no real destination, footsteps echoing faintly against the stone walls, until you reach one of the tall windows overlooking the grounds. Moonlight spills across the landscape, painting the Forbidden Forest with silver. You lean against the cold stone ledge and inhale deeply.
The bitterness simmering in your chest refuses to ebb. You had wanted this so badly, had poured every ounce of effort into proving you were the best, not just to Hogwarts but to yourself. But, as always, Geto Suguru had swooped in and stolen it from you.
“Running away so soon?”
You don’t turn immediately. Instead, you close your eyes and inhale slowly once more. When you finally turn, Geto Suguru stands a few feet away, leaning against the wall. His black hair is tied back neatly, save for a loose strand that falls against his cheek.
“I didn’t realise I needed your permission to leave,” you say coolly, crossing your arms over your chest.
“It’s not as much fun winning,” Suguru says, “if my competition isn’t around to see it.”
“Competition?” You scoff. “That implies we were on equal footing to begin with.”
His smile widens, and he takes a step closer. “You’re not giving up that easily, are you? I thought Gryffindors were supposed to be brave.”
You want to snap at him, say something cutting enough to wipe that stupid self-satisfied grin off his face, but the words stick in your throat. He’s insufferable, yes, but you know that’s exactly what he wants—to pull a reaction from you. And Merlin help you, he’s good at it.
“What do you want, Suguru?” you ask, exhaustion finally seeping into your tone. “Shouldn’t you be celebrating with the rest of your house?”
“Of course, but like I said, it’s no fun if my favourite rival isn’t around to see it.”
You bristle at his words. “Favourite rival? You were desperate to beat me, Suguru.”
“So were you,” he points out, and it takes all your self-restraint not to do something horrifically stupid like punch him in the face. “If I’m desperate, it only means you’re worth the effort.”
“Congratulations, Suguru,” you say hollowly. “You’ve won the Goblet’s favour. What do you want, a parade?”
“I want your help.” Suguru steps forward, his movements unhurried, his expression calculated.
You blink. “What?”
“You should be proud,” he says. “You were a close second.”
The words sting more than you would like to admit. You narrow your eyes at him. “Spare me your pity.”
“It’s not pity,” he replies. “It’s acknowledgment. You’re good. Maybe even better than me in some ways.”
You suck in a breath sharply, thrown off balance. This is not what you expected—not from Geto Suguru, at least. You ask warily, “Is this some sort of tactic to get me to like you?”
Your rival chuckles wryly. “No, but it’d be stupid to ignore the fact that you’re good. You wouldn’t have been the biggest threat to my name being called otherwise.”
His admission leaves you momentarily speechless, a rare occurrence when it comes to Geto Suguru. You can’t decide whether to feel insulted or flattered, so you settle for glaring at him instead. The torch light softens the planes of his face, casting a warm glow on his cheekbones and the edges of his smile. He infuriates you so much.
“Help me,” Suguru says again.
“Are you out of your mind?”
“I’m serious,” he says, folding his arms. “You’re as competitive as I am, and you hate losing. If anyone understands what’s at stake in this tournament, it’s you.”
“That’s a very pretty way of saying you want me to do your work for you,” you shoot back.
“I’m asking because I know you’re capable,” he presses on, ignoring your jab. “You think I haven’t noticed how good you are at strategising? Or how quick you are to spot weaknesses, whether it’s in a spell or a person?”
You stare at him, suspicious. It’s not the first time someone has acknowledged your abilities, but it’s the first time he’s done it. As much as you loathe to admit it, Suguru isn’t the type to hand out compliments lightly.
“You’re insane,” you say finally, shaking your head. “You want me to help you win the tournament I should have been chosen for?”
Suguru’s expression hardens. “I want you to push me,” he says. “To challenge me the way only you can. And when I win—because I will win—it’ll be as much your victory as it will be mine.”
You consider his words. A small, reckless part of you—the part that thrives on competition, on proving yourself—begins to wonder what it would be like to be a part of this, even from the sidelines. To have your brilliance tied to the triumph of something bigger than either of you.
“Fine,” you say, voice clipped. “But don’t think for a second that this makes us friends.”
“Of course not.” Suguru’s easy grin slips back in place. “Let’s meet at the library tomorrow after dinner. Don’t be late.”
You don’t reply, merely walking past him and heading back into the Great Hall. Utahime is probably wondering where you vanished off to, and as much as you hate her sympathy, you don’t want to worry her, Shoko, and Mei Mei just because you were a sore loser.
The fireplace in the Gryffindor common room crackles with a sort of joyousness you can’t be bothered to feel. Its warm glow dances across the walls, a merry flicker that feels utterly inappropriate given your current mood. The plush armchair you’ve claimed for the evening—one that’s usually a source of comfort—is perfect for brooding. You curl into yourself like a grumpy gargoyle, letting your misery seep into the cushions.
Laughter echoes off the walls—the other students are busy gossiping about the Triwizard Tournament. Discussions about the champions and the potential tasks all merge into one unintelligible blur. The Triwizard Tournament is a magical contest held between the three largest wizarding schools of Europe: Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, Durmstrang Institute, and Beauxbatons Academy of Magic, with each school being represented by one champion, chosen by the infamous Goblet of Fire. The selected champions compete in three tasks—each designed to test the student’s magical ability, intelligence, and courage—and the winner gets to take home the Triwizard Cup.
The Durmstrang champion’s brute strength, the Beauxbatons champion’s unnatural grace—it all seems so irrelevant compared to the singular thought lodged in your mind like an annoying splinter: Geto Suguru is Hogwarts’ champion.
You’re still seething about it. Not only has he outdone you in classes year after year, he’s now claimed the one thing you truly wanted. And then, as if that wasn’t enough, the boy had the gall to corner you after dinner with a request that still makes your head spin.
You groan and bury your face in a pillow, muffling your frustration. The universe, it seems, has a cruel sense of humour.
“Still sulking, I see.”
You don’t have to look up to know it’s Shoko. She has an unnatural knack for finding you at your most pitiful moments. When you peek over the pillow, you see her leaning against the back of a sofa, her robes askew and her hair half-tied.
“Sulking is putting it lightly,” Mei Mei comments, her pale hair shimmering in the firelight. She takes a seat on the armrest of your chair. “I’d say this borders on full-fledged wallowing.”
You glare at both of them, hugging the pillow tighter. “Go away.”
“No,” says Shoko, simply.
Mei Mei leans in conspiratorially, resting her chin on her hand as she observes you. “Honestly, it’s not the end of the world. So you didn’t get selected—big fucking deal. There’s always next—oh.”
“Next time?” you snap, sitting up straight. “There isn’t a next time, Mei Mei. This was the last chance.”
“Exactly,” she quips with mock cheerfulness. “All the more reason for you to savour your second-place status. It’s a rare opportunity for someone as annoyingly competent as you.”
Before you can retort, Utahime appears, carrying a steaming cup of tea. She sets it down on the small table beside you and gives Mei Mei a pointed look. “Stop tormenting her,” she says, shooing the girl off the armrest.
Mei Mei sighs dramatically but moves to the nearby sofa, lounging on it with her legs hanging off the arm. “Sorry for trying to motivate her.”
“More like antagonising her,” Utahime mutters, taking Mei Mei’s vacated spot. She turns to you, her expression softening. “Are you okay?”
“No,” you admit. “But I don’t want to talk about it.”
“Oh, for Merlin’s sake.” Shoko rolls her eyes. “It’s not like you lost to someone undeserving. Suguru is very competent. In fact, I’d say he’s as good as you.”
“Is that supposed to be helpful, Shoko?” Utahime hisses. She pats your hand comfortingly. “Ignore them. They’re just jealous that they weren’t even in the running.”
“Jealous? Hardly,” Shoko says. “Can you imagine studying for our N.E.W.T.s while having to worry about whether we’re going to survive these godforsaken tasks?” She shudders, the thought of the end-of-year exams enough to make her lips turn downwards.
You shake your head, exasperated, but her words bring a small smile to your face. Utahime—ever the observant one—notices, and squeezes your hand gently. “You’ll be alright. This doesn’t define you. You’re still brilliant, still one of the best witches Hogwarts has ever seen. And if Suguru doesn’t see that, then—”
“He does,” Shoko cuts in unexpectedly. She crosses her arms, her gaze flickering over to the fireplace. “Trust me, he knows exactly how good you are. Why do you think he asked for your help?”
You gape at her. “How did—”
“Satoru told me. He said Suguru left the Great Hall and didn’t celebrate with the rest because he was busy searching for you.”
You blink. You’d known Satoru, Suguru and Shoko had known each other since they were children—they all belonged to three of the most prominent Pureblood families in the Wizarding World—but you didn’t think they were that close. Evidently, you were wrong.
But that’s one of the main reasons you’re so desperate to prove yourself. You’re a mere Muggleborn, a witch born to non-magical parents, and getting thrust into the magical world so quickly felt overwhelming. All of a sudden, you had an explanation for all the oddities that occurred when you were a child—teacups breaking even though you never touched them, books floating straight out of the bookshelf and into your hands. But it was clear that in the world of witches and wizards and strange creatures you’d only ever read about, you still had to claw your way to the top.
Geto Suguru, because of his privilege as a Pureblood, having grown up witnessing magic firsthand, was already one step ahead of you.
You despise him for it.
Shoko’s reminder of Suguru’s request makes irritation bubble up inside you all over again. “It’s not fair,” you say, fingers curling into the soft material of the cushion. “He doesn’t get to—he has no right to ask me for help after I worked so hard to get here.”
Utahime and Mei Mei stay silent, not willing to come to any conclusions, but Shoko’s gaze snaps to you, her eyes narrowing. “Are you saying Suguru doesn’t work hard either?”
“No, I’m—” You falter, the words getting lodged in your throat under Shoko’s unwavering stare. “I needed this. I needed to prove myself.”
Utahime squeezes your hand again. “If you really don’t want to, you could always say no.”
“Can I, though?” you ask, more to yourself than anyone else. “If I refuse, and he loses, I’ll think it’s my fault for not helping him. And if I help him, and he wins, I’ll have to live knowing I contributed to his victory.”
“Is that really so bad?” Mei Mei chimes in. “I’m not sure what exactly is going on here, but from what I can gather, it feels like Suguru is genuinely asking for your help because he thinks you’re the best person for the job.”
“Listen,” Utahime says, “whatever you decide, it doesn’t change anything about how smart you are, or how strong of a competition you were to him. You’re still one of the top students Hogwarts has ever seen, and one silly competition isn’t going to change that.”
You want to rebuke her words. The Triwizard Tournament isn’t just some silly competition; it’s the one way you thought you could prove that you belong in the magical world just like Suguru and Satoru and Shoko, and the rest of the Purebloods do. But Utahime’s gaze turns imploring, and you know Mei Mei and Shoko’s patience is running thin, so you muster up a smile.
“Thanks, Utahime,” you say gratefully. “I’ll think about it tomorrow.”
Shoko rolls her eyes, though not unkindly, and Mei Mei flashes you a grin. “Well, if we’re all done rescuing this one from her lonely little pity party, I’m ready to go to bed,” she says, stretching her arms above her head.
Utahime glances at you questioningly, so you tell her to go ahead and that you’ll come up to the dormitory in a few minutes. Shoko stays behind. When you meet her gaze, she’s already looking at you, brows furrowed in a small frown.
“I’m sorry you didn’t get in,” she says finally, “but don’t—don’t do something reckless or hurtful, okay?”
She turns around and strides up the staircase to the girls’ dormitory before you can ask her what she means by that. The common room is quieter now, the excitement of the champion selection having died down. You stare at the fire still crackling, and push down the sting of rejection that still hasn’t gone away completely.
Geto Suguru is late.
Are you surprised? Of course not. If there’s one thing he can be relied upon for, it’s his remarkable ability to waste your time. Still, knowing all this doesn’t make it any less irritating, especially when he was the one who sought you out in the first place.
The library is colder than usual, the stone walls and high ceilings doing little to trap the day’s residual warmth. You wrap your cloak tighter around yourself. At this rate, you’re starting to feel like a fool for agreeing to this. The library is otherwise deserted, as it usually is at this hour. It’s just you and the librarian, Madam Pince, as well as a trio of Durmstrang students who have no business being here. They stare at you every now and then, huddled together. Your cheeks burn; if Suguru doesn’t show up soon, you’ll have wasted the evening for nothing—and you’ll have the added humiliation of curious foreign students studying you like they’ve never seen another human being before.
The table before you is cluttered with blank parchment and unopened books, all untouched. The light from the sconces creates shadows that flicker and dance over them. Normally, the library is where you find peace. You can drown yourself in tomes about advanced charms or obscure potions, tuning out the noise of the castle. Tonight, however, the quietness grates on your nerves as you tap your quill against the tabletop impatiently.
The clock on the wall ticks. You glance at it for the fifth time in as many minutes, annoyed.
The doors creak open at last, and Geto Suguru finally strides in. His dark robes billow slightly as he walks. There’s a faint flush on his cheeks, and a stray lock of hair clings to his temple. He doesn’t look the least bit apologetic.
“You’re late,” you say, when he finally stops opposite you. You don’t bother keeping the accusation out of your tone.
Suguru slides into the seat opposite you, entirely unbothered. “I had things to do.”
“Like what? Admiring your own reflection?”
“That’s not a very nice thing to say, little lioness.” Before you can snap at him for the nickname, the Slytherin continues, “If you must know, I was hunting for something important.”
“More important than the meeting you asked for?” you retort, narrowing your eyes at him.
“I’d argue they’re related,” Suguru says, and before you can press him further, he pulls out a crumpled piece of parchment from his pocket and spreads it out on the table.
You lean forward, your annoyance eclipsed by curiosity. The parchment is covered in messy, scrawled notes, and the handwriting is illegible in some places, but certain words stand out: fire, movement, creature.
Frowning, you ask, “What is this?”
“Information.”
“About?” you prompt, though you have a sinking suspicion on what it is.
“The first task.”
You blink. It hasn’t even been twenty-four hours since the champions were chosen. Geto Suguru works quickly, you must begrudgingly admit. “Where did you get this?”
“Snuck into the Headmaster’s office and nicked it from there,” he explains. “The Durmstrang and Beauxbatons champions already know, I’m sure.”
You nod. He’s right. The Triwizard Tournament is more than just a friendly competition between schools—it’s a way for each institution to gain power and prestige. It’s a matter of honour and pride, and a way to showcase each school’s magical prowess. There’s no doubt that the other champions are being helped by their respective school heads.
“Won’t they notice it’s missing?” you ask, scanning the parchment once more.
Suguru scoffs. “Do you think I’m an amateur? I duplicated the original parchment and brought it.”
You clench your jaw, fingers tightening around your quill. The words swim before your eyes, forming a picture you don’t want to see. Fire, movement, a creature—there’s only one possible scenario, and your stomach churns at the thought.
“Dragons?” you ask, voice quieter now, tinged with unease.
“Possibly,” Suguru says. “But it could be something else. They might want to mix things up.”
“Like what?” you press. Different creatures run through your head, each more terrifying than the last. “Manticores? Chimaeras?”
“Too wild,” he muses. “They’d want something dangerous but controllable. Something they can contain.”
You frown, thoughts racing. “A griffin?”
“Unlikely,” your rival says, tapping his fingers on the table, “but not impossible.”
You sit back, arms crossed. Despite all these possibilities, Suguru doesn’t seem fazed. He leans back as well, mirroring your position, eyes flickering to the parchment he stole from the Headmaster’s office. How is he not afraid? Your heart rabbits at the thought. There’s less than a month for the first task to take place; you and Suguru will have to map out all the possible outcomes and prepare for the worst. In a way, you’re grateful—making a to-do list and crossing things off it one by one is one thing you can handle. The rest is up to Suguru.
“If it is dragons—or something similar—you’ll need to prepare for fire,” you begin. “A lot of it.”
“Go on.”
“You’ll need protective charms,” you say, scribbling it down on the blank piece of parchment in front of you. “And something to help with visibility. Smoke can be just as dangerous as fire if you can’t see what you’re doing.”
Suguru nods slowly, his expression thoughtful. “Good points. What else?”
You hesitate, studying him. For once, he seems genuinely interested in your input, not just humouring you. It’s disconcerting, seeing him so serious, so focused. “If it’s not dragons, or any other big creature,” you say cautiously, “then it could be something smaller but equally dangerous. Fire crabs, maybe. Or Blast-Ended Skrewts.”
“Creatures with coordinated attacks,” he murmurs, brows furrowing slightly. “That would be challenging.”
“And if it’s not a creature at all?” you add, mind spinning with possibilities. “What if it’s something more abstract, like a puzzle or an obstacle course involving fire?”
He considers this, shifting in his seat. “Then I’d need to think on my feet,” he says finally.
“You mean you’d need to rely on luck.” You scoff.
Suguru’s placid smirk returns, and you immediately regret opening your mouth. He glances at you, and says lightly, “Luck has served me well so far.”
“Overconfidence isn’t a strategy, Suguru.”
“Neither is pessimism,” he counters sharply.
You bristle at the remark but bite back the retort on your tongue. Arguing with him isn’t going to get you anywhere, and despite your frustration, you know he needs your help. If he goes into the first task unprepared, it won’t be just his pride on the line—it’ll be Hogwarts’, too.
You sigh, dropping your quill into your inkpot. “Fine. If we’re doing this, then we’re doing it properly.”
He spreads his arms out, palms facing upwards. “Then there’s only one thing left to do. We have to find a place to practice.”
The Room of Requirement is something of a Hogwarts myth, the kind of thing that people will bring up in conversation only to sound far more interesting than they really are. It’s a concept shrouded in mystery, its existence neither confirmed nor denied, referenced only briefly in Hogwarts: A History as “a chamber of peculiar use, appearing only to those in great need.”
For most students, the idea of a room that appears when one is in great need is nothing more than a charming story—like the rumours about the Bloody Baron’s long-lost treasure, or Peeves the poltergeist’s supposed alliance with the Slytherin Quidditch team.
Pacing up and down the seventh-floor corridor, opposite the tapestry of Barnabas the Barmy attempting to teach trolls ballet, you find yourself hoping—reluctantly—that this particular myth holds a grain of truth.
Mei Mei had mentioned it once, offhandedly, when discussing the lengths she’d go to for privacy. “The Room of Requirement,” she’d said. “It’s the kind of place that knows what you need before you do. A bit unnerving, if you ask me.” At the time, you’d rolled your eyes and dismissed it as Mei Mei being her usual cryptic self. But now, with Suguru expecting a place where you can practice in secret—away from prying eyes and endless questions—you find yourself clinging to the possibility of its existence.
You pause mid-step, glancing at the blank expanse of the stone wall. It looks as unremarkable as every other corridor in the castle. “Great need,” you mutter to yourself, feeling a bit foolish. “Right.”
You begin pacing again, focusing on what you need. Your footsteps echo faintly in the empty hall. I need a place to practice, you think. A place where no one will interrupt. A place with enough room to practice spellwork, with everything I need.
On your third pass, something shifts. The air around you seems to hum faintly, and the smooth stone wall ripples like water stirred by some invisible hand. A door begins to materialise, the brass handle gleaming slightly in the torch light. For a moment, you just stare, half-expecting it to vanish as suddenly as it appeared. But it doesn’t. It stands there, solid and tangible, as if it had been there all along and you’d just failed to notice.
Taking a deep breath, you grasp the handle and push the door open. The room that greets you is nothing short of extraordinary.
It’s cavernous, the ceiling arching high above you like the vaulted nave of a cathedral. The walls are lined with shelves stocked with spellbooks, potions ingredients, and various magical artifacts. At the centre of the room, there’s an open space with a dueling platform. You take a tentative step inside. To the side, there is a row of practice dummies, some made of rusty metal and some made of scuffed wood. The door closes softly behind you, sealing you into this impossibly perfect place.
“Sweet Merlin,” you breathe out, marvelling.
You walk slowly around the room, taking it all in. The books on the shelves seem to shimmer faintly, their spines marked with titles like Defensive Charms for Advanced Duelists and The Art of Magical Adaptation. Some of the titles are ones you’ve come across on your rare trips to the Restricted Section of the library, while others are entirely unfamiliar.
Still, a part of you can’t shake the feeling that you’re trespassing. The room feels alive in a way the rest of the castle doesn’t, as though it’s watching you, waiting to see what you’ll do next.
You turn your attention to the dueling platform, running a hand over the smooth, polished wood. If Suguru has any hope of surviving the first task—and you’re still not entirely sure why you care if he does—this is where you’ll need to start.
The thought of working with him here, in this quiet, secretive space, stirs a complicated mix of emotions. Annoyance, of course—he’s insufferable—but also a grudging respect. Suguru may be arrogant, but he’s also skilled, and you can’t deny the challenge of matching wits with him.
You sigh, glancing towards the door. You’ll have to tell him about the Room of Requirement soon, but for now, you allow yourself a moment of quiet triumph.
The Room of Requirement is real, and you found it.
Geto Suguru is understandably skeptical about the Room of Requirement’s existence, but words fail him when you take him to the seventh-floor corridor and show him. His incredulity crumbles into quiet awe when the door takes shape in front of you both, and you can’t resist the smug grin that forms on your lips.
You push open the door, and, theatrically sweeping your arm out wide, say, “Ladies first.”
“How mature.” Suguru rolls his eyes but steps inside tentatively. His eyes widen when he scans the room, sees the bookshelves and the practice dummies and the dueling platform. A small scoff escapes his lips. “Wow. I can’t believe you found the Room of Requirement before me.”
“I’m sure being the Hogwarts champion means you’re always busy,” you comment, sarcasm dripping from your tone.
The champions aren’t busy—not yet, at least—and a lull in the excitement about the tournament was brought about chiefly by the professors assigning copious amounts of homework and essays. You have an essay on the influence of tea leaf clumping on upcoming Quidditch matches for your Divination class due tomorrow, but you can’t bring yourself to care.
Suguru scowls. “Forgive me for not wanting to waste my time on a wild goose chase.”
“I found the Room of Requirement, Geto. It’s hardly a goose chase if it exists, is it?”
“Tch. This was a fluke.”
“Are you going to continue debating about this room’s existence while we’re in the damn room, or are you going to actually practice?” You sniff disdainfully, crossing your arms over your chest.
“You want me to hex a practice dummy?” His smile returns, faint but just as mocking as ever. “How riveting.”
“No, actually,” you retort, your own lips curving upwards. You step onto the dueling platform and hold out your wand. “I want you to hex me.”
He falters, blinking at you owlishly. “You want me to—”
“Don’t get all worked up,” you interrupt. “It’s a practice duel, not a declaration of war.”
Suguru grins, teeth flashing in the dim light. He shrugs off his robes and leaves it in a heap on the floor. His tie is loose, and his shirt untucked, but he quickly ties his long hair up and clambers onto the platform, gripping his wand tightly. He steps back, adjusting his stance, and gestures for you to begin.
You don’t hesitate. “Expelliarmus!”
He deflects the spell easily, wand slicing through the air. “Protego.”
The red flash of your spell rebounds harmlessly off the invisible shield he conjured, and before you can regain your footing, he counters with a quick Stupefy. You barely dodge it. The jet of light whizzes past your shoulder and strikes the wall behind you.
Gritting your teeth, you flick your wand and say, “Incarcerous!”
The ropes that shoot from your wand nearly catch him, but Suguru is quicker. He steps aside neatly, his wand a blur as he attacks with a Disarming Charm. “Expelliarmus!”
Your wand flies out of your grip and straight into Suguru’s waiting hand. You huff, cheeks flushed with heat and sweat beading on your forehead. Glaring at him, you gesture for him to toss it back to you. He obliges, maddeningly proud, and not a single hair out of place.
“I didn’t realise I’d be dueling someone so… unprepared,” he taunts.
“You were just lucky,” you retort. You step back into position, determination to best him burning in your chest. “Again.”
For the second round, you’re more prepared. Spells fly back and forth, crackling through the air. Suguru is fast, but you’re clever, weaving around his attacks and shooting back with different sorts of jinxes.
“Confundo!” you shout, aiming directly at his chest. Suguru deflects it with a flourish, but his stance falters for a split second. You don’t waste the opportunity. “Rictusempra!” The Tickling Charm hits him squarely, and he lets out an undignified yelp, doubling over with laughter.
“Y-you—” He’s laughing too hard to finish the sentence, face red and eyes watering. Clutching his side, he tries to regain control.
You lower your wand, a victorious grin spreading across your face. “What’s the matter, Suguru? Ticklish?”
He glares at you through his laughter. With a flick of his wand, he casts Finite incantatem, the general counter-spell for any minor jinxes or hexes, straightening up and smoothing out his shirt. “Unnecessary.”
Your smile widens. “Oh, I don’t know about you, but I found this particularly amusing.”
“Resorting to petty jokes now, are we?” Still, you can sense the grudging respect in his tone. “Not bad, little lioness.”
“High praise, coming from a conniving snake,” you say, though the words lack their usual bite.
You enjoyed it, you realise. You enjoyed dueling with Geto Suguru, the one person who you’ve had it out for ever since you joined Hogwarts. Flopping onto the floor and catching your breath, the thrill of the duel doesn’t seem to wear off. Even Suguru fidgets with his wand, mouth set in a grim line. You tear your gaze away and stare at your own wand instead. There is something about being evenly matched with him, the way both of you anticipate each other’s next moves, the way you dodge and attack with equal strength.
“Same time tomorrow?” Suguru breaks the silence.
You hesitate, then nod. “Yeah. Same time tomorrow.”
Geto Suguru’s face is on the front page of the Daily Prophet—Wizarding Britain’s newspaper— alongside Amélie DuPont of Beauxbatons and Aleksandar Ivanov of Durmstrang. The picture moves, as all photographs in the magical world do, with Amélie in the middle, tucking a strand of her silver-blond hair behind her ear while her light blue skirt billows slightly in the wind. Aleksandar is more serious, thick eyebrows set in a frown with his burly arms crossed over his chest.
In the centre is the bane of your existence himself. His long hair is half-down and pinned back. His robes are neat and pristine, the Slytherin crest and his Prefect badge gleaming. He twirls his wand between his fingers, lips curled upwards in a lazy smirk, though his eyes are as sharp as ever. The headline underneath the picture reads:
CHAMPIONS PREPARE FOR GLORY: INSIGHT FROM THE TRIWIZARD FRONTLINES
The Great Hall is noisy during breakfast, the smell of food and the cacophony of students eliminating all other senses. Your hand tightens around your fork and you stab at your eggs aggressively. Utahime takes the newspaper and flicks it open to the page with the Champions’ interviews.
“‘Hogwarts Champion, Geto Suguru’,” she begins to read aloud, “‘impresses everyone with his unparalleled spellwork and ability to stay calm under pressure.’”
Shoko, halfway through her toast, snorts. “Sounds like he wrote it himself.”
“‘When asked about his preparation for the first task’,” Utahime continues, “‘he credited his regimen to ‘careful planning and focused practice’.’” She pauses, raising an eyebrow at you. “Does that sound familiar?”
You refuse to rise to the bait, though your cheeks warm despite yourself. Two weeks of training in the Room of Requirement—of dodging his spells, practicing wandwork, and biting back your own irritation—have left their mark.
Mei Mei, peering over Utahime’s shoulder, comments, “Oh, look. He also mentioned something about collaboration. About how it elevates one’s abilities.”
“How diplomatic of him,” you mutter. “He really loves the sound of his own voice, doesn’t he?”
“Talking about me again?”
You freeze, the unmistakable drawl sending a shiver of annoyance down your spine. Looking up slowly, you find Suguru himself standing opposite you, flanked by Gojo Satoru. “Morning, Gryffindors,” the latter greets cheerfully, blue eyes twinkling. Suguru, however, merely slides into the seat across from you, his dark eyes not leaving yours. You grab your goblet and take a sip of your pumpkin juice just to have something to do with your hands.
Satoru drops unceremoniously on the bench next to Shoko without invitation, snatching a piece of toast from her plate. “Merlin, it’s lively here.”
“Go away, Satoru,” his female friend replies. “Get your own toast.”
“Sharing is caring.” Satoru bites into the toast with gusto.
“I hope you choke on it,” Shoko says flatly.
Utahime mumbles an apology and leaves when the Head Boy, Nanami Kento, calls her over. They have to discuss something about the first Triwizard Tournament task that will be taking place the next day. Mei Mei escapes to the bathroom, leaving the four of you sitting by the Gryffindor table. It’s a sight in itself, really, because it’s rare for Slytherins to be mingling with Gryffindors so amicably. Yet, Shoko and Satoru remain oblivious to the stares as they continue to bicker over breakfast, while you shift uncomfortably.
Suguru’s eyes flick briefly to the half-folded Daily Prophet near your hand. “Enjoying the article?”
Your stomach twists. “I haven’t read it,” you lie, glaring down at your mutilated eggs.
“Shame. I was curious about what you thought.”
“Don’t flatter yourself,” you snap, though the heat crawling up the back of your neck betrays you. “Why would I waste my time reading about you?”
“You’re awfully defensive for someone who doesn’t care,” Suguru says.
“I don’t care.”
Satoru leans over. “Do you think they’ll hex each other before the first task? I’ve got ten Galleons on it.”
“Make it fifteen,” Shoko says, “and I’ll lend you my wand for the counter-curse.”
You glare at both of them, but Suguru’s voice draws your attention back. “Since you’re clearly not invested,” he says, tone light but eyes determined, “any advice for tomorrow?”
You blink. Of all the things you’d expected him to ask, it hadn’t been this. “Don’t get yourself killed,” you say bluntly.
He huffs out a soft laugh, shoulders shaking slightly. “Noted.”
“Well, this has been fun,” says Satoru, standing up and stretching his arms over his head. “But I think I’ve exhausted our dear Shoko’s hospitality.” He swipes her goblet and downs her pumpkin juice.
“Touch my plate again, and I’ll set your robes on fire,” Shoko warns.
With a laugh, Satoru ruffles her hair and saunters off, leaving you and Suguru alone in this tense, uncomfortable silence. “Good luck tomorrow,” you say finally, not meeting his gaze.
“Thanks,” he says, quieter than usual.
When he stands up to leave, you can’t help but feel a pang of unease. The first task is tomorrow, and while you would never admit it, you hope he comes out of it unscathed.
Dragons. Your hunch about the first task was right.
The cold November air is sharp as knives, cutting through the layers of your robes as you grip the railing of the stands surrounding the makeshift arena. Excitement and dread churns together in your stomach, though you’d die before admitting the latter. The stands are packed, students and professors bundled in thick scarves and gloves, all leaning forward eagerly to catch a glimpse of the champions. Amidst the black of the Hogwarts robes, there is also the pale blue of Beauxbatons and the dark red of Durmstrang. The excitement is palpable, everyone buzzing with anticipation for the first task. You find yourself crammed in between Utahime and Shoko.
You swallow hard, keeping your eyes fixed on the arena below. The dragons are corralled in an enclosure just beyond the champions’ tent, their massive silhouettes casting long shadows on the frosted ground. Even from this distance, you can hear the occasional growl and the rustle of leathery wings.
“Dragons,” Utahime mutters, rubbing her gloved palms together worriedly. “How can they call this a school competition and then throw dragons at the students?”
“They’ve done it before,” Shoko drawls lazily, though her sharp eyes betray her worry. Satoru stands next to her, arms crossed over his chest and lips pressed into a grim line. You shiver; it’s bad enough that Shoko is worried, but seeing the normally cheerful Satoru so serious makes you anxious. “At least they’re not asking them to fight them barehanded,” she continues. “That would be more fun.”
“Shoko,” Utahime hisses, chiding. “Please stop.”
You don’t contribute to their conversation. Your gaze moves to the champions’ tent, barely visible through the enchanted mist that swirls over the field. Suguru is in there. You wonder how he’s preparing himself—he’s facing one of the most dangerous magical creatures alive, after all. The thought makes worry pool in your stomach.
From somewhere below, a voice booms across the field, magically amplified to reach every corner of the grounds. “Witches and wizards, welcome to the first task of the Triwizard Tournament!”
The crowd erupts into cheers. Utahime wrings her hands beside you, and the most you can manage is a weak clap.
“The task,” the announcer continues, “is as daring as it is dangerous. Each champion must retrieve a ring from the heart of the arena. But guarding the rings are some of the fiercest magical creatures alive—dragons!”
A collective gasp ripples through the crowd, followed by excited whispers. Utahime lets out a low groan. “They can’t be serious. This isn’t a tournament—it’s a death wish.”
Shoko shrugs. “They’ll be fine. Mostly. The Ministry of Magic wouldn’t let them die. Probably. They could get horribly maimed or injured, though.”
“Reassuring,” you mutter. You’ve been pretending to be indifferent for ages, but the truth is, you’re terrified for Suguru.
The announcer’s voice booms again. “Our champions will face their dragons one by one, drawn randomly to determine the order. The task is not merely about bravery, but also ingenuity, strategy, and magical skill. The ring holds a crucial clue to the next task—so it is imperative that they succeed!”
Your hands are numb against the railing, but you’re not sure if it’s because of the cold or because of something else entirely. The first task is madness—complete and utter madness. And yet, as the announcer’s voice booms again, calling out Suguru’s name, something in your chest curdles with a chill far worse than the cold.
“First, Geto Suguru, representing Hogwarts, will face the Hungarian Horntail!”
The sound is deafening. Cheers erupt from every corner of the stands, the Hogwarts students roaring loudest of all. Even the Slytherins, with their restrained, cold demeanour—the exception being Satoru, of course—cannot contain their pride.
Geto Suguru steps into the arena, holding his wand loosely in one hand with the other tucked into the folds of his robes. His long hair is swept up into a tight knot. You can’t hear him over the noise, but you swear you see him mutter something under his breath.
The Hungarian Horntail is enormous. Even from a distance, its obsidian scales glint ominously, and its massive, bat-like wings shift restlessly as its amber eyes lock onto Suguru. The ring lies just beyond the dragon, perched atop a precarious pile of boulders. It gleams like a star, a tiny thing that’s almost not worth the effort, you think. But of course, Suguru is just like you, and pride comes before anything else. You’re sure he’s already thought of a dozen different ways to get past the beast—because it’s something you would do, as well.
The Horntail snorts, sending a plume of smoke spiraling into the air. The arena is silent now. Suguru takes his first step towards the dragon.
“Is he insane?” Utahime whispers, voice trembling. “Does he not see the size of that thing?”
“He does.” It’s Satoru’s first proper sentence this morning, and the assurance with which he says it alleviates some of your worry—though not by much. “He’s Suguru. He always knows exactly what he’s doing.”
You remain silent, not taking your eyes off him. He moves slowly, with the kind of deliberacy that makes it clear he’s prepared. No step is wasted, no motion is hurried. He’s in control—or at least, that’s what he wants everyone to think.
“Confringo!” The spell erupts from his wand, creating a fiery blast that hits the ground near the dragon’s massive claws. The Horntail snarls, tail lashing out and gouging deep scars into the earth. The Blasting Curse he used isn’t meant to hurt—it’s meant to provoke.
Suguru casts another spell, this time to conjure a dazzling array of shifting, flickering lights. The dragon’s attention is drawn to the display; it tilts his head and looks up, mesmerised. You clench your jaw. It’s a bold move, because dragons are intelligent, but their curiosity is a double-edged sword.
“He’s trying to confuse it,” Utahime murmurs, clutching the ends of her scarf. “That’s risky.”
Risky is an understatement, you think. Suguru doesn’t stop. He moves his wand, pointing it low, and you see him mouth a spell—Glacius. The ground beneath the dragon becomes a slick sheet of ice. The Horntail’s claws scrape against the surface, wings flaring out as it tries to balance itself.
But it recovers quickly—too quickly. With a guttural roar, the beast lunges towards him, jaws snapping. Your heart thuds in your chest, but Suguru dives out of the way and smacks hard into a large rock. He slumps against it, chest heaving with heavy breaths. You hear Utahime and Shoko gasp beside you, but it’s drowned out by the sound of your own blood rushing in your ears.
Get up, you want to say. Get up and get that bloody ring, Geto. It’s silly—of course he can’t hear you—but there’s a gash on his arm, and his robes have darkened with blood, and it feels like if you somehow think it, Suguru will make it happen. It’s a flimsy mindset, but you’ll take whatever shreds of comfort you can get.
The dragon charges towards him, nostrils flaring and eyes gleaming. Suguru scrambles to his feet, the ends of his robes frayed and face streaked with dirt. He lifts his wand and casts a Protego maxima, a shimmering shield that briefly halts the dragon’s fiery breath. The shield holds for just a moment, but it’s enough time for Suguru to reposition himself, his eyes darting towards the ring.
“Come on,” you say under your breath, fingers tightening around the railing.
“Lumos maxima!”
A burst of brilliant, blinding light shoots out of his wand, illuminating the arena. You let loose an exhale; he’s clearly learnt from the dragon’s reaction to light earlier. It’s a good strategy, you will admit. The Horntail lets out a snarl, massive eyes narrowing against the glare. It thrashes, swinging its tail wildly, but Suguru has already limped away.
The dragon’s claws gouge into the earth once more, its bat-like wings flapping violently as it tries to shake off the distraction. Suguru uses the brief opening to dart closer, his focus entirely on the ring. His wand moves in a tight arc, and the light shifts into a pulsating sphere, hovering just beyond the Hungarian Horntail’s reach. It works. The orb of light draws the dragon’s attention away from Suguru.
“He’s using it as a decoy,” Shoko says, leaning forward.
“Smart move,” Satoru chimes in, hushed.
His blue eyes glitter knowingly at you, though, and you turn away, feeling your cheeks heat up. Suguru must have told him about all the research you did about dragons and their different breeds, and how they’re not so different from cats—if you take out the fire-breath and the wings and the long tail or the fact that they could eat a human alive in a heartbeat.
Suguru raises his wand again, muttering an incantation. A shimmering net of magical energy bursts forth, wrapping around the dragon’s front claws. The Horntail roars—but its movements are hindered enough to give him the opening he needs.
The ring glints in the faint sunlight, and with a quick Summoning Charm—Accio—it soars straight through the air to him.
The Horntail senses it immediately. With a furious roar, it pounces, its massive jaws snapping shut mere inches from Suguru’s outstretched hand. But Suguru is faster. With a final, desperate leap, he snatches the ring out of the air, landing hard on the frost-dusted ground. He rolls to his feet, the ring clutched tightly in his fist, and sprints towards the edge of the arena.
The Horntail thrashes behind him, but it’s too late. The magical barrier seals shut just as Suguru crosses the threshold. The dragon lets out a frustrated roar that echoes through the stands. The crowd erupts into cheers, the noise ringing in your ears. Hogwarts banners wave wildly in the air, and Satoru and Shoko let out a series of loud hoots, while you simply sigh, relieved.
“He did it,” Utahime breathes out.
“Of course he did.” Shoko beams proudly.
You don’t say anything. Your heart is still racing, your chest still tight. He did it. He passed the first Triwizard task.
Suguru hobbles past the stands, dark eyes scanning the crowd, one hand pressed to where the gash on his arm is. You curse yourself for feeling irrational—for wanting him to look at you. He does. His gaze lands on you, and he pauses for the shortest of moments. The corner of his mouth curls upwards in a small half-smile, and then he’s gone, disappearing into the tent where the champions will be tended to.
“He could’ve died,” Utahime mutters, shaking her head as the next champion is announced.
You glance back toward the arena, frosted fingers loosening their grip on the railing. The first task is over, but the dread in your stomach doesn’t subside. The dragons may be gone, but the Triwizard Tournament is far from over.
The Room of Requirement glows faintly in the dim light of the lanterns it conjured up, their golden halos casting long, flickering shadows over the stacks of books and piles of scrolls you and Suguru pulled out of the bookshelves lining the walls. You sit cross-legged on a soft, velvet cushion on the floor. Suguru paces in front of you, the soles of his boots soft against the tile.
The ring, when Suguru gives it to you, is warm to the touch and made out of the same gold the wizarding world uses to shape Galleons out of. A part of the ring is flattened into a signet, engraved onto which are a collection of dots. They look like pockmarks on an otherwise smooth surface. You rub your thumb over them curiously.
“Look inside,” Suguru says. He picks at the ends of the bandage wrapped around his arm, restless and jittery. “There’s something written on the inside of the ring.”
Turning the ring over in your palm, you bring it close to your eyes and squint. The words are tiny, and, for all intents and purposes, make no sense to you whatsoever. The ring’s golden surface glints, the engraving on the signet catching the shifting light. You roll it between your fingers, the faint warmth oddly soothing, though Suguru’s squirrely pacing sets your nerves on edge.
“Would you stop fidgeting?” you snap, squinting at the letters once again. “It’s hard enough to focus without you stomping around like a restless Hippogriff.”
“I’m thinking,” Suguru retorts, though he halts mid-step and folds his arms across his chest. “Unlike you, who’s just staring at the thing as if it’ll start talking.”
“It might!” you fire back. “It’s magical, isn’t it? Who knows what sort of enchantments it’s got?”
“It’s a ring, not a bloody Howler. Let me see it again.”
Reluctantly, you pass it over, careful not to touch his injured hand. His fingers brush against yours anyway, and the warmth lingers annoyingly on your skin. Suguru holds the ring up to the lantern light, tilting it to study the dots engraved on the signet.
“These dots look like they’re arranged deliberately,” he murmurs, tracing the marks. “They’re not random.”
“Well, obviously.” You roll your eyes. “The question is, what do they mean?”
He ignores you, dark eyes narrowing as he turns the ring over and studies the inscription. “‘Ego sum principium mundi et finis saeculorum’,” he reads aloud, the Latin rolling maddeningly smoothly off his tongue. “It sounds ominous.”
“It means something,” you say, leaning forward to snatch a book off the pile in front of you. It’s a dusty tome with Enigmatic Latin Phrases emblazoned on the cover, though you have a sinking suspicion it’s going to be less helpful than you hoped. “It has to. Why else would it be engraved on a magical artifact?”
Suguru plops down onto the cushion opposite you, sweeping away a bunch of scrolls. He places the ring on the ground in between you both. “If it’s a clue for the next task, then it has to be related to the Triwizard Tournament somehow. Something symbolic, maybe?”
“Brilliant deduction,” you deadpan, flipping through the pages of the book. “Didn’t realise you were such a scholar.”
“And I didn’t realise you were such a comedian,” he drawls. “Let’s focus. What do you think it means? The phrase—’I am the beginning of the world and the end of ages’. What does that sound like to you?”
You blink at him. “How did you translate that?”
“Studied Latin and French when I was kid,” he says smugly, in a manner that makes you want to deck him. Wonderful. Another aspect in which Suguru is already one step ahead of you, you think bitterly. “But that’s not the point,” he continues. “What do you think it could refer to?”
You look down, tapping your quill against the edge of the book. “It could be a reference to time,” you muse aloud. “The beginning and end… It's cyclical. Like a clock, or a calendar, maybe?”
“Or a journey,” Suguru adds, tilting his head. “Something that starts and ends with the same person. The champions?”
“Possibly. But it could also be something more abstract—like fear. Everyone’s afraid of something; it’s universal. The start and end of every challenge.”
Suguru picks up the ring again, running his thumb over the dots. “And this?” he says, gesturing to the engraving. “What if it’s pointing us somewhere? A location, maybe? Or a specific kind of task?”
You frown and lean closer. “The arrangement of the dots,” you say slowly, “looks… familiar. Like a pattern.”
“Like a constellation,” Suguru supplies. “You’re right. It’s got to be one.”
The conclusion settles over you both, but it doesn’t offer much clarity. You chew on the inside of your cheek, considering. “If it’s a constellation, then it’s symbolic, right? They all have stories tied to them—myths, legends.”
“Yeah, but which one?” Frustration creeps into his voice. “These dots could be anything. There’s no clear shape.”
“It could be something obscure,” you suggest. “Maybe even something specific to the wizarding world. I think we’ll have to make a trip to the Astronomy Tower some time soon, though.”
“Great,” says Suguru flatly. “So we’re supposed to decipher a constellation in a shape I’ve never seen and an inscription that sounds like it was prophesied by a second-rate Seer.”
“Better than wandering blindly into the second task. Though, knowing you, you’d probably manage to make it out alive. Cockroaches always do.”
He scowls, but his lips twitch upwards by the slightest. “And here I thought we were having a moment.”
“We weren’t,” you say immediately. The back of your neck prickles with heat.
Suguru rolls his eyes, though not with malice. He stretches his arms over his head. The action causes his shirt to ride up slightly; you avert your gaze quickly. “I’m starving.”
“What?”
“I’m hungry,” he repeats, standing up. “All this thinking has drained me. Fancy a trip to the kitchens?”
“It’s nearly midnight,” you point out—but your stomach growls faintly in agreement. “And I’m not sneaking around the castle because you can’t stop eating.”
“Suit yourself,” he says with a shrug, heading towards the door. “I bet the house-elves have made éclairs for tomorrow’s dinner.”
Well. You’ve always been weak to chocolate. Muttering a curse under your breath, you scramble to your feet and find yourself following him, the ring warm inside your pocket.
The Hogwarts kitchens are a marvel, a hidden oasis of warmth nestled beneath the castle’s chilly stone walls. Suguru finds the painting of a fruit bowl by the Hufflepuff common room, and tickles the pear. It lets out a loud giggle—you cringe, hoping Filch, the caretaker, and his evil pet cat, Mrs. Norris, are nowhere around. The pear transforms into a shiny brass door handle, and the moment the painting swings open, you’re met with a rush of buttery heat and the mingling aromas of chocolate, caramel, and freshly baked bread.
The kitchens are bustling with movement. House-elves dart about with a speed and efficiency that puts magic itself to shame. Pots clatter, ovens hum, and enchanted trays of golden pastries glide through the air.
A small, wiry house-elf with parchment-like skin and eyes like twin garnets appears in a puff of flour and indignation, his thin arms folded over his chest. A neatly pressed tea towel with the Hogwarts crest embroidered on it covers his tiny body.
“Young master should not be here!” the elf scolds. “It is forbidden to disturb the kitchens so late at night!”
“Good evening to you too, Sukuna,” Suguru says smoothly, brushing past the house-elf and into the kitchen. He inspects a nearby tray of éclairs, plucking one up and sniffing it appreciatively.
Sukuna’s bat-like ears quiver, his expression contorting between outrage and resignation. “Master Geto always does this. Always sneaking in like a naughty student. Not even a little bit nice and polite like the young Hufflepuff miss who always comes to say hello.”
“That’s because I am a naughty student,” Suguru says cheerfully, winking raunchily at you; you huff and roll your eyes. He sinks his teeth into the éclair with a pleased hum. “And you, Sukuna, are a saint for indulging me.”
The elf huffs, though his cheeks flush slightly at the praise. His gaze shifts to you, eyes narrowing slightly. “And this one? Is this young miss also here to pilfer desserts?”
“I— what? No!” you sputter, though your stomach growls traitorously at the scent of chocolate and cream wafting from the éclairs.
Suguru leans against the counter, lips tugged up in a smirk as he regards you. “Don’t be shy,” he says, gesturing towards the tray. “Sukuna won’t bite. Probably.”
“Only if asked nicely,” Sukuna mutters darkly, but he waves a hand, and another tray of éclairs floats down onto the counter as though by invitation.
Despite yourself, you reach for one. The pastry is warm, its golden shell yielding easily beneath your fingers. When you bite into it, the rich, velvety chocolate spills over your tongue deliciously.
“Good, isn’t it?” asks Suguru.
You hate that he’s right. “It’s passable,” you say, lifting your chin imperiously.
He barks out a laugh, brushing crumbs off his trousers. “Sure it is. That’s why you’re reaching for another one already.”
You glance down and curse under your breath. Grumbling, you take another bite of your éclair, determined to ignore the victorious glint in his eyes. Sukuna, meanwhile, seems torn between chastising you both and taking pride in your obvious enjoyment. In the end, he settles for clicking his tongue and vanishing to attend to an overflowing cauldron of treacle in the corner. The kitchen falls into companionable quiet, broken only by the distant clatter of utensils and the murmur of house-elves bustling about.
“So,” you say finally, licking a smear of chocolate off your thumb, “are éclairs your usual midnight snack, or is this just an excuse to avoid figuring out the second task?”
Suguru raises an eyebrow, feigning offense. “I’ll have you know I’m perfectly capable of eating and thinking at the same time.”
“You’re more a connoisseur of distractions. Very good at distracting yourself,” you say, without any real bite in your voice.
“Distractions are necessary,” he says lightly, gaze steady on your face. “Sometimes, stepping back helps you see things more clearly.”
You chew on that for a moment. “Fine. I’ll admit you have a point there. But the second task does seem to be rather interesting, don’t you think?”
He grins, teeth flashing in the light. “I’d be disappointed if you didn’t think so.”
You roll your eyes, but a small part of you warms at the compliment. Across the room, Sukuna reappears with a teapot and two mismatched cups. He sets them down with a flourish.
“If young master and young miss insist on loitering, at least have tea,” the elf says, somehow managing to sound both fond and exasperated at the same time.
Suguru raises his half-eaten dessert in a mock toast. “To Sukuna, the real hero of the Triwizard Tournament.”
The house-elf grumbles something unintelligible, though you catch the faintest beginnings of a smile before he disappears again.
“Are you always this insufferable?” you ask.
Suguru smirks, taking a small sip of tea. “Only with people who make it fun.”
You shake your head, biting back a smile of your own. For all his arrogance and sharp edges, there is something oddly disarming about Suguru like this—unguarded, his cutting wit tempered by the soft glow of the kitchen lights. The two of you sit in silence for a while, finishing off the tea and éclairs. The warmth of the kitchen seeps into your bones, making you feel drowsy and comfortable. Your eyelids feel heavy, and you wrap your arms around yourself.
“Alright,” Suguru says finally, setting his cup down with a clink. “Don’t fall asleep on me, little lioness.”
“‘m not falling asleep,” you mutter sleepily.
“I think we’re done for the day,” he says. “I’ll walk you back to the Gryffindor Tower.”
“I can walk back on my own.”
Suguru sighs, not unkindly. “I know.”
The Yule Ball is one of the highlights of the Triwizard Tournament—a night where students get the opportunity to dress up and dance, and indulge in the sort of revelries Hogwarts is usually so strict about. Utahime is convinced that some students will find a way to smuggle in Firewhiskey—wizarding alcohol—and is currently stressing out over how to regulate the intake of beverages of the students over a plate of hash browns and scrambled eggs.
Nanami Kento, the Head Boy, is trying to diffuse a situation that’s taking place at the Slytherin table. Some poor Hufflepuff girl (the captain of the Hufflepuff Quidditch team, you later recognise) had the balls to ask out Fushiguro Toji, notorious womaniser and blood purity freak, as her date for the Yule Ball. You nearly drop your cutlery when he calls her a Mudblood—a slur meant for people like you, born to Muggle parents. Gritting your teeth angrily, you glare at the back of Fushiguro Toji’s head. What a nasty, vile excuse for a man.
The situation is diffused when the girl passes out, a ball of yellow fabric clutched tightly in her hands. You have to give it to her; it takes serious guts to publicly ask out someone, though you wonder what sort of curse possessed her to ask Fushiguro, of all people.
“Absolute menace,” you mutter under your breath, stabbing your scrambled eggs with unnecessary force.
Mei Mei turns a page of Witch Weekly with a sigh. “Honestly, these pureblood types are so predictable. Such flair for cruelty, yet so unoriginal.”
“You’d think he’d at least come up with a creative insult,” Shoko adds dryly, her teacup balancing precariously on her saucer.
“Missed me, ladies?” Satoru, perpetually grinning like a Cheshire cat, plops himself onto the bench opposite you. His white-blond hair gleams under the enchanted ceiling of the Great Hall, and his tinted glasses perch at the end of his nose in a way that makes him look both ridiculous and infuriatingly charming.
Shoko’s reply is swift. “Not particularly.”
Mei Mei grunts out a greeting, and you merely smile politely at him. Utahime, still fretting over the logistics of conducting the Yule Ball, slides out of her seat in a hurry and mumbles something about finding Nanami so they can discuss things properly.
“You wound me, Shoko,” Satoru says, clutching his chest theatrically. “Anyway, I’ve got a pressing matter to discuss.”
“Does it involve you somehow setting fire to the Defence Against the Dark Arts classroom again?” Mei Mei asks, not looking up from her magazine.
“That was one time,” Gojo replies, feigning outrage. “No, this is much more important. The Yule Ball. Who’s asking who? Gossip is flying around faster than a Nimbus 2000.”
Of course, wherever Gojo Satoru goes, Geto Suguru is bound to follow. He approaches your little group, dark hair tied back neatly, expression as composed as ever. He slides onto the bench beside you with a nod of thanks to Mei Mei, who moved her plate of toast to accommodate him.
“Talking about the Yule Ball, I presume?” Suguru asks, reaching for a slice of buttered bread.
“Of course we are,” Satoru says, leaning forward conspiratorially. “It’s the event of the year, Suguru. Surely someone’s asked you by now.”
Your fork pauses in mid-air. For some reason, you find yourself wanting to know the answer.
Suguru’s lips quirk upwards, the ghost of a smirk. “As a matter of fact, someone has.”
The table collectively turns to him. Shoko raises a curious brow. Even Mei Mei closes her magazine in favour of staring at Geto Suguru like he’s just sprouted a pair of antlers on his head.
“Details,” Satoru demands, grinning wide.
“She’s from Beauxbatons,” Suguru says. “Asked me yesterday afternoon. I said yes.”
A sharp pang blooms in your chest, prickly and unwelcome. You drop your gaze to your plate, pressing your lips together and willing yourself not to react. It doesn’t matter. You don’t care. Suguru could go with whoever he wanted. He isn’t your friend, and he certainly isn’t—no. Absolutely not.
“Leave it to you to snag a Beauxbatons girl,” Mei Mei comments. “They always go for the broody ones.”
Gojo snorts. “Broody? Suguru’s about as broody as a cauldron full of kittens.”
“Are we done analysing my date?” Suguru asks.
“Not even close,” Satoru says, but his attention soon shifts to Shoko attempting to balance her goblet of water on her saucer as well as her teacup. Mei Mei picks up her copy of Witch Weekly once more and flips through the glossy pages.
You pick at your food, your knife scraping against your plate. The thought of Suguru dancing with some elegant Beauxbatons girl—someone undoubtedly beautiful and graceful and more poised than you could ever be—makes your stomach churn unpleasantly. The image of them laughing together, her delicate hand resting on his shoulder while his wraps around her waist, is as vivid as if it had been etched into your mind.
“You’re quiet,” Suguru murmurs, soft enough that the others can’t catch it.
“Just tired,” you lie, not meeting his gaze.
He doesn’t push further, but you feel his eyes linger on you for a moment longer before he returns to nibbling at his toast.
Shoving aside the annoying ache of jealousy, you straighten in your seat and force a pleasant expression on your face. Fine. If Suguru had a date, then so would you. Someone handsome. Someone confident. Someone who would make him think twice before flashing his perfectly polite little smile at you and your date.
“You know,” you begin, loud enough to draw the attention of your friends, “I think I’ll ask one of the Durmstrang boys.”
“Oh?” Shoko says, interest clearly piqued. “Got anyone in mind?”
“Not yet,” you admit, grabbing your goblet and swirling your pumpkin juice absentmindedly. “But there’s bound to be someone suitable. They’ve got that rugged, intimidating thing going on.”
Satoru bursts into laughter, nearly knocking over a plate of sausages. “Merlin help whatever poor bloke you’ve set your eyes on.”
You scowl. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Only that you’re not exactly the type of person to swoon over a man that’s—what did you say it was?—rugged and intimidating.”
“Well, we’ll see,” you say, lifting your chin defiantly. “Maybe I’ll surprise you all.”
With that, you turn back to your half-finished breakfast, and Satoru launches into a dramatic recounting of his supposed rejection by a Ravenclaw—”Her loss, really”—and you don’t look at Suguru at all. Still, as the meal ends the Great Hall empties, your resolve falters. You can’t help but glance at Suguru one last time. He’s listening to something Satoru is saying, lips curving upwards in a smile.
The pang returns, sharp and insistent—but you ignore it. After all, there are plenty of Durmstrang boys to choose from. Surely one of them would do just fine.
There are many ways to get yourself a date for the Yule Ball. You’ve watched it happen over the last week: dramatic declarations of affection in the Great Hall, quiet notes slipped between textbooks, bashful confessions in various corners of the castle. But this? This is different.
This is not the ideal method of asking someone out. Borderline stalking the Durmstrang champion because you saw him trudge through the snow towards the Black Lake—where the Durmstrang ship is docked—from the window of the Gryffindor common room is hardly what anybody would call dignified. Yet, here you are, braving the sharp, icy wind, and the crunch of snow underfoot, determined to follow through with your ill-conceived plan.
Your goal is straightforward, or so you tell yourself. Aleksandar Ivanov is a handsome man, someone impossible to ignore. His broad shoulders are draped in a thick, fur-lined coat that seems to defy the chill of Scottish winters, and his sleek, dark hair catches the fading light of the afternoon. He looks like something out of an old wizarding tale, that sort of unrealistic hero who was carved out of marble and brought to life.
Aleksandar Ivanov is not your type at all.
No, this has nothing to do with the hulking Bulgarian himself, and everything to do with Geto Suguru.
You hate the way you felt when Suguru mentioned his date. You hate that the image of him dancing with someone else—that faceless girl draped in blue satin—feels like a thorn lodged deep in your chest. Most of all, you hate that you care. So, you’ve decided on a solution: the bold, handsome Durmstrang champion on your arm at the Yule Ball. That’ll show him.
Aleksandar’s strides are long, the dark fur of his coat fluttering slightly in the breeze. He’s alone, his hands tucked into his pockets. You can see the faint outline of the Durmstrang ship in the distance, its masts swaying gently as the lake ripples against the hull. The sight fills you with a sudden sense of urgency. If you don’t catch him now, you’ll lose your chance.
“Excuse me!” you call out, your voice carrying over the air. Aleksandar slows, then turns, his piercing green eyes locking onto yours. For a moment, you feel rooted to the spot, your carefully rehearsed words scattering like leaves to the wind.
“Yes?” he says. There’s a faint accent to his voice.
You force yourself to take a step closer, and then another, until you’re standing just a few feet away. “Good evening,” you say, forcing a smile. “Aleksandar, isn’t it?”
“It is,” he says, the corner of his mouth twitching, though it doesn’t become a full smile. “And you are?”
You hesitate. Your name feels oddly small when you say it. The cold nips at your cheeks, and you resist the urge to shove your mittened hands into the pockets of your jacket.
“Well, then,” Aleksandar says, tilting his head slightly. “What can I do for you?”
“I…” You clear your throat, cursing the way your voice wavers. “I was wondering if you’d like to go to the Yule Ball with me.”
Aleksandar’s expression doesn’t change, but something flickers in his eyes—amusement, maybe, or curiosity. He takes a step closer, and you resist the urge to back away. “Interesting,” he says at last, drawing the word out. “You do know you’re not the first person to ask me to the Yule Ball, yes? You’re very beautiful, but why, exactly, would you want to go with me?”
Your cheeks flush with the heat at the sudden compliment, but your prepared responses—something about his reputation, his charm, his skill in the Tournament—suddenly feel hollow. You can’t tell him the truth, either, that this is about someone else. So you scramble for a suitable response.
“Well, you’re the Durmstrang champion,” you say, aiming for nonchalance but landing somewhere closer to desperation. “It seemed fitting.”
Aleksandar raises an eyebrow. “Fitting? Is that all?”
“Yes,” you lie, though your voice lacks conviction.
For a moment, he says nothing. The silence stretches, broken only by the distant lapping of the lake’s waves against the shore. Then, to your surprise, Aleksandar smiles—not the cool, detached smirk you were expecting while he brutally rejects you, but something warmer, almost amused.
“Very well,” he agrees, his voice carrying a hint of humour. “I’ll be your date.”
“Really?” The word escapes before you can stop it, and you cringe at how eager you sound.
Aleksandar’s smile widens. “Yes, really. Though I must admit, I am curious about your true intentions.”
“My intentions?” you repeat, trying your best not to sound sheepish. “What do you mean?”
“You see,” he says, “my intentions with you are rather simple. Word travels fast around the castle, and I know you were the closest person to best the Hogwarts champion in claiming the title. Besides the fact that you are very pretty, I think it will also make my competitor waver a little, no?”
You bite your tongue. He’s right. Aleksandar Ivanov is more than just a pretty face and brute strength. He’s also cunning and intelligent. You’re certain he would be a Slytherin if he attended Hogwarts instead of Durmstrang Institute.
“And you,” he continues. “You don’t strike me as the type of person to make bold declarations for the sake of tradition. There is something else, isn’t there?”
The same thing as you, Ivanov. I want to see the Hogwarts champion waver, you think. Instead, you stiffen, and say, “There’s nothing.”
“Hm.” Aleksandar doesn’t look convinced, but he doesn’t press the issue. “Well, whatever your reasons, I look forward to the Ball. I trust you’ll make for an… interesting evening.”
You nod, too flustered to do anything else. “Of course.”
“Let’s match,” he says. “What are the colours of your… house, as they call it?”
“Scarlet and gold.”
“Wear a red dress. Until then, dovizhdane.” Aleksandar turns back towards the ship.
You blink, but manage a stiff nod before walking away. You’ve done it. You’ve secured a date for the Yule Ball. But why, despite everything, do you still wish it was Suguru you’d be meeting on the dance floor?
“Lupus,” you read aloud, from the book Celestial Phenomena And Their Meanings placed on your lap, “is a constellation that is associated with wolves in Greek and Roman mythology. The stars that now form the constellation Lupus used to be part of the Centaurus constellation. They represented a sacrificed animal impaled by the centaur, which was holding it toward the constellation Ara, or the altar.”
Suguru rolls the ring around in his palm, chin propped on his other hand, sitting cross-legged across from you. “Interesting,” he muses. “Anything else?”
The signet catches the light of the Room of Requirement, glinting golden. It wasn’t hard to map out the dots to pictures of constellations and figure out which of the star-clusters was engraved on the ring. The harder part, now, is trying to piece together what it could possibly mean, and how it is related to the Latin inscription on the inside of the ring.
You clear your throat and say, “It says it’s also connected to the founding of Rome and the story of Orpheus.”
He straightens up at that, dragging a hand through his hair. He’s left it loose for the evening, and it spills over his shoulders, long and soft. Your hand itches to smoothen out the top of his scalp, but you bite back the urge and internally scold yourself for being an irrational mess around him.
“Can I have the book?”
You wordlessly pass it to him, leaning back on your arms and stretching your legs out in front of you. The velvet cushion is downy to the touch and warm under your fingertips. An enchanted fire crackles in the corner, preventing the chill from outside from creeping in.
“It could also represent King Lycaon of Arcadia, who was turned into a wolf by Zeus,” he reads, eyes roaming over the page curiously.
“The question is,” you press, “what does all this mean? Lupus—wolves in general, really—have always been associated with survival, but the myth says it was a sacrificial animal caught by the Centaur. What does that mean? How does this connect to the inscription inside the ring?”
Ego sum principium mundi et finis saeculorum. I am the beginning of the world and the end of ages.
“Some great sacrifice, perhaps?” Suguru’s brows furrow in that way they always do, pinched together when he’s thinking hard about something. “But what would we sacrifice?”
“The answer to the riddle?” you suggest.
“Which is, what, exactly?”
You grimace. “I’ve no clue. It could be anything.”
He hums, fingers tracing the signet of the ring. “I wonder,” he murmurs, “if this is a test of more than just knowledge. The Headmaster’s riddles are rarely based on facts alone. He likes to see what’s in people, not just what they know.”
“A moral riddle, then?” You raise your eyebrows, shifting slightly on the cushion. Leaning forward, you peer at the ring once more. The Latin inscription glints faintly, almost as if it’s daring you to unravel its secret. “It could be literal. A physical sacrifice. Or—” You pause, chewing your lip. “Or it could be metaphorical. Something symbolic. The myths about wolves and sacrifices aren’t just about death. They’re about transformation. Survival. Endings and beginnings.”
“Hm.” Suguru tilts his head, his dark hair shifting with the movement. His gaze shifts from the ring to you. “Transformation. That ties neatly with the inscription, doesn’t it? The beginning of the world and the end of ages… sounds rather apocalyptic, don’t you think?”
“Don’t start spinning doomsday theories. We have enough to worry about without you prophesying the end of the world.”
“Not the world. Something about the world.”
“Or… Maybe it does have something to do with sacrifice. An emotion attached to it, maybe?” The question is rhetoric, simply you tossing out whatever unrealistic theories you can come up with, but Suguru leans forward, interested.
“You mentioned fear last time,” he says. “I think that makes sense, but what would the second task be? Dementors? Do they expect us to know how to cast a Patronus Charm?”
“I don’t know, Suguru,” you say. Your shoulders slump, defeated. Your head spins with various possibilities, each more far fetched than the last. “This is annoying me.”
Suguru huffs out a soft laugh, shoulders shaking. “Tired already, little lioness?”
“Don’t call me that,” you grouse.
“Noted.” He grins, all teeth and lips. You look away and ignore the way your pulse quickens. The sight of him like this—long limbs sprawled about, hair framing his face, his shirt creased and tie undone—makes your stomach flip in ways you don’t want to comprehend. “By the way, have you found yourself a date to the Yule Ball yet?”
You blink, disoriented by the sudden question. “Actually, I have,” you admit, face flushing with heat for no apparent reason. “Aleksandar Ivanov.”
“Ivanov?” Suguru’s voice trembles with something that sounds suspiciously close to disbelief. You want to crow with victory—this is what you had wanted, after all—but instead, all you feel is a strange sense of dread growing in your abdomen. “The Durmstrang champion?”
“Yes,” you say, lifting your chin slightly. “He’s… nice.”
“Nice?” Suguru scoffs. “That’s the best you could come up with?”
You glare at him. “What’s wrong with nice?”
“Nothing, if you’re describing a cup of tea or a particularly fluffy cat. But a date to the Yule Ball?” He shakes his head, exhaling sharply. “Ivanov is—”
“What?” you interrupt, your irritation rising. “Handsome? Intelligent? Charismatic?”
“—a pompous peacock with an accent that makes people swoon for no good reason,” he finishes, his voice dripping with disdain.
You bristle, crossing your arms. “You already have a date to the Ball. I don’t see how it matters to you who I go with.”
“It doesn’t,” he says quickly. “I just didn’t take you for someone who falls for shiny boys from other schools.”
You bite back a retort, unwilling to give him the satisfaction of riling you up further. Instead, you turn your attention back to figuring out the constellation, rifling through the pages of another book you pick up from the stack in front of you. The silence stretches, and Suguru is the first to break it, tentatively.
“Did you hear about Nanami docking points from Slytherin? Twenty this time. All because of Toji and that Hufflepuff girl.”
Your stomach twists at the mention of Fushiguro. “He called her a Mudblood,” you say bluntly. “She fainted because of it.”
Suguru’s fingers curl into fists, his expression clouding. “Fushiguro’s an idiot, but docking points for something he said? That’s unfair.”
“It’s completely fair,” you say, anger rising in your chest. “He used a slur, Suguru. Against her. Against people like me—Mudbloods, as Fushiguro would say. So yes, I think Nanami was right to take points away.”
The words hang in the air, heavy and cold. Suguru says nothing, his expression unreadable. Then, finally, he sighs, shoulders slumping. “I didn’t mean—”
“Didn’t mean what?” you bite back, voice rising. “Didn’t mean to defend him? Didn’t mean to make excuses for someone who thinks people like me are lesser than him?”
“I’m not defending him,” Suguru snaps. “I just think punishing the whole house for someone else’s stupidity is unfair.”
“Unfair?” You laugh bitterly. “You want to talk about unfairness? Try walking around this castle knowing there are people who look at you and see something dirty. Try hearing that word every time you walk past a group of pureblooded Slytherins. Try knowing that despite everything you do, you will always, always be ousted by someone simply because they were born into the fucking wizarding world while you weren’t. But, of course, you wouldn’t know what that feels like, would you, you privileged ponce.”
Suguru flinches. You pick up your wand and cloak from the discarded heap on the floor and, anger still simmering in your chest, stride out of the Room of Requirement without a glance back.
As per custom, the selected champions must always enter the Yule Ball after everyone else. After days of gruelling ballroom dancing practice brought upon you and your housemates by your head of house, who did not want you to besmirch the Hogwarts name by acting like a “babbling, bumbling, band of baboons,” you like to think you’re quite the connoisseur of waltzing.
Aleksandar offers his arm to you, the dark red of his dress robes accentuating his cheekbones and eyes. Your own gown ripples with every movement, the deep crimson satin soft against your skin.
You descend the staircase carefully—tripping because of your heels would be an embarrassment you don’t want to experience—and don’t look at Geto Suguru. You’re still furious at him, and you want absolutely nothing to do with him at all tonight.
“You look very beautiful,” the Durmstrang champion murmurs under his breath. “It is an honour to be with you.”
You laugh shakily. “Thank you. And likewise.”
He smiles without teeth. “I believe your champion is glaring at us.”
“Is that so?” You glance sideways at your date. “He should be paying attention to the pretty girl on his arm instead, don’t you think?”
Aleksandar opens his mouth to say something, but before he can reply, the doors to the Great Hall open, and a professor hurriedly begins ushering in the couples.
Amélie, tall and graceful, with her long hair pinned into an elegant French braid, is the first to enter to a smattering of applause from the gathered students. Her peony-blue dress shimmers under the lights of the enchanted chandelier, and she walks with her head held high and her hand tucked into the crook of her date’s arm. Her date is a flustered Hufflepuff boy, someone you’ve seen around the corridors occasionally; he looks like he’s been struck by a Confundus Charm, what with the dazed look in his eyes. (You can’t blame him. The Beauxbatons champion is gorgeous.)
Next, is Suguru. You stare at the back of his head while he leads his date into the Great Hall. His long, dark hair is tied back in a loose ponytail, held in place by an emerald green ribbon. His dress robes are the same colour, swishing around his knees with every step he takes. And, of course, there’s his date—the nameless, faceless Beauxbatons girl who matches his elegance and grace in every manner possible. You’ve heard her name being tossed around, but you refuse to acknowledge it. Jealousy is a fickle thing, and you are petty enough to succumb to it. They are the epitome of a perfect wizarding couple, you think; something in your mouth sours. The fact that you are still angry at Suguru does nothing to ease your mind.
You snap your gaze away as soon as they enter the Great Hall. Aleksandar nudges you gently, a faint smile playing on his lips. “Shall we?”
You nod, and he leads you forward. The Great Hall is breathtaking, even though you’d seen it earlier when helping Utahime with the decorations. The enchanted ceiling reflects a clear winter night sky, complete with gently falling snowflakes that vanish just before reaching the floor. The tables along the edges of the wall are laden with sweets and drinks. The floating candles that are normally present above your heads are nowhere to be seen, instead replaced with glittering chandeliers. A large space in the centre has been cleared for dancing, and a live wizarding orchestra has set up their instruments in the far corner.
The applause, as Aleksandar leads you out, feels distant, like a dull roar in the back of your head and you force a smile to your face. You can still see Suguru out of the corner of your eye, his emerald robes catching the light while he and his date glide further into the hall. He doesn’t look back, which is somehow worse than if he had.
You’re startled out of your thoughts when Aleksandar leans close to murmur, “You’ve gone quiet. Thinking about something?”
“Nothing important,” you reply quickly, flashing him a grin that doesn’t quite reach your eyes.
“Good,” he says with a wry chuckle, “because I’d hate to think I made you lose interest already.”
The comment earns him a genuine laugh this time, albeit a small one. The Bulgarian seems pleased, though, and gently steers you towards the centre of the hall, where the champions are to open the first dance. The room is full of expectant eyes, students from all three schools whispering and staring. You spot a few familiar faces in the crowd—Shoko with Haibara, looking like they’ve been dragged into something way out of their depth; Nanami with the Hufflepuff girl he’d rescued from Fushiguro, a rare, happy smile on his face; Mei Mei and Utahime laughing at something by the dance floor.
And, of course, there’s Satoru, leaning against the refreshments table with a goblet of pumpkin juice in his hand and a knowing smirk plastered on his face. He doesn’t look the least bit disgruntled about not having a date—a rare feat, considering how much of a drama queen he is. He catches your eye and wiggles his eyebrows at you, mouthing something indecipherable that you’re certain isn’t polite.
“Eyes up,” the Durmstrang champion says, low but not unkind. “You’re with me tonight.”
That’s right, you suppose. You are, so you shake your head and smile, turning to face him and resting your left hand on his shoulder. The orchestra strikes up a slow, elegant waltz, and Aleksandar’s hands find your waist.
The music swells, filling the enchanted hall with a lilting melody. Aleksandar guides you across the polished floor with a confidence that matches the proud poise of his bearing. For all your nerves, you fall into step easily, your waltzing practice smoothing out any initial awkwardness.
“You are good at this,” he murmurs, soft.
“I think I’m just very good at faking it,” you reply, glancing at the other couples. Suguru and his Beauxbatons date are near the centre of the hall, their movements seamless as if they’ve been dancing together for years. It’s a sight that would have been mesmerising—if it wasn’t so maddening in your eyes.
Aleksandar notices the flicker in your gaze but doesn’t comment on it. Instead, he shifts closer, his hold steadying you as he turns you in a spin. The room blurs briefly, the crowd fading into a swirl of colours before you’re pulled back into his orbit.
“You’re distracted,” he says lightly, though there’s an edge of knowingness in his voice. “Is it the crowd? Or is it something else?”
You open your mouth to deny it but catch the quirk of his brow, the faint amusement in his expression. He knows. Of course, he knows. “I—”
“It seems your true intentions were not so different from mine, after all.” Aleksandar smiles, a quick flash of teeth. “I suppose I must try harder to ensure I have your full attention.”
Aleksandar’s green eyes hold a hint of mischief in them. You smile, despite yourself. The waltz continues, each musical note cascading into the next. Around you, students start filling up the empty spaces on the dance floor, twirling and gliding, some with excellent prowess, others with two left feet. Still, your mind lingers on Suguru. It’s infuriating, how he fills up the crevices in your head, his absence from your line of sight louder than the applause once the dance ends.
The song draws to a close with a flourish. Aleksandar bows low to you; you return the gesture with a curtsey, your gown sweeping the floor. When you straighten up, he leans close to you, his voice low enough only for you to hear. “If you need an escape, just say the word. I’d be happy to whisk you away from… whatever it is that is troubling you. Consider it a favour.”
You laugh softly, his offer half-serious and wholly tempting. “Thank you, Aleksandar.”
Before you can say more, you catch Suguru moving from the corner of your eye. You glance up—and there he is. Geto Suguru, standing a few paces away with his date, his dark eyes locked on you in a way that sends a shiver down your spine. He doesn’t smile, doesn’t nod, doesn’t do anything except look, and it’s enough to make your breath hitch.
Aleksandar shifts, stepping just slightly closer, his hand brushing against yours. “Shall we get drinks?”
“Yes,” you say, far too quickly. “Let’s.”
You let Aleksandar lead you away, but you can’t shake the feeling of being watched, his gaze burning into your back long after you’ve disappeared into the crowd. Despite yourself, a small smile graces your lips when you spot Satoru, still lounging against the snacks table. He grins and waves when you catch his eye, and sets his goblet down when you and Aleksandar approach.
“Well, well,” Satoru drawls, ocean eyes roaming over your figure. “Impressive. I didn’t think you’d clean up this well.”
“At least I’m not a lone stag at a couple’s event,” you retort, smile widening despite yourself. Satoru does look rather dashing, however, clad in navy blue dress robes with golden curlicues embroidered all over. “Satoru, this is Aleksandar, as I’m sure you know. Aleksandar, this is my friend, Satoru.”
Aleksandar offers him a polite nod. “A pleasure to meet you. I’ve heard… Well, not much, actually. Though I imagine your reputation precedes you.”
Satoru snorts, unfazed. “Not much? Oh, I’m wounded. Surely the great Aleksandar Ivanov, Durmstrang’s star champion, has at least heard of my devastating good looks.” He flashes his most charming grin, but it only seems to amuse Aleksandar further.
“I’m afraid that hasn’t reached Durmstrang’s halls. Perhaps you should consider advertising.”
You stifle a laugh, glancing between them. “Don’t encourage him,” you say lightly, earning yourself an exaggerated pout from Satoru. “He already has a big enough head as it is.”
“That, I can believe.” The Bulgarian casts a sidelong glance at you.
“Smart guy,” Satoru muses. “I like him.”
“Anyway,” you cut in, cheeks warming. “We were just getting drinks.”
Satoru gestures dramatically to the table laden with butterbeer, pumpkin juice, and other sparkling drinks contained within golden goblets. “Help yourselves. And I would greatly appreciate it if neither of you told Utahime that all these drinks have been spiked with Firewhiskey by yours truly.” He points with his chin behind your shoulders to where Utahime is clumsily attempting to teach Mei Mei how to do the two-step.
Aleksandar grabs a goblet of something orange and fizzy, passing one to you before taking one for himself. It tastes sweet, and slightly sour, and it bubbles deliciously on your tongue before you swallow. The two of you bid farewell to Satoru and venture towards a quieter, more secluded spot. “This is nice, no?” he asks, and you hum in agreement.
“You’re quite popular tonight.”
You freeze, recognising the tone before you even begin to turn. Slowly, you glance over your shoulder to find Suguru standing a few feet away, his date nowhere to be seen. You hate how seeing him alone fills you with a twisted sense of triumph. His expression is carefully blank, unreadable, and for a moment the noise of the Great Hall fades away.
“I didn’t realise you were keeping track,” you reply evenly.
His lips curve slightly, not enough to be a smirk but enough to make your skin prickle. “Of course not. Just observing.”
You tilt your head, offering him a smile that borders on a grimace. “That’s very thoughtful of you. Maybe you should focus on your own date instead of mine, though.”
Aleksandar shifts beside you, but he remains silent. Suguru’s gaze flicks briefly to him before settling back on you. “She’s more than capable of taking care of herself. Besides, you seem to enjoy the attention.”
“I’m sorry—are you implying something?”
“Not at all.” Suguru steps closer, and, voice low, continues, “Just that you seem to be… compensating.”
The jab cuts deeper than you want to admit. “Compensating for what?”
He doesn’t answer immediately, letting the silence drag on long enough to make your stomach twist. “You tell me.”
Before you can respond, Aleksandar clears his throat, his green eyes darting in between you both. “I think I’ll grab another drink. Excuse me,” he says, and slips away with a polite nod.
“Great,” you mutter, glaring at Suguru. “Now you’ve scared off my date.”
“Oh, please. He’ll come back. He’s too invested in playing the perfect gentleman to leave you alone for too long.”
“And what about you? Where’s your date, Suguru? Or did she finally realise what an insufferable prat you are?”
His eyes narrow. “She’s fine. Unlike you, I don’t need to flaunt her to get a reaction.”
“What, in Merlin’s name, is your problem?” you hiss. Your heart pounds against your ribcage, a mix of anger and something else you don’t want to name.
“My problem?” he repeats, a dry laugh escaping his throat. “You, apparently. Always finding a way to needle at me.”
“You’re the one who came over here,” you shoot back. “If you have such an issue with me, why not stay on your side of the Great Hall?”
The Hogwarts champion’s gaze flickers briefly, something shuttering in his expression. “Don’t get ahead of yourself. I just wanted to see how long you’d keep up the act.”
Your brows furrow; your patience is wearing thin. Placing your half-empty goblet on a nearby floating tray, you cross your arms over your chest. “What the fuck are you talking about?”
“That guy,” he says, gesturing at Aleksandar’s retreating figure. “Pretending like you’re actually interested in him.”
You stare at him, your chest tightening at the implication. “Stop it,” you say quietly, steadily.
“Stop what?”
“Stop acting like you care,” you snap. “You made it perfectly clear earlier whose side you were on. Don’t act like you suddenly care about who I spend my time with.”
The mention of your earlier argument over Toji hangs heavy between you, and for a moment, Suguru looks away, jaw tightening. Really, you’re thankful Fushiguro isn’t anywhere near you both. Knowing him, you think he’s the sort of person who thrives off of attention, no matter whether it’s good or bad. He’d be elated to know that Hogwarts’ beloved champion and the school’s runner-up are locked in an argument over him—but it’s not really about Fushiguro Toji, is it?
“I don’t care,” he says finally, though his words lack conviction. “Maybe I just don’t like seeing you waste your time.”
“Funny,” you reply. “I could say the same about you.”
The words linger in the air, stubborn as static. Suguru’s eyebrows knit together, and he reaches out and grabs your wrist—not roughly, but firmly enough to send your pulse racing. “We’re not doing this here,” he says, through gritted teeth, pulling you towards the door.
“What are you—” you start, but he cuts you off with a brisk, “Just come with me.”
You inhale sharply, but follow him down the hallways and up the staircases. You know where he’s taking you before the door to the Room of Requirement even appears. Once inside, the door shuts with a soft click, leaving the two of you alone in the dimly-lit space. You pull your hand free, glaring at him.
“What the hell is this about, Suguru?”
“You infuriate me,” he says, voice cutting and low and breathless. “You drive me fucking insane, did you know? I dislike you so much.”
You blink at him like he’s just sprouted another head. “What the fuck? How much did Satoru let you drink?”
“I’m not drunk,” he says, eyes narrowing. “I’m just angry—and jealous. I’m so envious, Merlin help me.”
“What’s wrong with you?”
A wry, sardonic chuckle escapes his throat. He lowers his head, strands of hair that spill out of the ribbon framing his face. “I don’t know.”
“You’re such a hypocrite.” You swallow around the lump that forms in your throat. Goosebumps erupt across your shoulders when a sudden cold draft of wind makes you shiver. “I hate you.”
He lifts his face, then, gaze resting on your lips. His mouth parts slightly, as though to say something, but no words come out. Instead, he takes a step closer, and it feels like the room shrinks around you with each inch of space he eliminates. “You hate me?”
Your heart pounds as you glare up at him, refusing to yield. “I do,” you snap, though your voice wavers just slightly.
Suguru lets out a bitter laugh. “Liar,” he says, so quietly, it almost doesn’t register. His hand moves before you can think to react, cupping your jaw, fingers brushing along the sensitive skin behind your ear. His thumb skims your cheek. “You hate me so much, but you’re still here. You can walk away. I won’t stop you.”
Your breath catches in your throat. You stay rooted in the spot, and your nails dig into your palms. “Shut up,” you whisper, though it sounds more like a plea than a command.
He doesn’t. Instead, his thumb moves lower, brushing along the corner of your mouth, lips turning up in a half-smirk when he sees the way your eyes flutter shut for the briefest of moments. “You’re flustered,” he notes, soft, “but you hate me, right?”
Something inside you snaps. With every ounce of venom you can muster, you repeat, “I do.”
And then you’re grabbing him by the front of his emerald green dress robes, yanking him down until your lips crash against his. It’s uncoordinated, a clashing of teeth and anger and frustration. Suguru freezes for half a second before he groans against your mouth, his hands sliding to your waist as he pulls you flush against him.
It’s not gentle. His lips are rough, demanding, teeth scraping your bottom lip as if to punish you for every word you’ve ever said to rile him up. But you’re just as relentless, fingers tangling in his hair while you blindly undo the ribbon holding it in place, pulling sharply enough to draw a hiss from his throat.
“You’re impossible,” you mutter against his mouth, breath coming out in short gasps.
“So are you,” he fires back. His lips trail down to your jaw, teeth grazing the skin there. “You drive me mad.”
You don’t bother replying, instead tugging his hair harder, forcing his mouth back to yours. His hands tighten on your waist, fingers digging into the silk of your dress as if he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he lets go. You’re barely aware of the way Suguru backs you up against the nearest wall, his body pressing against yours while his mouth moves hungrily against your own.
“Say it,” he murmurs against your lips, low but somehow pleading.
“Say what?” you breathe out, though you know exactly what he means.
“Say you don’t hate me,” he demands, the words said into your neck, teeth skating over your skin and making you shudder.
Your fingers tighten in his hair, and you bite back a gasp. “No,” you whisper defiantly.
He pulls back just enough to meet your gaze, eyes dark and wild, chest rising and falling heavily. “Liar,” he mutters again, before crashing his lips against yours and swallowing any further protests.
(Later, when you stir from sleep, your dress barely doing anything to shield you from the chill, the first thing you notice is Suguru beside you. His head rests against the stone floor, hair unbound and spilling like ink over the cold surface. You don’t know when you fell asleep, but you do know how you ended up so close, your hands almost touching.
When his eyes flutter open, heavy with sleep, neither of you speaks. He exhales softly, gaze dipping to where your fingers nearly meet, and though his lips don’t form the words, the apology is there. You know this because he hooks his little finger with yours, and squeezes.)
For the next month, you do the logical thing: you avoid Geto Suguru at all costs.
This, you’ve decided, is a perfectly reasonable course of action. A brilliant one, even. It takes careful planning—adjusting your usual routes between classes, lingering longer than necessary in the library, arriving at meals either too early, or too late—but you are nothing if not meticulous, and you refuse to let him and your feelings for him become an inconvenience.
You do feel guilty, however, about not helping him out with the second task, but the way you see it, Suguru is more than intelligent enough to figure it out on his own. (You refuse to acknowledge the fact that you spend time trying to piece it out when you can’t sleep at night, staring up at the canopy of your four-poster bed.)
You’re doing quite well, really. Or, you would be, if not for your insufferable friends.
The courtyard is unusually lively today. The air hums with the lingering remnants of winter, crisp but pleasant beneath the afternoon sun. Students—both Hogwarts and not—lounge in clusters across the stone benches and patches of grass, basking in the rare moment of warmth. Laughter carries through the open space like birdsong.
You sit with your friends at one of the broader stone benches, a small pile of books and a stray Golden Snitch hovering in the air beside you (pilfered from the Quidditch supply closet by Slytherin’s star seeker, Gojo Satoru himself). It should be peaceful. It should be, but—
“You’re objectively wrong, and I refuse to entertain this nonsense any further.” Utahime crosses her arms, looking positively scandalised.
Satoru scoffs. “Utahime, be serious.”
“I am serious! You’re the one who sounds like an idiot.”
“I am an idiot,” he says, as if it’s obvious. “But at least I’m right.”
Shoko exhales slowly, pressing her fingers against her temples. “Merlin’s beard, what are you two even arguing about?”
“More importantly,” Mei Mei pipes up, swiping the Snitch from the air, “are we supposed to care?”
“Yes,” you say dryly, “if only to prevent them from tearing each other apart in the middle of the courtyard.”
Utahime turns to you, looking deeply affronted. “You agree with me, don’t you?”
“I don’t even know what the argument is about.”
Satoru gestures broadly with both palms. “I’m simply saying that if a Thestral and a Hippogriff were to fight, the Thestral would obviously win.”
Silence. You blink. “That’s what you’re arguing about?”
“First of all,” Utahime says, ignoring your incredulity, “that is completely wrong.”
“Oh, this will be good,” Satoru says, only a tad bit sarcastic. He sprawls onto a patch of dewy grass and leans back on his hands. “Do explain.”
“Hippogriffs are way more aggressive than Thestrals,” Utahime says. “And they have stronger beaks and claws. They’d win in a fight easily.”
“Thestrals literally eat meat,” Satoru argues. “They’re meant to take things down.”
“So do Hippogriffs!” Utahime points out. “Thestrals eat meat, but that doesn’t mean they’re fighters. They hunt only when necessary. They won’t even attack unless provoked.”
“Alright, but let’s say they were provoked—”
“By what, your stupidity?”
Satoru grins. “At least Thestrals don’t try to smite your face off because you bowed down to greet them at the wrong angle. Plus, they have the advantage of being invisible to everyone except those who’ve come face-to-face with death.”
Utahime makes a noise of frustration, and before you know it, the conversation has devolved into a full-blown debate. Mei Mei, ever the neutral one, watches with amusement, and Shoko starts taking sides. She and Utahime argue passionately in favour of Hippogriffs, citing their sheer power and aggression, while Satoru insists that Thestrals are stronger due to their skeletal structure and ability to take down large prey. You are promptly dragged into the discussion, despite having absolutely no opinion on the matter.
“It’s obviously a Hippogriff,” Utahime exclaims, gesturing wildly.
“You would think that, wouldn’t you?” the only Slytherin in the group shoots back.
“What is that supposed to mean?”
“I don’t know, but I’m sure it’s insulting.”
You pinch the bridge of your nose. “Honestly, this is the dumbest thing I’ve ever—”
“You agree with me, don’t you?” Satoru rounds on you, eyes gleaming.
You exhale, immediately regretting being within earshot of this conversation. “What?”
“You agree that a Thestral would win.”
You narrow your eyes. “I never said that.”
“Yeah, but you will.”
You sigh defeatedly, looking to the others for support, but Utahime merely juts her chin out. “Suguru wouldn’t agree with you,” she says pointedly.
Satoru snorts. “Suguru would agree with whatever she—” he points to you— “says.”
And just like that, your world tilts. The conversation continues around you—more bickering, more laughter—but it all fades into a dull hum, a sort of background noise to the sudden rushing in your ears. Suguru would agree with whatever you say.
It’s absurd. It’s just Satoru being Satoru, throwing out careless words without stopping to think about them. But the worst part—the part that unsettles you the most—is that he might be right.
You think of the way Suguru used to argue with you, sharp-tongued and obstinate, yet never truly cruel. How he always listened, even when he pretended not to. How, more often than not, he did end up on your side, whether by reason or sheer inevitability.
You inhale sharply, hands curling into fists on your lap. You make no move to join back in on the conversation—because, really, what is there to say?
That you can still feel the ghost of his hands on your skin? That you can still taste the Butterbeer he’d had on the eve of the Yule Ball when he slotted his lips against yours? That his name has lodged itself between your ribs, stubborn as a curse? That your heart stutters at the mere thought of him; that you cannot—will not—let yourself dwell on what could be if you let go of your pride, and he relinquished his arrogance?
No, there’s nothing to say at all.
When you agreed to help Utahime rearrange the awards and plaques in the Trophy Room after classes, you certainly were not expecting her to lock you up in said room with one Geto Suguru. If it was any of your other friends—Shoko, Satoru—you would not have been very inclined to help out, but it was Utahime who asked, which is why you acquiesced. At least you can say, with utmost certainty, that sweet, loving Utahime Iori is not sweet or loving at all.
There’s a brief moment of silence as the heavy door slams shut behind you; you reach for your pocket instinctively to pull out your wand and cast Alohomora—the Unlocking Charm—and make your escape. Then, you belatedly realise that you’d left your wand in your dormitory after classes. Your fingers curl around nothing, and you feel rather stupid.
Dust motes dance in the golden afternoon light, settling over gleaming plaques and silver trophies, their engravings telling stories of menial victories long past. The air smells like polish, but you hardly notice. Your pulse roars in your ears, loud enough to drown out all other sound but the one voice you had hoped to avoid indefinitely.
“Utahime,” you call through the door, voice strained but not yet desperate. “This isn’t funny.”
There’s no answer, save for the sound of retreating footsteps. You spin on your heel, fully prepared to ignore Suguru entirely until Utahime returns, but then he shifts—just the slightest movement, a tilt of his head, a shift of his weight from one foot to the other—and it’s as if some sort of invisible thread yanks you to him.
“I didn’t expect the Head Girl to actually agree to bring you here,” he says, voice low.
He looks tired. You hate that you notice.
His hair is loose, strands slipping over his shoulders, dark against the pale slope of his throat. His uniform is slightly disheveled—tie loosened, shirt sleeves rolled up to his elbows—but it’s his face that makes something in you twist uncomfortably. There are shadows beneath his eyes, bruised with exhaustion, and though his usual easy arrogance lingers in the set of his jaw, his shoulders are rigid, as though he’s bracing for impact.
You force yourself to turn away, to focus on the nearest plaque. The etched names are a blur as you try and fail to appear unaffected. Draconius Falmoy: Head Boy, 1869, it reads.
“You’ve been avoiding me,” Suguru says. There is no accusation in his tone—just fact, cold and clear as glass.
You trace the name engraved on the plaque with a fingertip. “I’ve been busy.”
A humourless laugh. “Right. Too busy to even look at me?”
You clench your teeth. “Don’t be dramatic.”
“Dramatic?” His voice sharpens, something brittle underlying it. “You haven’t spoken to me in a month. I don’t even know if you’d still acknowledge my existence if we weren’t locked in her together.”
You suck in a breath sharply, counting backward from ten in your head. You’ve spent weeks perfecting the art of pretending Suguru doesn’t exist; you’re not about to let him unravel it now. “I don’t know what you want me to say,” you manage to say, turning around to face him properly at last. “That I’m sorry? That I feel guilty?”
Suguru watches you, unreadable, dark eyes wrought with something you can’t name. “I didn’t ask for an apology.”
“No,” you say, crossing your arms over your chest, “but you clearly want one.”
Something in his expression flickers—hurt, maybe, or something close to it—but it vanishes so quickly, you think you might have imagined it. He sighs, running a hand through his hair, pushing it back from his face.
“I don’t understand you,” he says finally. “You kissed me, and then you disappeared.”
Your stomach lurches. “It wasn’t—”
“What?” He steps forward, gaze locked on yours. “It wasn’t supposed to happen? It didn’t mean anything?”
You hesitate, because you know that’s what you should say. You should roll your eyes, scoff, tell him he’s being ridiculous and move on like the Yule Ball never happened. He takes another step forward, and he’s close, now—close enough that you catch the faint scent of parchment and cedarwood, familiar enough after all the weeks you’ve spent in the Room of Requirement with him. You should say, Of course it didn’t mean anything, Suguru, don’t be stupid, but the words stick in your throat, prickly and unyielding.
“Tell me it meant nothing, and I won’t bother you ever again,” he promises, soft, and somehow that’s worse.
You swallow hard. “Suguru—”
He shakes his head, a bitter smile curling at his lips. “Nevermind.” He turns away, shoving his hands into his pockets. “You’re good at that, aren’t you? Pretending.”
The words cut deeper than they should. You don’t respond, because what could you possibly say? That he’s right? That every morning, you tell yourself it was a mistake, that it didn’t matter, that you can keep pretending it never happened—only to feel his touch lingering on your skin like a phantom’s fingers?
No. You can’t say any of that. Instead, you press your lips together and say nothing.
The silence that follows is thick and heavy and suffocating. You don’t move. Neither does he. You count the seconds in your head, waiting for something—anything—to break this unbearable tension.
Then, at long last, a knock raps against the door. “Alright,” Utahime calls out, sounding far too smug for your liking. “I think you’ve suffered enough.”
The lock clicks. The door swings open. Suguru doesn’t spare you a glance as he strides past, his shoulder just barely brushing yours as he leaves. The Trophy Room suddenly feels too big, too quiet, and you’re left standing alone amidst the gleaming remnants of past victories, your heartbeat echoing loud in your ears. (You have the gnawing feeling that Draconius Falmoy, Head Boy of Hogwarts in 1869 would laugh at your predicament.)
“I’m sorry,” Utahime tells you, as you fall in step with her. “He kept asking me to help him find a way to talk to you—he even promised he would donate the thousand Galleons he gets as prize money for the Triwizard Tournament to St. Mungo’s Hospital of Magical Maladies and Injuries, if he wins.”
You don’t say anything, only look down at the stone floor of the corridor as you walk back to Gryffindor Tower. You can’t fault Utahime; she has always been extremely kind-hearted and gentle, and you know the idea of a donation to the wizarding hospital would sway her completely—especially considering the fact that it’s been her dream to become a Healer after she graduates Hogwarts.
“Are you mad at me?” she asks, after a beat.
“No,” you say, flashing her a small smile that you hope is convincing. Truthfully, you’re just mad at yourself.
The plan is simple: bribe Geto Suguru with sweets and pray he doesn’t hex you on sight.
It’s not your most sophisticated scheme, nor your most dignified, but after an entire month of avoidance, and the disaster that was the Trophy Room incident, you’ve resigned yourself to desperate measures. You are doing this, not because you feel guilty, but because you had agreed to help him out with the Tournament, and you don’t want to feel like a shitty person for going back on your word. Regrettably, it is incredibly difficult to help someone when you can’t look them in the eye.
The aforementioned desperate measures include grilling Shoko for every last detail about Suguru’s favourite things. She doesn’t make it easy.
“You’re acting like you’re about to woo him,” she’d remarked, flipping idly through the pages of her Potions textbook and entirely uninterested in your plight.
“I’m not trying to woo him.”
“You’re learning all of his favourite things, buying him chocolates, agonising over the best way to give them to him—all on Valentine’s day, too. I’m certain that that’s called wooing.”
Your face had burned; it wasn’t your fault the organisers decided to conduct the second task only ten days before the holiday of love. “I’m apologising,” you’d insisted.
Shoko had hummed, but despite her incredulousness, she’d humoured you and rattled off a list of trivial details about Suguru’s preferences—his favourite tea (jasmine), his favourite book (something tedious and philosophical), the subjects he likes best (Charms and Transfiguration, though you knew this already). Most importantly, of course, the only Honeydukes chocolates he actually cares for: dark chocolate-covered honeycomb. (“But only from Honeydukes,” Shoko had warned. “He says the other ones taste like burnt sugar.”)
Which is how you find yourself in Hogsmeade, the wizarding village closest to Hogwarts, the morning air crisp and cold, clutching a small, carefully-wrapped box of sweets like your life depends on it. Hogsmeade is lively, bustling with students eager to escape the castle for the day. The scent of butterbeer and freshly-baked pastries wafts through the air. All around you, couples wander hand-in-hand, jumpers pulled tight around their bodies to ward off the early spring chill, and their laughter bright against the grey sky. Shopfronts are decorated in ridiculous shades of pink and red, hearts and flowers strung across windows in celebration of Valentine’s Day.
The sight makes you feel vaguely ill, because this is not a romantic gesture. (Then why does it feel like your heart is about to leap out of your throat every time you think of him?)
You don’t linger in Honeydukes—Hogsmeade’s best chocolatier—for longer than necessary, as much as the toasty warmth and aroma of cocoa makes you want to stay. Making quick work of purchasing the chocolates, you step back out onto the cobbled streets, heart hammering at the thought of what you’re about to do.
It’s not that you’re nervous. Not really. It’s just that approaching Suguru after everything feels a bit like facing a sleeping dragon—you don’t know if he’ll tolerate your presence or scorch you on sight. Still, you have to try.
You find him standing outside The Three Broomsticks, a pub and restaurant owned by the friendly Madam Rosmerta. He is not alone; Satoru and a few Durmstrang students surround him. He looks relaxed, hands tucked into his pockets, but there’s something in his expression that wasn’t there before. The tiredness clings to him still, there in the worn-out slump of his shoulders. Guilt gnaws at your ribs.
You hesitate, watching him laugh at something Satoru says. Maybe this is stupid. Maybe he doesn’t care anymore. Maybe—
Suguru turns and sees you. You don’t think you’ve ever stood so still in your life.
For a long moment, neither of you moves. The noise of Hogsmeade fades into the background, muffled and distant, like the world has shrunk down to just the space between you. His expression is shuttered, brows knitted together in a frown.
Your fingers tighten around the box. You should leave. You should turn around, pretend you never saw him, and—
His gaze flickers to your hands. Oh, Merlin’s beard.
With a sharp inhale, you straighten your spine and march forward before you can change your mind. Satoru notices you first, perking up like a dog catching sight of a squirrel. “Hey, look who it is! Fancy seeing you over here.”
You ignore him and stop directly in front of Suguru. His eyes widen slightly, like he hadn’t expected you to actually approach him. You shove the box into his hands.
Suguru blinks, catching it before it can fall. “What—?”
“It’s an apology,” you mutter, staring at the ground. “Take it or leave it.”
He doesn’t say anything immediately. You wonder, vaguely, if you’ve made a horrible mistake. If he’ll laugh, or hand it back, or— “...Honeycomb?” he asks quietly.
“...Yeah.”
Something shifts in his eyes, something subtle and indecipherable. He stares at the box, fingers tightening around the edges. When he finally looks back at you, there’s something in his gaze that makes your breath hitch.
You don’t wait to see what he does next. Instead, you turn on your heel and walk away, determined to ignore the pounding of your heart.
You don’t look back. You don’t see the way he watches you go, either.
(That night, when you tentatively enter the Room of Requirement for the first time in what feels like forever, you find Suguru already there, sitting cross-legged on one of the cushions. The box of Honeydukes chocolates lies open on the ground in front of him. You drop down onto the cushion opposite him, and wordlessly, he pushes the box closer to you.)
The sky is pale, streaked with the last wisps of winter clouds, the sun still struggling to bring warmth to the February chill. It is not quite cold, not quite warm, that strange in-between where the air nips at exposed skin but doesn’t truly bite. The Quidditch pitch has been transformed. The stands are packed with students, banners waving in the light breeze, and an expectant hush hangs over the crowds, despite the murmur of conversation.
The Black Lake gleams darkly in the distance, but the task does not take place in its depths. Instead, the champions stand in a row on the dewy grass of the Quidditch pitch, preparing for whatever horrors the second task of the Triwizard Tournament entails.
You already know what those horrors are.
The riddle had taken a frustratingly long time to decode, to come up with a proper answer instead of a mere hunch. Ego sum principium mundi et finis saeculorum; once the answer had clicked into place, it had seemed almost too simple. I am the beginning of the world and the end of ages. What was the first thing humans ever knew? What was the last thing they felt before death?
Fear.
And so, the second task would force the champions to face their deepest fears, drawn from the constellations carved into the rings they had procured from the first task. It is an elegant, cruel bit of magic—one that ensures their struggles are uniquely personal.
From your place in the stands, you’re offered a clear view of the champions standing in the centre of the field, their expressions barely concealing their tension. Their rings glint in the light, the engraved constellations gleaming like ancient runes. Anticipation coats each of the champions like a second skin, shoulders stiff, hands clenched, magic thrumming in the air. You’d arrived earlier than your friends, so you sit alone, fingers curling into the hem of your robes.
In front of the champions is a large, dome-like structure that shimmers faintly with spells and charms. That is where the task will take place, hidden from the eyes of the over-eager audience to grant the champions some semblance of privacy while they complete the second task.
You spot Suguru immediately. He stands with his back straight, arms crossed over his chest, face completely blank. His long hair is tied back loosely, a few strands slipping free and brushing against his cheeks. He does not fidget, does not shift from foot to foot like the other two, but there is a tightness to his stance, a rigidity in the way his shoulders refuse to relax.
A hush falls over the crowd as the first champion is announced to enter the dueling arena. Aleksandar Ivanov tries to hide his nervousness, but you can see the slight hesitation in his step and the way he grips his wand so tightly, his knuckles turn white. His ring bears the constellation Hydra, the many-headed serpent—a symbol of resilience, of something that cannot be easily destroyed. You wonder what he fears.
A glittering door begins to take shape, starting from the base of the dome. It creaks open, revealing a dark, yawning abyss beyond. Shadows slither across the ground, shifting and twisting, while the Boggart inside, enhanced by Tournament magic, begins to take form.
Boggarts, as you’ve studied in your Defence Against the Dark Arts class, are amortal, shape-shifting non-beings that take on the form of its observer’s worst fear. Because of their shape-shifting ability, no one knows what a Boggart’s true shape is, as it changes form instantly upon encountering someone. The incantation used to banish a Boggart is simple—dispel the fear with amusement while casting Riddikulus. However, seeing as the Boggarts the champions must face are magically enhanced, you suspect a simple Boggart-Banishing Spell will not be enough. The thought alone is enough to fill your mind with worry.
Aleksandar steps into the darkness, the door vanishing behind him. The rules are simple: Each champion must navigate a maze of illusions, battle their own fears, and rescue the person chosen for them. The champion who succeeds in the shortest amount of time will earn the most points. An enchanted hourglass hovers in the air, grains of sand slipping through its neck to mark the passage of time.
You barely breathe as the minutes tick by, until Aleksandar finally emerges. His friend—the person he had to rescue—jogs out behind him, looking ashen but otherwise alright. It’s the Durmstrang champion whose face is drawn, whose hands are trembling. He is victorious—but shaken.
The Beauxbatons champion is next. Amélie takes longer than expected. She stumbles as she exits, her breath ragged, and her face streaked with something that might be tears. Her hands shake so violently that she can barely accept the glass of water being handed to her.
It is grueling. It is cruel.
And Suguru is yet to go.
You swallow hard as he steps forward, the light catching the gold of his ring, the constellation Lupus etched onto its surface. The wolf—strength, transformation. But strength does not mean the absence of fear.
He does not hesitate, moving towards the dome’s entrance. You can hear people whispering around you—students murmuring their predictions, placing their bets, trying to guess what exactly a boy like Geto Suguru could possibly fear. You grip the edge of your robes tightly.
The door shimmers into existence before him, tall and forbidding. It creaks open slowly, revealing the same thing it has for the previous two champions—an abyss of darkness, shifting and coiling like smoke. He steps inside. The door disappears. The enchanted hourglass flips, grains of sand slipping through its narrow neck. You exhale, only then realising that you had held your breath.
The stands are still buzzing with conversation, but it is nothing more than a distant hum in your ears. Your entire focus is on the closed dome, on the way your heart beats faster than it should, as if your body already knows something your mind is yet to understand.
What is he afraid of?
Suguru is not fearless—no one is—but he has always carried himself in a way that makes him seem like he is. Unshaken, unbothered, his composure held so effortlessly that it has always frustrated you in ways you dare not name. He stands with an arrogance that makes it hard to imagine him afraid of anything at all.
Still, you know that arrogance is a performance. A shield. Suguru hates appearing weak, more than anything else, so he deludes everyone else into thinking he is not. You had thought that the riddle that you had agonised over for weeks was cruel in itself, but this is worse. The waiting. The not-knowing.
Your stomach twists into impossible knots as the minutes drag on. Five minutes. Six. Eight. You count each grain of sand slipping down the hourglass. Ten minutes pass.
Twelve minutes, and then—
The door bursts open. Suguru steps into the light, and he is not alone. Your breath catches in your throat.
Gojo Satoru stumbles behind him, blinking against the sudden brightness. His white hair is disheveled, his expression more one of confusion than relief. He shakes Suguru off with a scowl, tugging his sleeve free from where Suguru’s fingers still grip the fabric.
“You didn’t have to drag me—” Satoru starts, but he stops as soon as he catches sight of Suguru’s face. His expression shifts; wariness replaces irritation, amusement slips away like a mask crumbling at the edges.
Suguru stands rigid, shoulders taut with unnatural tension. His face is stony, unreadable, perfectly blank in the way that only means he’s holding something back.
The hourglass stops. It has only been slightly less than thirteen minutes.
Geto Suguru is the fastest champion to finish the second task of the Triwizard Tournament.
The cheers begin, slow at first—someone in the stands starts shouting his name, then another, and another, until the entire pitch is filled with applause and hoots. You barely hear it.
Suguru is not okay.
He doesn’t acknowledge the cheering, doesn’t even react to it. His jaw is clenched so tightly that you can see the strain in his muscles. He isn’t even looking at Satoru anymore—his gaze is fixed somewhere beyond him, unfocused and distant.
Then, as if pulled by some invisible force, his eyes lift—and he sees you.
For a fleeting moment, something breaks in his expression. A flicker of something raw and fractured, a crack in the mask. He huffs quietly, tiredly, and he walks away without a word.
Your stomach sinks. Something is wrong.
You barely notice the way the crowd is still celebrating his victory, the way students are excitedly chatting about how he finished faster than anyone else, because of course he did—Geto Suguru is the strongest, after all.
(But strength does not mean the absence of fear.)
Your fingers tremble slightly as you watch his retreating figure. His posture is stiff, and his steps are too controlled. You should look away, should let him leave. You should accept that whatever happened inside that dome is his burden to carry.
But you can’t, because suddenly, all you can think of is the way he looked at you just now. Like he needed to see you; like you needed to see him.
And, well, it’s quite silly in retrospect, but it’s a realisation that settles over you quietly, as if it’s been there all along and you’ve just stupidly buried it underneath your own pride and arrogance: you don’t hate Geto Suguru at all.
“Go away,” Suguru says, stubborn as ever. He is propped up against a pillow on one of the beds in the Hospital Wing. An empty vial of Calming Draught is placed on the stand next to him, though you don’t mention it. Beside it, a half-empty box of Honeydukes chocolates.
“No,” you tell him, just as obstinate.
Suguru scowls. “I don’t want company.”
You ignore him, dragging a nearby chair closer to his bedside with an obnoxious scrape against the floor before sitting down. He doesn’t look at you, his gaze fixed somewhere beyond the tall windows of the Hospital Wing, where the afternoon light spills golden over the Hogwarts grounds. His hair is slightly damp—most likely due to sweat—and the dark strands cling to his forehead.
“Are you hurt?” you ask, eyes flicking to the empty vial of Calming Draught.
He scoffs. “Wouldn’t be here if I was.”
“You are here.”
He sighs, pressing the heels of his hands against his eyes, as if trying to rub away whatever still lingers in his mind. “It’s just protocol. The Healers made me take a Calming Draught after the task, and apparently, that warrants a few hours of observation.”
You glance at him. He might not be physically injured, but there is something wrong, something unsettling in the way he carries himself.
“You were in there only for thirteen minutes,” you say carefully. “That’s—that’s insane, actually.”
“I won, didn’t I?” he mutters.
“That’s not what I asked.”
He barks out a short laugh. “No. It isn’t.”
Silence, again. Suguru isn’t like this—not normally. He thrives in competition, in the thrill of battle, the excitement of a challenge. He doesn’t dwell. He doesn’t let things linger like ghosts at the edges of his thoughts. But right now, it feels like he is being haunted.
“I saw your face when you came out,” you say, quieter this time. “You weren’t okay.”
His fingers curl into the sheets, gripping tightly. “It was just a Boggart.”
“A magically enhanced Boggart,” you remind him. “We don’t know how they worked, what they—”
“It’s over,” he snaps, cutting you off. “I’m done talking about it.”
You stare at him, waiting for him to meet your gaze, but he doesn’t. His shoulders are rigid—drawn tighter than they were before the task commenced—and his body is tense, as if he’s holding something in so tightly, it might crack him apart.
“...Was it Satoru?” you ask gently. “Is that what you—”
Suguru flinches, and somehow, that tells you enough. Your stomach twists. What did he see? Suguru and Satoru had come out of the dome together—Satoru unharmed, though clearly confused. The task had required him to rescue someone, and he’d done just that by saving his best friend. But what had he seen in there?
Suguru finally exhales, turning his head to you. “It was just a task,” he says. “And I won. That’s all that matters.”
“Stop pretending,” you say, voice sharper now. “I saw you after the task, and you weren’t fine. You still aren’t.”
Suguru narrows his eyes at you, but doesn’t respond. Instead, he looks away again, staring out the window like it might offer him some escape. You wait for some kind of acknowledgement, some crack in his carefully constructed walls.
“I’m fine,” he says, but it’s too strained to be convincing. “It was just a stupid Boggart. It’s over.”
“No, it’s not,” you argue. “It’s obviously still bothering you, so just—just admit it. Tell me what happened, Suguru. I can try to help.”
He whips his head back toward you, eyebrows furrowed, patience wearing thin. “I don’t need to explain myself to you,” he snaps. “It’s over. I’m fine. End of story.”
You refuse to back down. “Don’t shut me out. I’m not going to just sit here and pretend I didn’t see the way you almost cracked when you came out of the dome!”
Suguru’s eyes flash with anger, his fingers curling into fists on his thighs. “I don’t need your pity, alright? So just drop it.”
“No, I can’t just drop it.” Your voice trembles with frustration. Why won’t he just listen? “I fucking care about you, and I can see it’s bothering you. What the hell are you so afraid of?”
His entire body stiffens at your words. His gaze darts away again, and you know—you know—he’s trying to hold something back. He opens his mouth like he’s about to say something, but then he shuts it again.
“I’m not afraid,” he mutters, but there’s a brittleness to his voice that betrays him. “I told you, I’m fine. It’s over. Stop pushing.”
“You’re lying. What is it? What did you see in there?”
Suguru glares at you, his chest rising and falling with short, shallow breaths. Then, in a sudden burst of frustration, he spits out the words that he’s been holding back for far too long. “It was you, alright?!”
You freeze. “...What?”
“It was you,” Suguru repeats harshly. “I saw you in there—but you weren’t you.” he falters, but the words keep coming. “You—your eyes—they were empty, like something had taken you and left nothing behind. I couldn’t reach you. You were just standing there. Gone.” He stops, swallowing hard, trying to reign in his emotions, but it’s too late.
Your mouth runs dry, your pulse racing as his words echo in your head.
Suguru turns away from you, but you can see the rigidness in his back. “I couldn’t—couldn’t bring you back. I tried, but you were just gone, and there was nothing I could do.” He inhales wearily. “Like a Dementor had sucked the soul out of you, and I couldn’t do anything about it because my Patronus Charm wouldn’t fucking work, and—”
Your mind whirls. You know his fear now. It’s not some grand disaster, some monstrous threat—it’s losing you. Losing you in some way that he can’t fix.
“I’m sorry,” he mutters. “I shouldn’t have said that.”
For a long moment, you don’t speak. The only sound between you is the faint rustling of the Hospital Wing curtains shifting in the late afternoon breeze. Suguru’s chest rises and falls unsteadily. He refuses to look at you now, as if saying it out loud was already enough, as if giving his fear a form has made it real.
Of all the things you could have imagined, you’d never expected this. Suguru, who meets every challenge with an infuriating smirk, who stands unshaken even in the face of the impossible—he had been terrified. And it had been because of you.
You open your mouth, then close it. What do you even say to something like that?
Your heart aches at the way he’s withdrawn, curling in on himself as though he’s trying to make himself smaller. As though, now his secret has slipped, he’s bracing himself for whatever comes next.
So, instead of speaking, you move. Slowly, cautiously, you reach forward and wrap your arms around him.
Suguru stiffens immediately. His whole body goes tense under your touch, like he’s caught between the instinct to pull away and the desperate need to hold on. But then, after a beat of hesitation, he exhales shakily—and lets himself collapse into you.
It almost knocks the breath out of your lungs. His arms lock around you, tight—so impossibly tight that it almost hurts. He buries his face against your shoulder, and he grips onto you like he’s afraid that if he lets go, you’ll disappear; like he’s trying to convince himself that you’re real, that you’re here.
You don’t say anything. You just hold him.
His breathing is uneven, shallow at first, but gradually, as you rub slow circles into his back, it steadies. One of his hands curls into the fabric of your robes at your waist, clutching you like you’re a lifeline.
You feel him take a shuddering breath. “I know it wasn’t real,” he murmurs into your shoulder. “I know that. But it—fuck, it felt real.”
You nod, letting him press himself closer. “I know,” you whisper.
“I couldn’t do anything,” he admits. “I couldn’t do anything. I was right there, and you—you were just standing there, and I kept calling your name, but you didn’t even blink. And my Patronus—it wouldn’t work.” His grip on you tightens. “It wouldn’t fucking work.”
You don’t need him to explain why that matters. A Patronus is a partially-tangible positive energy force created from the caster’s happiest memories, either incorporeal as a burst of white mist, or corporeal—stronger than the incorporeal one—where it takes the form of an animal. It’s used to ward off Dark Magic, most commonly, creatures known as Dementors, which thrive off of negative emotions. The image of you, hollow, is what happens if a Dementor gets close enough to a person to perform the Dementor’s Kiss: sucking the soul out of a person, leaving them a shell of their former selves. The Patronus Charm is complicated and difficult, so much so that most experienced wizards themselves struggle with casting it.
You know how powerful Suguru’s magic is. The fact that, in his fear, he hadn’t managed to cast it—not even an incorporeal one—
You swallow past the lump in your throat. “You would’ve saved me.”
He makes a sound at the back of his throat, something like a scoff. “You don’t know that.”
“Yes, I do,” you say fiercely, protectively. “If that had been real, you would’ve found a way.”
Something in him seems to rupture in him at your words. His arms tighten just a fraction more before he finally—finally—relaxes against you. The tautness in his muscles begins to ease, his breathing growing softer, deeper. He still doesn’t let go, but it isn’t out of desperation. It’s something else now.
“I hate this,” he says, after a pause.
“Hate what?”
“That I had to see that.” He exhales against your skin. “That you had to hear all of this.”
You shake your head, pulling back just enough to look at him. “Suguru.”
He finally lifts his head. His face is guarded but tired—so tired. His eyes, dark as ink, roam over your face. You meet his gaze and let your hands move up, threading gently into his hair. “I don’t care that you’re afraid,” you say, softly. “I’m afraid, too.”
Suguru looks at you for a long time, unreadable. You wonder if he’s going to argue, if he’s going to brush you off, or deflect with sarcasm, the way both of you have been doing all this time. But he doesn’t.
Instead, his hand moves to your face. The touch is hesitant at first; his fingers ghost over your cheek, like he’s still trying to convince himself that you’re real. Then, his thumb brushes over your skin, slow and soft. You don’t dare to breathe.
His gaze flickers down to your lips, then back up. “You’re still here,” he murmurs, so quietly that you almost miss it.
And then he kisses you.
It isn’t rushed. It isn’t desperate. It’s slow, reverent—like he’s memorising you, like he’s savouring the fact that you’re here, that you’re warm and breathing and safe in his arms.
Your fingers tighten in his hair as you press closer, melting into him while his lips move against yours. It’s gentle, but when you sigh softly into his mouth, he lets out a quiet groan and deepens the kiss. His hand cups the back of your head, his other arm winding around your waist to pull you closer.
(The door to the Hospital Wing swings open.
“Oi, Geto, you decent—oh, Merlin’s saggy balls—”
A loud, scandalised gasp echoes through the room, followed by Gojo Satoru’s unmistakable cackle. You barely have time to react, to get off Suguru’s lap, before he stiffens, head snapping towards the entrance. Standing in the doorway are Shoko and Satoru, both with varying expressions of shock and amusement.
“Oh, don’t stop on our account,” Satoru drawls, sporting a shit-eating grin. “This is way better than what we came here for.”
Shoko hums. “Yeah, I was expecting to find Suguru all sulky and brooding—not getting snogged to within an inch of his life.”
Suguru groans, dropping his forehead to your shoulder. “Kill me.”
You, on the other hand, are trying very hard not to combust. “Oh, sweet Merlin.”
Satoru dramatically clutches his chest. “My best friend, growing up so fast. Next thing I know, you’ll be writing poetry about her eyes, or something.”
Suguru, who absolutely has thought about writing poetry about your eyes (though he would rather die than admit it), scowls. “Shut up, Satoru.”
“Can’t. This is the highlight of my week.”
You groan, hiding your burning face in your hands. “I hate both of you.”
“Aw, don’t be like that,” Shoko coos. “Should we give them some privacy? Maybe light some candles to help them set the mood?”
Wordlessly, Suguru raises a hand and lifts up his middle finger.)
June brings summer hand-in-hand to the castle, and along with it, the third and final task of the Triwizard Tournament. The days leading up to the third task are restless. The maze looms at the edges of the Quidditch Pitch, its towering hedges charmed to shift and writhe, concealing whatever dangers the tournament has yet to unveil. It is a final trial of wit and endurance, a labyrinth where victory lies at the centre.
You hate it.
“You’re scowling,” Suguru observes, watching you from his spot on the grass. He’s leaning back on his elbows, legs stretched out in front of him.
“You should be worried too,” you counter, plopping down next to him. “That thing is practically breathing.”
“And what would you have me do? Duel the shrubbery?”
You huff, glaring at the maze once more before turning back to him. “You’re taking this too lightly.”
He grins. “Because you’re worrying enough for the both of us.”
You reach over and flick his forehead. He lets out a dramatic groan, falling onto his back as though you’ve mortally wounded him.
“Unbelievable,” you mutter, shaking your head, though you’re biting back a smile of your own. “How am I supposed to be stressed when you’re like this?”
“That’s the idea,” he muses, folding his arms behind his head. His dark hair spills over the grass, strands catching the sunlight. “I can’t have my little lioness fretting herself to an early grave.”
You smack his shoulder without hesitation. “Call me that again, and I’ll start rooting for the maze.”
Suguru barks out a laugh, turning his head to look at you properly. He’s smiling, eyes crinkling at the corners. “I’ll be fine.”
You reach for his hand, threading your fingers through his. He squeezes once, gently, before tugging you closer. You let out a small oomph before sprawling onto the grass next to him.
The sun dawdles in the horizon, stretching out the day for as long as it will go. You turn your head and brush your lips against his, content and happy. The third task waits, unseen and uncertain, but at least there is this.
Whether Geto Suguru emerges victorious or not—well. That’s insignificant, you think.
a/n: this fic is also part of a collaboration i wrote with my friend a while back. check out ravenclaw!nanami fic here :)
content: 16.1k, meet-cute, strangers to lovers, reader runs him over, destiny is real.
suguru thinks, and not for the first time, that he hates living in the city.
the thought arrives with familiar theatricality, blooming in the back of his skull, as he steps out of the glass doors of the high-rise and into the humid chicago afternoon, suit jacket slung over one arm, tie loosened with deliberate precision.
he entertains, briefly and indulgently, the image of asheville, north carolina, the blue ridge mountains folding into one another in muted green layers beneath a patient sky, the white-steepled churches, the same three stoplights blinking through the day, the same conversations circulating through the same diners.
he imagines his mother pulling him into her arms the second he crosses the threshold of the old house, imagines her pressing warm food into his hands, asking if he’s sleeping enough, if he’s eating enough, if he’s working too hard.
he imagines taking some unremarkable local job with predictable hours and marrying a woman whose name once appeared in his high school yearbook, someone gentle, someone uncomplicated, someone who would never ask him to defend a valuation model at nine in the morning.
he knows he’s being dramatic.
he loves the city. he loves the anonymity, the late-night noodle shops wedged between liquor stores and laundromats, the way the skyline fractures into gold and white from the balcony of his apartment thirty floors up.
he loves the independence, the quiet triumph of having left a town where everyone’s future feels prewritten. he loves the absence of expectation.
what he hates, however, is that his head is pounding.
it is 1:30 p.m., and he’s been at the office since 7:30 that morning because satoru gojo sent a draft pitch book to a client with old financial projections and a comps table that overstated ebitda margins by nearly three percent, a mistake subtle enough to slip through at a glance and serious enough to derail an entire client call.
suguru spends hours reconstructing the model cell by cell, correcting formulas, re-linking sheets, recalculating sensitivities while toji fushiguro hovers in his peripheral vision.
“that’s not the right sensitivity range,” toji had said earlier, voice edged with impatience, tapping the screen with one blunt finger.
suguru had inhaled through his nose, jaw tight.
“i’m adjusting it,” he replied evenly, though the vein at his temple had throbbed, knowing there was no “we” in the error. there had only been satoru, careless and charming and somehow still employed.
now suguru crosses the street with a pastrami on rye clenched in one hand, paper already translucent with grease, and his phone pressed to his ear with the other. he tastes mustard and salt before he even takes a bite.
the sandwich shop beneath his building is closed for refurbishing, a bright sign taped over the shuttered entrance announcing temporary inconvenience. he walks three extra blocks to secure this replacement, irritation compounding with each step.
“tell me you fixed it,” satoru says on the other end of the line, voice light, almost amused.
suguru exhales through his nose, gaze fixed ahead as he navigates the crosswalk, the air thick with the metallic scent that precedes rain.
“i rebuilt the model,” he says, tone even, though his jaw tightens and his fingers flex around the phone. “next time, review the comps before attaching the deck.”
there’s a soft laugh through the speaker. “you’re a lifesaver.”
his temple pulses harder.
he feels faintly unmoored, as if the pavement beneath him has shifted half an inch out of alignment, two double shots of espresso churning pointlessly in his bloodstream, emails continuing to flood his screen in relentless succession.
he glances down for half a second, thumb swiping automatically to clear a notification, exhaustion so deeply ingrained it moves him without conscious permission, right into the street and into the hood of a car.
the impact arrives as a blunt, disorienting force. the world tilts violently as his shoulder collides with the hood, then the pavement greets him next with unforgiving finality.
air leaves his lungs in a sharp, involuntary exhale as his phone skitters across the concrete, spinning once before landing facedown, not to mention his pastrami and rye splayed obscenely across the sidewalk, mustard streaking the ground.
a high, shrill ringing drills through his skull, footsteps pounding toward him, uneven and frantic. the city hum fractures into jagged pieces, and somewhere to his left, tinny and distorted through a speaker, satoru’s voice crackles into the air.
“hello, suguru? did you drop me?”
he stares up at the gray stretch of sky framed by glass and steel, blinking slowly as pain blooms behind his eyes in measured pulses. his head throbs with vicious insistence. his shoulder burns. the ringing does not subside.
god, he hates his life.
…
you’re going to jail.
the thought blooms white-hot and instantaneous, searing through your chest as your foot slams onto the brake a fraction of a second too late.
the sound comes first, that horrible, dull thud of metal against body, a noise so dense and sickening it seems to reverberate inside your skull.
you see it in fragments: a flash of white shirt. a dark silhouette disappearing beneath the edge of your hood as your hands lock around the steering wheel, breath leaving you in a sharp, animal sound.
you have only gotten one ticket in your entire life.
you were sixteen, trembling behind the wheel of your mother’s car after making a right on red when the sign clearly prohibited it, sobbing so violently that the police officer leaned down to your window and asked if you were capable of driving home safely. you cried the entire way back that day.
you still remember the humiliation of it, the way your chest had hurt for hours after.
you hate driving, and hate driving in the city most of all.
you beg shoko to carpool almost every morning because illinois drivers terrify you, because the lanes feel narrower and the horns feel louder and everyone seems perpetually seconds away from catastrophe.
today, unfortunately, is the day she requests off.
today it’s just you (and the body that is hopefully not dead beneath your car).
you throw the car into park so abruptly it jerks. your fingers fumble at your seatbelt, tearing it free, the door flying open before the engine even finishes idling.
you step out barefoot because you cannot imagine navigating asphalt in heels right now, your shoes abandoned on the driver’s side floor. your hands shake so violently you have to steady yourself against the frame of the car.
the man is on the ground.
long dark hair spills forward, obscuring his face. his sandwich lies unwrapped and ruined across the sidewalk, pastrami splayed grotesquely against the concrete. his phone rests several feet away, screen cracked, a faint voice still crackling from its speaker.
you’re vaguely aware of the sound of horns blaring behind you. someone yells something profane from a half-open window, and you know for a fact that your car sits at an absolutely atrocious angle in the street, surely blocking traffic, but none of it matters as you watch the man begin to move.
slowly, deliberately, he pushes himself up onto one elbow, inhaling through his nose, wincing faintly as he rises. dust clings to his slacks. he brushes at them with curt, precise motions, then studies the scuff on his sleeve as though that is the gravest offense committed here.
his expression is sharp and furious, anger honed to a fine edge.
“were you even looking?” he demands, voice low and controlled, each word articulated with cutting clarity.
“i’m so, so sorry,” you rush out immediately, your voice cracking on the second syllable. your hands hover uselessly in front of you, palms half-raised like you want to touch him, like you want to steady him, but you’re terrified of making anything worse. “i didn’t see you, i swear i didn’t, i was just— i’m so sorry.”
you know, somewhere beneath the panic, that it was him who stepped forward too quickly, that he glanced at his phone, entering the crosswalk with the distracted confidence of someone accustomed to right of way.
but you also know pedestrian laws will not care about nuance, so you’re re just grateful he’s breathing.
“i didn’t mean to,” you continue, words tumbling over each other in disarray. “are you okay? oh my god, i’m so sorry, are you okay?”
he looks up fully now, brows drawn together, jaw set with deliberate restraint, lips pressed thin as if he is choosing his words before they ever reach you. there’s dust along his cheekbone, a faint scrape near his temple, and yet he carries himself with an almost infuriating composure, like the pavement itself has inconvenienced him.
his eyes are a vivid, disconcerting purple, a deep, striking violet that feels almost unnatural against the gray afternoon, and the harshness in them is unmistakable at first. a flare of indignation that mirrors the throb in his temple, flashing with irritation and disbelief as they lock onto you.
and then, as he studies your face properly, something shifts.
the tension in his gaze loosens by degrees, something else threaded through it now, something quieter, almost curious. it catches you off guard, that the same eyes capable of slicing through you a moment ago can soften so subtly.
they are, you realize with a flicker of inappropriate clarity, kind of nice.
the thought feels absurd given the circumstances. you have just nearly committed vehicular homicide. your heart is hammering against your ribs. and yet you are standing barefoot in the middle of a chicago street, staring at the way the afternoon light settles into his irises, turning them almost luminous beneath the overcast sky.
his gaze lingers a beat longer than it should, and your stomach flips in a way that has nothing to do with fear.
you swallow hard. “are you okay?” you repeat, softer this time, stepping closer despite yourself.
he does not answer immediately. his brow furrows faintly, as though recalibrating his surroundings. then he exhales.
“i’m fine,” he says, voice steadier than his body appears to be.
he attempts to stand, and yet his balance wavers slightly, enough that you notice. his hand reaches out instinctively for the side of your car and there’s a faint glaze to his eyes, a fractional delay in his movements that makes your stomach twist.
“you’re not fine,” you insist, the panic resurging, your fingers brushing lightly at his wrist as if to anchor him. “please, let me take you to the hospital. i need to take you to the hospital.”
“that’s unnecessary,” he replies, brushing off his sleeve again with deliberate composure, as though this entire ordeal is merely an inconvenience to his schedule.
“please,” you say, and this time your voice fractures entirely. “i hit you with my car. i’m taking you to the hospital.”
he regards you for a moment, lips pressing into a thin line. then he nods once, curt and controlled, as though granting you a concession.
“fine,” he says evenly. “if it will assuage your conscience.”
you hurry to retrieve his phone from the pavement. the screen is cracked across one corner, spiderwebbing outward. you wince, another expense tallying itself in your mind.
“hello?” a voice calls faintly through the speaker. “suguru? hello?”
you hurry to the passenger side as he lowers himself into the seat with measured stiffness, movements careful and slightly imprecise. you lean in, holding the phone near your ear.
“um, hi,” you say, breath uneven. “this isn’t suguru. i, um, hit him with my car by accident, and i’m planning to take him to the hospital. are you guys related?”
there is a brief silence on the other end.
then, “you did what?” the voice replies, incredulous and bright with poorly concealed amusement.
“i hit him,” you repeat, mortified. “with my car. he’s conscious, but i think he might have a concussion. could you alert his office? and is there family, or a girlfriend, or wife i should call?”
a laugh spills through the speaker, airy and irreverent.
“coworker,” he says easily, amusement curling through his tone in a way that feels entirely inappropriate for the situation. “and relax. he doesn’t have a girlfriend. not within three hundred miles of here, no.”
you glance sideways at suguru, who sits back against the leather passenger seat as if it personally offended him, eyes half-lidded, jaw drawn tight, one hand pressed firmly to his temple.
rain begins to fall in light, tentative drops against your windshield, faint at first, then gathering into a soft percussion that fills the silence between breaths.
“okay,” you murmur into the phone, swallowing hard. “could you— um— could you alert his office? just in case? and can i have your name?”
there is the sound of shuffling on the other end, a chair creaking faintly.
“satoru gojo,” he replies, bright and unbothered. “i’ll let them know he got taken out by a mystery woman.”
heat climbs your neck.
“i didn’t take him out,” you protest weakly, already circling back toward the driver’s side. “it was an accident.”
“sure,” satoru says lightly. “can you put him on? i need to confirm he’s alive.”
you slide into the driver’s seat, heart still pounding, and close the door with trembling hands. you shift the car into drive, finally pulling away from the cacophony of honking vehicles behind you.
the rain intensifies slightly, windshield wipers dragging back and forth in steady arcs.
“um, yeah. sure,” you say, leaning toward suguru and holding the phone out to him. “it’s your coworker.”
he exhales a low, irritated sound that borders on a groan before taking the phone from your hand with fingers that move a fraction too slowly.
“what,” he mutters into the speaker, voice gravelly and laced with restrained annoyance.
satoru’s laughter bursts through the line, loud and unrestrained, the kind that spills over itself and fills whatever space it enters without permission.
“you sound terrible, but this might be your lucky day, suguru,” he says, amusement woven thick through every syllable, as if already reclining in his office chair with his feet up on the desk, grinning into the phone. “she sounds cute.”
your grip tightens on the steering wheel.
“i can barely see,” suguru murmurs flatly, eyes sliding toward you in an openly assessing glance that lingers longer than necessary. even dazed, his gaze is deliberate. “hard to confirm.”
“so she is cute,” satoru presses, tone triumphant.
suguru studies you again, slower this time, gaze trailing over your face with disconcerting focus.
“i didn’t say that,” he replies, voice measured, though the faintest trace of something almost amused flickers there. “but i didn’t not say it.”
“incredible.” satoru laughs again, louder, delighted. “text me if you survive, bye!”
the line goes dead.
suguru lowers the phone, staring at the cracked screen for a second before handing it back to you. the car falls quiet save for the rhythmic sweep of the wipers and the rain striking glass in persistent, silvery taps.
you clear your throat, the sound thin against the steady percussion of rain striking the windshield, wipers carving brief windows of clarity through the gray blur ahead. your fingers tighten around the steering wheel, knuckles paling as you keep your gaze fixed firmly on the road.
“would you, um, like music?” you ask tentatively, voice small in the enclosed space, as though loud sound might fracture him further.
he shifts in the passenger seat, leather creasing beneath his weight. a faint grimace flickers across his face as he presses his fingers more firmly to his temple, eyes squeezing shut for a second as if the very suggestion reverberates inside his skull.
“please no,” he says, the words drawn out in quiet suffering, each syllable exhaled like it physically costs him something.
the car settles back into silence.
rain gathers strength, droplets racing each other down the glass. the city hum fades behind the cocoon of your vehicle. you can hear your own breathing. you can hear his, as well.
he sits with his head tilted slightly back, throat exposed in a way that feels disarmingly vulnerable. his collar has loosened just enough to reveal the line of muscle beneath, lashes resting heavy against his cheeks.
there’s a softness to him now, something unguarded, as though the impact has peeled back the careful composure he wears like a second skin.
you steal a glance.
his shirt strains faintly across his shoulders when he adjusts, the fabric pulling at the seams as he inhales. a vein traces the length of his forearm where his sleeve is rolled. he smells faintly of something refined and expensive, clean with a darker undertone that lingers in the air between you.
you wonder, fleetingly, if it is expensive. the richness of satoru’s laugh echoes in your memory. the shattered corner of the newest iphone rests in your cup holder.
nobody making less than six figures walks through the city with a phone like that and no case.
the silence stretches, and after a moment, his voice surfaces again, lower now, threaded with fatigue and something almost contemplative.
“i never got your name,” he says, eyes still closed, as if the thought has just occurred to him mid-breath.
your pulse stutters as you tell him.
he opens his eyes slowly, turning his head toward you. he repeats your name carefully, enunciating each syllable with deliberate precision, as though committing it to memory through sound alone. his gaze lingers on your profile a beat too long before drifting forward again.
two minutes pass, the only sounds being rain and the soft whir of the engine before he shifts again, brow furrowing faintly.
“wait,” he says, glancing toward you with mild confusion. “what was your name again?”
that’s not a good sign.
your grip tightens on the wheel as you tell him again, softer this time.
he repeats it once more, slower, tasting the cadence of it. something faintly amused curves at the corner of his mouth despite the hand still braced against his temple.
“you know,” he adds after a beat, eyes sliding toward you with open, unfiltered appraisal that feels startling in its candor, “i’ve never had a woman hit on me this aggressively.”
you nearly swerve.
“i did not hit on you,” you blurt immediately, mortified, heat flooding your cheeks and creeping down your neck. “i hit you with my car. that’s not flirting.”
he watches you as you speak, expression softened by something dazed and faintly entertained, as though the distinction you are making is deeply fascinating to him.
the rain continues its steady descent, and for a moment, the world outside the car feels impossibly distant.
suguru leans his head back again, eyes closing briefly as rain continues its steady descent, droplets streaking diagonally across the windshield in silvery rivulets. his fingers remain pressed at his temple, thumb resting just beneath his brow as if he can physically hold his thoughts in place.
“you ran me over,” he says, almost thoughtfully, voice low and contemplative, as though he is evaluating a business proposal rather than recounting bodily harm. “that’s commitment.”
you let out a soft, incredulous breath, tightening your grip on the wheel as you merge into the next lane.
“you ran in front of my car,” you reply, unable to keep the defensive edge from creeping into your tone. you glance at him briefly before returning your eyes to the road. “so maybe don’t flatter yourself.”
he hums in response, a quiet, resonant sound in the back of his throat that could mean agreement or amusement. his lips curve faintly at one corner, the expression subtle and unhurried.
“hm,” he murmurs after a second, eyes still closed, rain tapping steadily against the glass. “i’ll take partial credit, i suppose.”
…
in the emergency room, everything smells faintly antiseptic and metallic, the air humming with fluorescent light and distant monitors that beep in arrhythmic intervals.
suguru sits on the edge of the hospital bed with his back propped against a thin pillow, gown traded for his wrinkled button-down again, though it hangs looser now, collar slightly askew. his eyes remain closed as the doctor speaks, lashes resting against his cheeks in quiet stillness.
for a moment, he looks almost serene.
his jaw has relaxed, the sharp tension from earlier dissolved into something softer. his lips, faintly pink and parted just enough for slow, even breaths, give him an unexpectedly gentle air. a stray strand of dark hair has fallen across his forehead, and you have to physically restrain yourself from brushing it back.
the doctor, a blonde man with thick glasses whose face carries both premature laugh lines and an oddly youthful smoothness, clicks his pen once before speaking.
“mild concussion,” he says evenly, glancing at the chart and then at suguru. “no signs of internal bleeding. he’s responsive, just disoriented.”
suguru hums faintly, eyes still closed, as if in distant acknowledgment.
the doctor shifts his attention to you, gaze moving between the two of you with quiet assessment.
“and you are… wife? girlfriend?” he asks, tone professional but gently curious.
your stomach drops.
“oh,” you say quickly, mortified heat rushing to your face. “no. i um, i hit him with my car.”
the doctor’s brows lift slightly, then knit together in a brief crease of confusion before settling back into composure.
“right,” he says, clearing his throat softly. “well. i’ll write down discharge instructions. someone needs to monitor him for dizziness, nausea, confusion, personality changes.”
he scribbles across a form, then looks at you again.
“he shouldn’t be alone for the next twelve to twenty-four hours.”
you nod immediately, too fast, as if you are in a classroom and have just been assigned homework.
“okay, right. yes, of course.” your mind races ahead of you, scanning for solutions and finding none. “can i— um— step out for a minute?” you ask quietly.
the doctor gestures toward the hallway.
you slip outside, the door swinging closed behind you with a soft hydraulic sigh that sounds far too calm for the state of your pulse. the corridor feels colder than the room you just left, the fluorescent lights harsher, the linoleum stretching out in a sterile, endless line.
you press your back to the wall, fingertips splayed against it as if you need something solid to hold you upright, and drag in a breath that stutters on the way down before pulling out your phone and dialing shoko.
she answers on the second ring, voice casual, unsuspecting. “hello?”
“i hit a very, very attractive man with my car,” you blurt in one unfiltered rush, the words tumbling over each other before you can rearrange them into something dignified.
there is a long, weighted pause on the other end.
“what?”
“i hit him,” you repeat, pushing off the wall and pacing two uneven steps down the hallway before turning back again. your bare feet whisper against the floor. “i drove him to the hospital and he has a concussion, but he doesn’t have family here that i know of, so i don’t know what to do with him now.”
“okay, slow down.” shoko says slowly, her tone shifting from confusion to something grounded and deliberate, the cadence of someone stepping into triage mode. “ where did you hit him?”
“downtown,” you answer quickly, hand threading through your hair. “he was walking, probably to or from work. he looks like he works in investment banking or something. he has that energy.”
“then take him back to work,” she says without hesitation.
you stop pacing entirely, the abruptness of her response catching you off guard. “wait—seriously?”
“yes,” she replies plainly. you can almost hear her shrug through the phone. “you did what you were supposed to do; you got him checked out, now drop him off with his coworkers.”
you stare down at the pale floor tiles, at the faint scuff marks etched into them by countless gurneys and hurried shoes.
“right,” you murmur, though the word feels thinner than it should.
“he’s a grown man,” shoko continues, firm and pragmatic. “you’re not adopting him.”
you let out a slow breath, the panic loosening just enough to let oxygen settle properly in your lungs. “right,” you say again, stronger this time, trying to anchor yourself in logic. “right.”
you thank her quietly and end the call, pressing your palm briefly to your forehead as if you can smooth the chaos there with physical pressure. when you push yourself off the wall and reach for the door handle, a strange heaviness settles into your chest.
dropping him off.
the phrase echoes faintly in your mind.
you picture walking him back into some sleek lobby, handing him over to polished coworkers, watching the elevator doors slide shut with him inside. you imagine driving away, rain streaking your windshield again, returning to your ordinary afternoon as if you didn’t just collide with a man whose eyes were an impossible shade of violet.
you wonder, fleetingly and irrationally, whether you would ever see him again.
whether satoru might give you updates. whether you could invent some reason to check in. whether there’s a version of this day where the story does not simply end in a hospital discharge and an awkward office drop-off.
the thought feels absurd almost as soon as it forms, so you shake your head once, grounding yourself, and push the door open.
when you step back into the room, suguru’s eyes are half-open now, unfocused but searching, gaze drifting until it finds you. something in your chest tightens unexpectedly at the sight of him looking for you, and you cross the room before you can interrogate the reason why.
…
suguru geto frankly doesn’t have much of a clue what the hell has gone on in the past two, maybe three, and god—he hopes not four hours, because if it has been four then he is almost certainly unemployed at the hands of masamichi yaga by now.
time feels elastic, stretched thin and snapping back in uneven intervals, pieces of the day sliding past him without anchoring properly.
he is aware of you, the woman who hit him with your car.
the woman who smells faintly of vanilla and rain and something warm he cannot quite place. the woman who is, in his current compromised state, absurdly beautiful, the kind of beautiful that feels inconvenient when one is trying to maintain irritation.
you’ve apparently dropped everything in your day to chauffeur him around chicago, and the knowledge settles somewhere low in his chest, heavy and unfamiliar.
he is also aware of the rain.
it beats steadily against the windshield, a persistent percussion that is both abrasive and strangely calming, each drop streaking into silver lines as the wipers sweep back and forth.
he leans his head against the cool glass of the passenger window, the vibration of the engine humming faintly through his temple. the chill seeps into his skin in a way that almost distracts from the pain.
he is most aware of the throbbing in his head.
the hospital pain medication dulled it briefly, wrapped it in cotton for a fleeting reprieve, and now the ache has returned with patient insistence. it pulses behind his eyes, radiating outward in measured waves that make his stomach twist.
he should have told dr. nanami it was a seven. he said three because pride is a stubborn habit, but right about now it feels closer to an eight.
suguru briefly entertains the notion of rolling out of the car at the next red light and allowing a semi-truck to complete what you started, though even that thought feels too labor-intensive to execute.
his head feels faintly like the time he and satoru did thirteen shots in celebration of closing a particularly grueling deal, the kind that had kept them in the office until two in the morning for weeks.
he remembers the burn of liquor, the dizziness that followed, the way his mouth had operated independently of discretion, spilling flirtation and poorly considered commentary with equal enthusiasm. he cannot recall the details of that night clearly, though he remembers the sensation, similar to the one he feels now.
he remembers saying something to you earlier; something about how pretty you were, and the memory hovers at the edge of his consciousness, hazy but persistent as he shifts slightly in his seat, stealing another glance at you.
you’re focused on the road, fingers drumming faintly against the steering wheel in restless rhythm, jaw set with concentration. city lights reflect in the curve of your cheek, and your brows knit together occasionally as traffic compresses ahead of you.
the sky has darkened further, evening settling in layers of charcoal and steel. inside the hospital, the fluorescent lights felt almost aggressive, piercing straight through his skull with clinical indifference. here, in the muted dimness of your car, he can open his eyes more comfortably, opening them to rows of red taillights stretch ahead in an endless chain, glowing against wet pavement.
rush hour: you’re stuck in it because of him.
a faint flicker of guilt threads through the fog in his head. you had somewhere to be today. maybe you had plans, obligations, a life uninterrupted by blunt-force trauma.
he shifts again, pressing his palm briefly to his temple before letting his hand fall into his lap.
“m’sorry,” he murmurs quietly, the word almost swallowed by the rain and the hum of the engine as his eyelids grow heavier, the rhythm of the wipers hypnotic, steady and unrelenting as he closes his eyes.
the rain continues to fall as his breathing evens out, and he drifts back into sleep, head tilted toward the window, city moving slowly around him.
…
satoru gojo is both nothing and everything you pictured while on the phone with him.
the cocky tone had prepared you for arrogance, for ease, for the careless confidence of a twenty-something man who has rarely been told no.
it had not prepared you for the physicality of him.
he stands just beyond your driver’s side mirror at an angle that catches the late afternoon light, easily six foot two, perhaps taller, white hair stark against the gray sky, the kind of white that looks deliberate rather than genetic.
his eyes are an impossible blue, vivid and crystalline, the exact shade that once made you pause a scene of game of thrones in college because the white walkers had looked unreal.
he wears a white button-down similar to suguru’s, sleeves rolled with precision, navy slacks tailored close to the leg, brown loafers that gleam with quiet expense. sunglasses rest low on the bridge of his nose despite the overcast sky and an iced coffee sweats in his hand.
for a man whose co-worker was hit by a car within him on the phone, he looks deeply entertained.
suguru’s office building rises behind him in sheets of reflective glass and brushed steel, all sharp lines and minimalist landscaping. the lobby beyond the revolving doors glows warm and curated, marble floors veined in subtle gray, a receptionist seated behind a stone desk that probably cost more than your first car. a discreet plaque near the entrance bears the name of the investment bank in understated lettering.
you were supposed to be here next month, coincidentally.
a meeting regarding an acquisition. your firm on the buy-side, theirs advising. you had skimmed the building address in the calendar invite and thought nothing of it, the realization sliding quietly into place now.
you push down the fleeting thought that maybe, just maybe, you would have seen suguru here under very different circumstances, that you might have passed him in a conference room or across a polished marble lobby, introduced over coffee and financial models instead of hospital forms and apologetic explanations.
the idea flickers through your mind with uncomfortable persistence, followed quickly by a quieter thought that settles somewhere deeper, more private.
you glance toward him where he rests slumped in the passenger seat, dark hair loosened slightly from its careful tie, long lashes resting against his cheek as the car idles beneath the gray sky. he’s absurdly handsome even while half-conscious, the sort of man people notice the moment he walks into a room, the sort of man who carries himself with quiet certainty.
a faint, self-conscious realization presses in behind the thought: if you met him under ordinary circumstances, when his head was clear and his balance steady, not blinking slowly at you through a haze of dizziness and pain medication, the easy warmth he’d shown you today might never have existed at all.
the notion lingers only a second before you force it aside, pressing your lips together as you shift your focus back to the present moment.
satoru steps closer and leans through your open window, bracing one hand casually against the top of the door. he glances at suguru, who is faintly slumped into the passenger seat, head tilted toward the window, mouth slightly parted.
he’s been softly snoring for the better half of the hour you spent inching through traffic, utterly oblivious to your arrival.
“well, here he is,” you say awkwardly, gesturing toward suguru as if presenting a fragile delivery. “i can help get him out of the car if you’d like.”
satoru winces theatrically, pulling his sunglasses down an inch to peer more closely at his coworker.
“oooh,” he says, drawing the word out with exaggerated sympathy. “yeah, about that.”
you feel your stomach tighten.
he straightens, taking a long sip of his iced coffee before continuing with unsettling cheerfulness.
“i’m leaving for a twenty-eight-day transatlantic cruise tomorrow,” he says, tone light, almost conversational, like he’s discussing the weather rather than abandoning his concussed coworker in a stranger’s vehicle. “and i refuse to start my vacation early by babysitting a concussed investment banker.”
he pauses just long enough to take another slow sip, gaze drifting briefly toward suguru slumped in the passenger seat before returning to you with easy satisfaction.
“work-life boundaries are important, y’know.”
you blink at him, and before you can formulate a response, he slips a set of keys from his pocket and drops them directly into your open palm, metal pressing cold against your skin.
“but i do have the keys to his place,” he says lightly. “seems like fate, right?”
you stare down at them, then back up at him.
“logistically speaking,” you begin, words tripping over themselves, “how would that even— he doesn’t have family here?”
“nope,” satoru replies without hesitation.
there is a brief, infuriating beat of silence.
“have fun!” he adds brightly.
and then he steps back, already turning toward the revolving doors, sunglasses sliding back into place as if this entire exchange has been a minor amusement in his day.
you watch him disappear into the building, rain beginning to speckle more insistently against your windshield, and in the passenger seat, suguru stirs faintly, brows knitting as his eyes crack open.
“did he leave?” he asks, voice rough with sleep and disorientation. he squints toward the building. “where’s he going?”
you let out a slow, measured sigh, gripping the steering wheel as the absurdity of the situation settles fully into your bones.
“apparently,” you reply, shifting the car back into drive, “on a cruise.”
he makes a faint, displeased sound, leaning his head back against the window with visible offense.
you pull out of the lot and glance once more at the keys resting in your cup holder.
twelve to twenty-four hours. intense monitoring. personality changes.
you signal and merge back into traffic, turning toward your own building with reluctant resolve.
if you’re going to spend the next day taking care of a half-concussed, infuriatingly attractive stranger, you’re at least going to change into sweats first.
…
the car glides down the slow spiral of the parking garage, tires whispering across the smooth concrete as the city’s evening noise fades into a hollow, echoing quiet. overhead lights pass rhythmically across the windshield in pale bands, each one briefly illuminating the interior before sliding away again.
you guide the wheel carefully, scanning the familiar rows of expensive sedans and matte-black suvs parked in disciplined lines, the faint smell of damp pavement drifting through the vents.
your shoulders carry the lingering tension of the day, fingers tightening briefly around the steering wheel as you maneuver toward the ramp that leads down another level.
beside you, suguru stirs.
his head shifts slightly against the window, the movement slow and heavy, like gravity itself has thickened. dark hair falls loose from the tie at the base of his neck, a few strands brushing his cheek. his lashes flutter once before his eyes open halfway, unfocused and glassy with fatigue.
he squints faintly at the ceiling lights passing overhead.
“s’toru gave you my address?” he mumbles, voice thick with sleep and the dull ache still pulsing somewhere behind his temples.
the question lands a beat too late in your brain.
your hands tighten on the steering wheel as the car rolls forward another few feet, and you freeze in place long enough for the vehicle behind you to creep impatiently closer.
“no?” you answer, the word slipping out in a confused breath.
suguru’s brows knit together in slow concentration, the expression faintly pained as he tries to force clarity out of a mind that refuses to cooperate. he lifts his head slightly from the window, blinking toward the dim rows of parked cars around you as though attempting to orient himself in space.
“so why do you know where i live?” he mutters hoarsely.
the accusation carries very little heat. it sounds more like a tired observation than a confrontation.
you pull into a vacant space and shift the car into park, the soft mechanical click echoing faintly in the quiet garage.
“this is where i live,” you reply carefully, glancing toward him.
suguru turns his head a fraction more, studying your face with a slow, puzzled intensity that suggests the effort alone is exhausting. one corner of his mouth lifts faintly despite the confusion still clouding his gaze.
“hm,” he murmurs after a moment, voice rough and thoughtful. “so you’ve been watching me, then.”
his head tilts slightly where it rests against the passenger-side window, cheek pressing into the cool glass as the garage lights pass over his face in slow intervals, illuminating the faint crease between his brows and the lingering haze still clouding his eyes.
the movement looks heavy, uncoordinated, as though gravity itself has thickened around him, and when he speaks again his voice carries that loose, drifting cadence of someone whose thoughts keep slipping just out of reach.
“stalker,” he adds faintly, the word arriving with a lazy sort of certainty, like a conclusion he’s reached after long and careful deliberation.
you turn your head toward him slowly, staring.
“i hit you with my car,” you say flatly, the words landing somewhere between correction and disbelief as the reality of the situation presses against your patience.
a low hum vibrates in his chest, soft and contemplative, as if he finds the clarification mildly interesting.
“that too.”
the sound of the garage ventilation system fills the quiet space around you, a steady mechanical hum echoing faintly against the concrete walls, while overhead lights cast long muted reflections across the windshield and the polished hood of the car.
your fingers shift slightly against the steering wheel before drifting down toward your lap, where the set of keys satoru dropped into your hand earlier still rests loosely in your palm.
attached to the ring is a sleek black key fob stamped with the emblem of a car brand you recognize instantly, the kind of car people pause to admire when it glides past on a city street, the kind of car that signals a particular tier of income without anyone needing to say a word.
beside it hangs the apartment key itself, slim and silver and cut in a shape that sends a small, electric jolt of familiarity through your chest.
your brows knit together, because the shape is identical to your own.
you lift the key slightly, turning it again in the light as the realization begins to take form with quiet insistence, and slowly, almost cautiously, you turn your head back toward suguru.
he has slouched deeper into the seat now, shoulders relaxed in that boneless way exhaustion creates, his eyes half-open and unfocused as they drift somewhere toward the concrete pillars lining the garage.
“what floor do you live on?” you ask, the question slipping out before you can filter the curiosity tightening in your chest.
he squints faintly, the expression slow and pained, as though the words themselves require effort to gather and interpret. his brows draw together again as he attempts to summon enough coherence to answer.
“the thirty-fourth,” he mumbles after a moment, the syllables slightly blurred together.
you blink once, then again, a startled laugh slipping out under your breath as you shake your head immediately.
“no way,” you say, disbelief threading through your voice as you stare at him. “you’re lying.”
the accusation barely registers with him.
suguru exhales softly and lets his head fall back against the window with a quiet thud, eyes sliding closed again as though the conversation itself has exhausted whatever mental reserves he had managed to gather.
“i can barely form a thought,” he mutters, the words quieter now, softened by fatigue and the lingering pull of the pain medication still circulating through his bloodstream. “why would i lie?”
his voice fades into the gentle hum of the garage, and the silence that follows stretches long and contemplative.
you look at him for another moment, studying the relaxed line of his jaw, the slow rhythm of his breathing, the faint shadow of stubble darkening the lower half of his face before your gaze drifts downward again toward the keys still resting in your hand.
the thirty-fourth floor is your floor.
the same hallway you walk down every night after work, the same elevator bank you ride up with grocery bags and late-night takeout and the quiet exhaustion of long days that end well past sunset.
a slow warmth curls through your chest as the thought settles in, disbelief mixing with something softer and far less rational, the strange quiet wonder of coincidence aligning itself into something that almost feels deliberate.
maybe satoru hadn’t been joking.
maybe something larger than chance had decided to intervene somewhere along the chain of events that brought the two of you together in this dim concrete garage, rain tapping faintly against the ceiling far above your head.
you sit there for another moment, hands resting loosely against the steering wheel as the idea settles fully into place, before finally exhaling and reaching toward the door handle.
the quiet click of the latch breaks the stillness.
you glance toward him again, a small, incredulous smile tugging faintly at the corner of your mouth.
“come on,” you murmur softly. “neighbor.”
…
you come to learn that suguru geto lives just down the hall from you, the sort of proximity that sits in a strange middle space between coincidence and inevitability, because the distance from your door to his takes less than a minute.
the discovery settles over you gradually as you guide him out of the elevator and down the softly carpeted hallway, his arm draped loosely over your shoulders as he leans more of his weight against you than he probably realizes, footsteps slow and uneven as the dull fog of the concussion continues to pull at him.
the corridor smells faintly of polished wood and expensive cleaning products, the kind of sterile luxury that clings to buildings where the rent alone could finance a small mortgage somewhere else.
you stop two doors before your own.
suguru fumbles briefly with the keys before handing them to you with the vague helplessness of someone whose brain has decided it is finished working for the evening, and when you push the door open and guide him inside, the apartment greets you with a quiet stillness that feels almost curated.
the place is immaculate.
the living room stretches out in careful lines of modern furniture, every surface clear, every object placed with an almost architectural precision that makes the entire space look less like a home and more like the staged interior of a luxury magazine spread.
the couch is a deep charcoal gray, broad and low, paired with a glass coffee table that reflects the warm glow of recessed lighting above.
a large television sits mounted on the wall opposite it, flanked by minimal shelving holding exactly three books and a small sculptural object that looks expensive enough to make you nervous about touching it.
there’s not a single sign of another person living here.
no stray hair ties on the counter, no extra toothbrush near the sink, no half-finished bottles of shampoo or abandoned jackets draped across chairs.
the apartment carries the faint, impersonal scent of expensive detergent and nothing else, as though suguru moves through the space carefully enough to erase all evidence of his own presence.
the fridge confirms the suspicion.
when you open it later in search of something remotely edible, the interior reveals little more than a bottle of cold brew, a container of takeout rice from some point earlier in the week, and a solitary lemon resting in the corner of the shelf like it wandered in by accident.
suguru had watched you inspect it with half-lidded amusement from the couch earlier, one arm draped loosely over his stomach as he blinked at you through the dull haze still lingering behind his eyes.
“i promise i won’t starve,” he had murmured faintly.
you had turned toward him with a raised brow.
“i’m not convinced.”
he had let out a quiet breath of laughter before his eyes slid closed again, the exhaustion pulling him under with alarming speed.
when you eventually stood to leave, brushing your hands together as you stepped toward the door, suguru had stirred again, blinking slowly up at you from the couch.
“you’re coming back,” he had said, the words half-statement, half-request.
you paused in the doorway, turning slightly.
“i have a concussion,” he added, voice quieter now, a hint of dry humor threading through the exhaustion. “there’s a very real possibility i could have a brain bleed and die alone in here.”
a soft laugh escaped you before you could stop it.
“i’ll come back,” you promised, shaking your head as you reached for the door handle.
which is exactly why you find yourself standing in his kitchen now, several hours later, dressed in loose gray sweatpants and an old sweatshirt from your college days, the fabric soft from years of wear as you move quietly between the stove and the counter.
the apartment smells different now.
warmth curls through the air from the small pot simmering on the stove, the soft, comforting aroma of miso broth filling the otherwise pristine space as steam rises gently toward the overhead lights. chopped green onions sit in a small bowl beside the cutting board, along with neatly sliced tofu and a handful of mushrooms you found tucked away in the back of the fridge.
every so often, you glance over your shoulder toward the living room.
suguru lies stretched along the length of the couch, one arm hanging loosely off the side, dark hair falling slightly across his forehead where the tie has long since come undone.
he changed into sweats and a loose t-shirt earlier with a sluggish sort of determination, disappearing into his bedroom for several minutes before emerging again looking marginally more comfortable and significantly more disoriented.
even from across the room, the strength in his frame is impossible to ignore.
the thin cotton of the shirt drapes loosely over his shoulders, the fabric shifting subtly with each slow breath, and when he shifts occasionally against the cushions the outline of his biceps becomes visible beneath the sleeves, muscle moving easily beneath the relaxed posture.
every now and then a quiet groan slips from him, low and irritated, the sound carrying through the room just enough to reassure you that he’s still conscious somewhere inside the fog pressing against his mind.
you stir the broth slowly, listening as another small sound drifts from the couch, then movement.
you glance over just in time to watch suguru push himself upright with visible reluctance, one hand bracing against the couch as he drags himself forward in a slow, unsteady motion that suggests the entire process requires far more effort than it should.
he sits there for a moment, elbows resting on his knees, head bowed as if the world has tilted slightly off its axis.
then, with quiet stubbornness, he rises.
the short distance between the couch and the kitchen counter becomes an expedition. he moves carefully, one hand dragging along the back of the sofa for balance before finally reaching the barstool across from where you stand.
he lowers himself onto it with a faint exhale.
for a moment he simply sits there on the barstool across the counter, elbows resting loosely against the cool stone surface as he watches you through the slow, heavy squint of someone still trying to coax his brain back into cooperation, the warm kitchen light catching faintly in his eyes while steam rises in soft spirals from the pot in front of you. T
he apartment, which hours ago felt sterile and curated to the point of impersonality, now carries the quiet warmth of simmering broth and toasted sesame oil, the gentle sounds of your spoon moving through the soup filling the space between you.
he studies the scene with an almost careful concentration, gaze lingering on the oversized sweatshirt hanging off your shoulders, the faded collegiate lettering stretched slightly across the fabric in that softened way clothes acquire after years of washing.
his brows knit together.
“you went to uchicago?” he asks slowly, voice still rough around the edges of sleep.
you follow the direction of his gaze, and the moment realization settles over you your shoulders lift in a small, sheepish motion as you glance down at the sweatshirt like you had forgotten what you were wearing until this exact second, the red lettering suddenly feeling much more conspicuous than it had a few minutes ago while you were standing alone in the kitchen.
“yeah,” you admit, stirring the broth again to give your hands something to do, the spoon gliding through the miso in slow circles. “class of twenty-two.”
suguru’s head tilts slightly, eyes narrowing with something that looks suspiciously like quiet amusement.
“you really must be stalking me,” he murmurs.
you snort softly at that, shaking your head as the spoon taps gently against the side of the pot. “oh don’t tell me you went to northwestern—”
the reaction is immediate, his nose wrinkling with visible distaste, shoulders shifting faintly as though the mere suggestion has offended him on a personal level.
“ew,” he mutters. “absolutely not.”
the faintest smile curls at the corner of his mouth as he leans forward slightly against the counter, dark hair slipping further loose around his face.
“class of twenty-one.”
you freeze mid-stir. slowly, you turn your head toward him, the spoon still hovering inside the pot as disbelief creeps across your expression.
“no fucking way,” you say, the words leaving your mouth before you can soften them. “you’re lying.”
he gives a slow nod, the movement almost lazy, as if he finds the entire situation quietly entertaining.
“how did we never meet?” he asks after a moment, squinting faintly toward you with genuine curiosity.
you lean your hip lightly against the counter, folding one arm across your waist while the other continues stirring absentmindedly, the motion more habit than necessity now.
“depends,” you reply, tipping your head slightly as you study him in return. “were you financial economics or business economics?”
suguru scoffs softly, the sound low and dismissive as his shoulders relax against the stool.
“financial,” he says. “of course.”
the response earns a soft click of your tongue.
“yep,” you say knowingly, returning your attention to the pot as steam curls past your face. “that’s it.”
a quiet chuckle escapes him then, low and warm, the sound drifting easily through the kitchen as you ladle the soup into a bowl, setting it down in front of you while the two of you fall into a comfortable silence that feels strangely natural for people who technically met by way of vehicular collision only hours earlier.
you can feel his gaze lingering on you.
not in a way that feels invasive, exactly, but present enough that you become acutely aware of it, aware of the way he sits across from you with his chin resting lightly in his hand, watching as you finish garnishing the bowl with green onions and sesame seeds.
eventually you pick up the spoon again, blowing lightly across the surface of the broth before scooping up a careful taste.
you hesitate for a moment, sliding the bowl slightly toward him across the counter and lifting the spoon again, your other hand instinctively moving beneath it to catch any stray drops.
“taste?” you offer, lifting the spoon slightly as steam curls upward in thin, fragrant ribbons that carry the warm scent of miso and sesame into the quiet kitchen.
suguru’s gaze drifts slowly from your face down toward the spoon hovering between you, his expression tightening faintly in concentration as though he’s attempting to process a complicated equation rather than the simple act of sampling soup.
for a moment he does absolutely nothing except stare at it, brows knitting together while the fog of the concussion continues to tug sluggishly at the edges of his awareness.
his hand lifts halfway from the counter before stopping midair.
he squints faintly at the spoon, then at the bowl sitting between you, and finally back at your face again with the vague irritation of someone who knows he should be capable of performing a basic motor function and is momentarily annoyed that his brain seems determined to make the process unnecessarily difficult.
“you’re going to make me do coordination exercises right now?” he murmurs hoarsely, voice still thick with fatigue as he glances down at his own hand like it might betray him.
you blink at him, momentarily caught between amusement and embarrassment as the spoon remains suspended awkwardly in front of you.
“i’m offering you soup,” you reply, heat creeping slowly into your cheeks as you realize how strangely intimate the position looks from the outside.
suguru exhales softly through his nose, the sound carrying a faint trace of dry humor, and after a moment he lifts his hand again with visible reluctance, fingers hovering uncertainly near the spoon before he hesitates once more, clearly reconsidering whether he trusts his depth perception enough to avoid accidentally knocking it straight out of your grip.
his gaze flicks up toward you again, something quietly amused passing through his expression.
“this is humiliating,” he mutters under his breath, though the corner of his mouth lifts faintly as he leans forward just enough to close the remaining distance himself.
your fingers tighten slightly around the spoon as he takes the bite, your attention narrowing in spite of yourself to the small, strangely vivid details of the moment, the warmth of the broth disappearing between his lips, the slow movement of his jaw as he considers the taste, the subtle shift of his throat as he swallows.
he leans back again after a second, resting one elbow against the counter while his eyes lower briefly toward the bowl in thoughtful silence, the kitchen settling into a warm, quiet stillness around the two of you.
then he nods once, the gesture small but decisive.
approval.
his gaze drifts back toward you, lingering for a moment with something softer behind it now, the earlier irritation melting into quiet appreciation.
“that’s the best thing i’ve had in weeks,” he says finally, voice rough but sincere, the faintest hint of a smile touching his mouth.
he exhales slowly, leaning back against the stool with the heavy relaxation of someone whose body has decided the day is finally over.
“you should hit me with your car more often,” he says, and the line lands with such quiet seriousness that for half a second you simply stare at him, the absurdity of the statement hovering in the warm kitchen air between the two of you while steam continues to curl lazily upward from the bowl.
then a startled laugh slips out of you before you can stop it, the sound quick and bright, breaking across the quiet apartment in a way that feels oddly intimate, and when you glance back up you catch the faint smile that has begun to pull at suguru’s mouth.
he looks pleased with himself.
you shake your head slightly, still smiling despite your best efforts not to encourage him, and for a moment your gaze lingers on him longer than you intend it to.
drawn unwillingly toward the quiet ease in his posture as he sits there in loose sweats and a worn t-shirt that does very little to disguise the breadth of his shoulders or the strength resting casually in his arms, the soft fall of dark hair at his temples, the lingering heaviness of his eyes that speaks to the exhaustion still clinging stubbornly to him.
something quiet and electric settles low in your chest, and you feel it before you fully understand it, that sudden flutter of awareness that arrives without warning and refuses to be ignored.
and it surprises you, because you’re not inexperienced by any means.
you’re a woman in your mid-twenties who’s moved through enough relationships to recognize attraction when it appears, who has dated the full spectrum of men that ambitious university campuses tend to produce.
from the artsy poetic type who spent their college years chasing creative passions and reading you half-finished verses in dimly lit apartments that smelled like incense and cheap wine.
to the rigid, sharp-edged lawyer types who carried themselves with the quiet confidence of people already planning their futures in billable hours and glass office towers, all crooked noses and expensive briefcases and an almost reverent acceptance of eighty-hour workweeks.
you’ve known charm before. uou’ve known intelligence, ambition, humor, steadiness, too.
and yet none of them, not one, has ever quite managed to make your heart stumble into the sudden uneven rhythm it now seems determined to adopt while you stand here in this stranger’s immaculate kitchen watching him sit across from you with the lingering disorientation of a concussion and the faintest hint of amusement still resting in his expression.
the realization arrives quietly and unwelcome as your gaze drops quickly back to the bowl.
you clear your throat under the pretense of moving the soup away, gathering it in your hands and turning slightly toward the stove as if the simple act of walking two steps away might steady the strange warmth still lingering beneath your ribs.
behind you, suguru remains where he is at the counter, watching you with that same thoughtful squint, unaware that the woman who ran him over only hours ago is now attempting very seriously to ignore the fact that the most compelling man she’s encountered in months is currently sitting concussed on a barstool across from her.
…
you end up talking with suguru for far longer than you expect.
what begins as casual conversation over soup stretches slowly, almost imperceptibly, into something deeper and quieter, the hours folding in on themselves until the warm late afternoon light that had first spilled through the large windows fades gradually into evening, the skyline beyond the glass shifting from soft gold into the deep indigo of night, the faint glow of the moon suspended somewhere above the darkened buildings in the distance.
by the time you realize how much time has passed, you’re both sitting on the couch, close enough that the space between your shoulders has long since stopped feeling like the careful distance people usually keep with strangers.
your legs are folded beneath you while you sit cross-legged against the corner cushion with a bowl of miso resting loosely in your lap, suguru positioned beside you with one arm draped lazily across the back of the couch, his own bowl balanced in his hand as the quiet warmth of the apartment settles around you.
three hours have passed.
three hours that somehow disappear without either of you noticing.
the conversation moves with an easy rhythm that feels almost alarmingly natural, drifting through pieces of your lives as if the two of you have known each other much longer than the few absurd hours that have technically passed since your car met his shoulder on a city sidewalk.
he tells you about his hometown first, voice quieter than it had been earlier in the day, the edge of the concussion still softening the usual sharpness in his speech as he describes narrow streets and summer festivals and the quiet weight of expectations that followed him out of that town and into the halls of university lecture rooms and eventually into the ruthless gravity of investment banking.
you tell him about your own path in return, about late nights spent studying in dim library corners and the particular exhaustion that follows people who choose careers built around endless spreadsheets and impossible deadlines.
the topic eventually circles back to his apartment.
your gaze drifts around the pristine living room again while you mention, almost teasingly, how it had looked when you first stepped inside earlier that afternoon, so immaculate that you briefly wondered whether he actually lived there at all.
suguru exhales a quiet breath of amusement at that.
“i’m never home,” he admits, his voice carrying the faint resignation of someone who has long since made peace with the reality. “most days i leave before sunrise and come back after midnight.”
his eyes sweep lazily across the carefully arranged furniture. “it’s easier if nothing’s out of place when i get back.”
the explanation sits somewhere between practicality and something lonelier.
the conversation shifts again.
your lives begin to unfold piece by piece, stories stacking on top of each other in a way that makes the hours pass unnoticed while the city outside the windows sinks deeper into night.
somewhere along the way you become aware of something else: the way his gaze drifts toward your mouth occasionally.
not deliberately, not with any obvious intention behind it, but with a quiet sort of unconscious curiosity that makes your stomach tighten every time you catch it happening, his eyes lowering briefly toward your lips before returning to your face as if he has only just realized where they had gone.
you can’t tell whether the concussion is responsible, or whether it’s simply him.
either possibility sends your pulse racing.
the moment that unsettles you the most comes when the conversation turns, somewhat accidentally, toward relationships, where you mention offhandedly that you’re not currently seeing anyone, and suguru’s brows draw together immediately.
he stares at you for a moment with genuine confusion, the kind that looks almost analytical.
“you don’t have a boyfriend?” he asks slowly, his voice carrying a note of disbelief that feels far too sincere to be polite conversation.
you shake your head, laughing nervously as the attention settles on you. “no.”
his frown deepens slightly, and the way his gaze moves over your face in quiet consideration makes heat creep slowly up the back of your neck.
“that doesn’t make sense,” he murmurs, the comment landing before he seems to realize he has said it aloud.
you blink at him as he lifts one shoulder faintly.
“you’re…” he pauses, searching for a word and then abandoning the effort halfway through. “you’re you.”
the vague explanation somehow feels more flustering than a direct compliment, a nervous laugh escaping you before you can stop it, and you look down into your soup again as if the broth might somehow rescue you from the sudden awareness spreading through your chest.
at some point during the conversation you quietly submit a sick day request through your work email, the decision feeling slightly ridiculous even as you do it.
you tell yourself it’s practical, that if the concussion symptoms worsen tomorrow someone will need to monitor him again.
that’s the explanation you settle on.
still, the thought lingers quietly in the back of your mind that you may have made the decision for reasons that have very little to do with medical responsibility.
you feel comfortable here with suguru. comfortable enough that the conversation continues easily even after the bowls have long since emptied, the two of you lingering on the couch with the quiet ease of people who somehow skipped the awkward early stages of acquaintance.
it’s your phone that eventually interrupts the moment, the sudden alarm slicing through the room with a sharp electronic chime that startles both of you slightly.
you jump a little, blinking down at the screen before remembering why you set it earlier that evening.
you turn toward him, pushing a loose strand of hair behind your ear.
“okay,” you announce with mild authority as you shift closer on the couch, setting your bowl aside on the coffee table. “i’m going to check your pupils.”
suguru watches you with quiet amusement as you shift closer along the couch cushions, the faintest suggestion of a smile tugging slowly at the corner of his mouth while the warm glow of the apartment lighting settles across his features, softening the sharp lines of his face and catching faintly in the dark strands of hair that have fallen loose around his temples.
his posture carries the heavy looseness of someone still drifting in the slow fog of a concussion, shoulders relaxed, one arm stretched along the back of the couch behind you as though he has forgotten it is there, yet his attention rests entirely on you now as you lean forward with deliberate concentration.
he nods slowly, the movement unhurried, almost languid, as if the entire moment has become quietly entertaining to him in some way he has not yet bothered to articulate.
“yes, nurse,” he murmurs.
the word lands softly between you, and the reaction is immediate, heat rushING into your cheeks before you can stop it, blooming beneath your skin in a way that makes you suddenly grateful for the dimness of the room as you attempt to focus on the task you had so confidently announced only seconds earlier.
you lean closer, one hand lifting instinctively to steady his chin while your mind scrambles to recall the exact instructions you had read earlier on your phone, something about checking the pupils for dilation, for unevenness, for responsiveness to light, all of it simple information that had seemed perfectly manageable when you were reading it alone in the kitchen.
now, with suguru sitting this close, the details scatter like loose pages in the wind.
you try to remember what you’re supposed to be looking for, try to reconstruct the list in your head while the space between you grows smaller and smaller, while the quiet warmth of his presence begins to occupy far more of your attention than it should.
his eyes lift to meet yours fully as you lean in, the dim apartment light catching inside them and revealing that strange, deep shade of purple you had noticed earlier in the car, the color richer up close, almost velvety in the way it absorbs the surrounding light.
for a moment you simply stare.
your brain attempts, with diminishing success, to recall something about symmetry and pupil dilation while his gaze remains fixed on your face with a level of concentration that feels far more serious than the situation requires.
his expression is thoughtful, almost analytical, as though he is studying you with the same careful attention you are supposed to be giving his concussion symptoms.
“you have very nice eyes.”
the comment slips out before you can stop it.
the moment the words leave your mouth you feel the embarrassment arrive in a quiet, mortifying wave, heat creeping further up your neck as you immediately wish you could take them back and replace them with something more medically appropriate.
perhaps something that doesn’t sound quite so much like a flustered confession delivered while sitting far too close to a man you technically ran over earlier that day.
suguru doesn’t look embarrassed, instead he hums softly, the sound low in his throat, thoughtful rather than surprised, and the corner of his mouth lifts faintly in the sort of quiet, knowing smile that suggests he understands far more from your expression than you would prefer.
his gaze lingers on your face for a moment longer, slow and deliberate in a way that makes your pulse stumble.
“i’d hope so,” he murmurs after a beat, voice still rough from the lingering exhaustion but threaded now with an unmistakable note of amusement.
his head tilts slightly where it rests against the couch, studying you with that same calm attentiveness that had unsettled you earlier in the kitchen.
“you’ve been staring at them for a while.” the teasing lands gently, almost lazily, yet the words make the warmth in your face deepen immediately, and you open your mouth to protest before realizing you have absolutely no convincing defense for the accusation.
suguru watches the realization cross your face, faint smile lingering as he leans forward, the movement slow and slightly uncoordinated, the lingering effects of the concussion making the shift faintly clumsy as he closes the remaining distance between you.
one hand lifts instinctively to steady himself against the cushion while his lips meet yours in a soft, uncertain kiss that feels almost tentative, as though he himself is testing the reality of the moment.
for a second you freeze.
then you kiss him back.
the contact lasts only a heartbeat longer before the rational portion of your mind finally catches up with the situation unfolding on your couch, and you pull away quickly, blinking at him with a mixture of surprise and mortified clarity.
“you have a concussion.”
suguru pauses, processing the statement with visible thoughtfulness as he leans back slightly against the couch.
“ah,” he nods slowly.“that explains a lot.”
the quiet seriousness of his tone hangs in the air for half a second before the absurdity of the entire situation catches up with both of you at once, and the two of you dissolve into awkward laughter that fills the warm, softly lit apartment.
…
by the time you finally begin gathering your things, the apartment has grown quiet in the slow, enveloping way late nights in the city often do, the earlier warmth of conversation settling into something softer and more subdued while the lights from neighboring buildings glow faintly through the wide windows.
the skyline beyond the glass has long since darkened into deep navy and charcoal, the moon hanging somewhere distant above the grid of streetlights below, and the gentle hum of traffic far beneath the building reaches you only as a distant murmur.
it’s close to eleven.
you realize it in passing when you glance at the clock on your phone while sliding your feet back into your shoes near the door, the simple motion carrying with it the faint disorientation that follows unexpectedly long evenings, the sort that begin casually and stretch quietly into hours without either person noticing the passage of time.
behind you, suguru remains on the couch.
he hasn’t moved much in the last several minutes, though his attention has followed you across the apartment with the same quiet attentiveness that has threaded through the entire evening.
the living room lamp beside him casts a warm circle of light across the couch cushions and along the line of his shoulders, his posture relaxed but not careless, one arm resting along the back of the sofa while he watches you with a thoughtful expression that suggests he’s still lingering somewhere between fatigue and clarity.
you tug lightly at the sleeves of your sweatshirt as you gather your bag from the kitchen counter, offering him a small, practical smile as you turn back toward the living room.
“i should probably let you sleep,” you say, your voice soft in the quiet apartment. “you’ve had a long day.”
suguru’s gaze follows you as you step closer to the door, and for a moment he says nothing.
then his eyes lower slightly, thoughtful, and when he finally speaks his voice carries the same quiet steadiness that has threaded through the entire evening, calm and almost casual in a way that makes the words feel less like a request and more like an observation.
“the doctor said someone should stay.”
the sentence settles gently into the air between you.
you pause halfway through adjusting the strap of your bag, fingers lingering against the fabric as your mind briefly replays the instructions from earlier that afternoon, the doctor’s careful tone, the quiet insistence that someone remain nearby through the night.
a small hesitation curls through your chest.
before you can respond, suguru shifts slightly on the couch and adds, his tone still polite, still calm in that understated way that makes everything he says feel considered rather than impulsive.
“you can take the bed. i’ll take the couch.”
his hand lifts in a vague, almost absent gesture toward the hallway behind him, as though the logistics are already solved in his mind.
“it’s the least i can offer after you… you know.” his fingers make another small motion in the air. “vehicular assault.”
the phrase lands with such dry seriousness that you cannot stop the faint crease of amusement that tugs at your mouth, though your brows knit slightly as you glance between the couch and the hallway behind him.
“if we’re in separate rooms,” you say slowly, tilting your head as you consider the logic of the situation, “isn’t that basically the same as me being a couple doors down?”
suguru studies you for a moment, the quiet amusement returning to his expression almost immediately. his lips curve faintly, and he lifts one eyebrow with the kind of calm confidence that makes the gesture look effortless.
“so you want to share the bed,” he murmurs thoughtfully, his tone carrying the soft hint of teasing that has surfaced several times throughout the evening. one eyebrow lifts slightly higher. “you could’ve just said that.”
the comment draws a quick huff of laughter out of you before you can stop it, the sound warm and incredulous as you shake your head at him.
yYou’re going to regret all of this when you feel better,” you reply, though the warning carries far more amusement than seriousness.
suguru hums softly under his breath, the sound low and contemplative as he rises from the couch with the slow deliberation of someone still navigating the lingering fog of a concussion.
“i don’t think i will,” he says calmly.
he gestures toward the hallway behind him, the motion inviting rather than insistent, before turning and beginning the short walk toward his bedroom with an easy familiarity that suggests he has already decided the matter is settled.
you stand there for a moment longer than necessary before letting out a quiet breath and following after him, rolling your eyes lightly even as a reluctant smile pulls at the corner of your mouth.
as you step into the hallway behind him, your mind briefly drifts to shoko and the inevitable reaction she’ll have when she eventually learns that the evening you spent “checking on the man you hit with your car” somehow evolved into this.
you can practically hear her voice already.
and yet, as you follow suguru down the dim hallway of his apartment, the quiet warmth still lingering in your chest makes it difficult to feel particularly concerned about the explanation you might have to give later.
…
the bedroom settles into a quiet stillness once the lights are lowered, the kind of hushed calm that belongs only to very late hours of the night when the city beyond the windows continues to move while the world inside an apartment slows to something softer and more private.
rain taps steadily against the glass, a thin rhythmic sound that blends with the distant hum of traffic far below the building, while the faint glow of streetlights and neighboring windows spills into the room in soft rectangles of gold and blue.
you lie on your side near the edge of the bed, careful to keep a respectful distance between yourself and the man beside you, though the space separating you is smaller than you expected it would feel.
the mattress dips slightly beneath his weight, the sheets pulled loosely across your legs carrying the faint warmth and scent that belongs unmistakably to him, something clean and expensive layered with the quiet trace of laundry detergent and whatever cologne he had worn earlier in the day before everything unraveled into this strange sequence of events.
suguru sleeps shirtless.
you had discovered that fact the moment he disappeared briefly into the bathroom to change, emerging again a few minutes later in nothing but loose gray sweats that sit low against his hips while his bare shoulders catch the faint light filtering through the curtains.
he had climbed into the bed with the casual ease of someone who has done so a thousand times before, exhaustion settling over him almost immediately as he stretched out on his side facing the opposite direction.
now his back is turned toward you.
the dim light paints the lines of muscle across his shoulders in quiet contrast, the slow rise and fall of his breathing shifting the shape of his back beneath the soft shadows of the room.
your eyes drift across the movement without meaning to linger, tracing the steady breadth of him, the faint definition of muscle along his arms, the relaxed heaviness of someone whose body has finally surrendered to the weight of a long day.
outside, the rain continues to fall.
the sound creates a soft cocoon around the apartment, the city lights glowing through the glass while the quiet rhythm of suguru’s breathing settles into something slow and even beside you.
you assume he’s fallen asleep.
the steadiness of his breaths suggests it, the deep quiet between movements, the way his body has gone completely still beneath the blankets.
your gaze lingers a moment longer on the shape of his back before drifting upward toward the window, watching the rain streak faintly across the glass while your thoughts wander through the strange series of coincidences that somehow brought you here, lying in the bed of a man you had not known existed until earlier that afternoon.
then his voice breaks the silence.
“you know…” it arrives softly into the dark room, rough with the lingering haze of sleep, and you blink, surprised. “statistically, the odds of you hitting someone you live two doors down from are very low.” for a moment you simply stare at the back of his head, processing the fact that he is apparently awake, a quiet beat passing. “maybe it was meant to happen.”
a soft huff of laughter escapes you before you can stop it, the sound slipping out into the dark room.
“you think you were meant to be hit by my car?”
the mattress shifts slightly as he turns over, the slow movement of his body rustling the sheets as he rolls onto his side to face you.
in the dim light his eyes catch what little glow spills through the window, the deep violet of his gaze startlingly bright against the shadows of the room, and the sudden realization of how close the two of you are lying settles over the moment with quiet intensity.
the distance between your faces is small enough that you can feel the warmth of his breath, small enough that every movement feels amplified by the intimacy of the space.
his expression carries that same thoughtful curiosity you have seen several times throughout the night.
“i think you think the same thing,” he murmurs.
your heart gives a sudden, traitorous thud against your ribs, and to buy yourself a moment, you hum quietly to yourself and tip your gaze upward toward the ceiling as though carefully considering the possibility.
the gesture is exaggerated in its faux thoughtfulness as you attempt very deliberately to ignore the frantic rhythm your pulse has decided to adopt.
“possibly,” you concede after a moment, letting your eyes drift back down toward him. “but don’t you have work in the morning?”
the question earns a faint flicker of amusement across his face. “i called out.”
you narrow your eyes at him slightly. “you’re not as concussed as you’ve been acting.”
his shoulders lift in an easy shrug beneath the blankets, the movement small and unapologetic. “maybe not.”
with that he rolls back onto his side again, turning away from you as though the conversation has reached its natural conclusion.
a quiet beat passes, then, somewhere in the darkness, his voice drifts back toward you again. “you’re still here though.”
you let out a soft laugh and shake your head even though he cannot see the gesture, the disbelief lingering in your voice as you mumble quietly into the darkness. “unbelievable.”
“goodnight, y/n,” he says, and the warmth of your name in his voice settles into the quiet room.
you watch the steady rise and fall of his back again, the familiar lines of muscle shifting slowly beneath the soft glow of the city lights outside the window.
“goodnight, suguru.”
the room grows still once more, and your gaze lingers a little longer than it probably should on the shape of his shoulders beneath the dim light, the quiet temptation to reach out and trace the path of those muscles across his back flickering briefly through your mind before you bury the thought beneath the blankets and close your eyes.
eventually, sometime between the sound of rain against the glass and the slow rhythm of his breathing beside you, sleep pulls you under too.
…
morning arrives slowly, the pale light of early sun slipping through the tall windows of suguru’s bedroom in long, quiet bands that stretch across the rumpled sheets and the dark hardwood floor, the rain from the night before gone now and replaced with the clean brightness that follows a storm.
the city outside hums faintly back to life somewhere far below the building, the distant movement of traffic threading through the quiet of the apartment while the warmth of the sun spreads across the bed.
you wake gradually, and for a moment you lie there still half suspended in sleep, your mind slow to gather itself as the warmth of the blankets and the unfamiliar weight of the mattress settle around you.
the scent of the sheets lingers faintly in the morning air, still carrying that subtle trace of him, clean detergent and something darker beneath it that had clung quietly to the fabric through the night.
your eyes open fully to see the space beside you is empty, and for a moment you simply stare at the indentation in the sheets where suguru had been lying hours earlier, the faint warmth already gone from the pillow, and something small and quiet flickers in your chest before you even have time to fully register the thought.
you push yourself upright slowly, rubbing at your eyes with the heel of your hand as a soft yawn escapes you, hair falling loosely around your face while the early sunlight spills across the room.
the apartment feels calm.
you slide out of bed and pad quietly down the hallway in bare feet, the cool hardwood floor pressing lightly against the soles of your feet while the scent of something warm and savory drifts faintly from the kitchen ahead.
the moment you round the corner, you stop.
suguru stands at the kitchen counter with his back to you.
morning light spills through the wide windows behind him, painting his silhouette in warm gold while the faint steam rising from the coffee maker curls lazily into the air beside him.
the sight of him stills you instantly, your steps halting in the doorway as your gaze drifts slowly, almost helplessly, across the broad span of his shoulders.
his back is long and strong, the quiet architecture of muscle shifting subtly beneath his skin as he moves one arm to reach for something on the counter.
the lines of his shoulder blades catch the sunlight as they flex beneath the surface, the muscles tapering gradually down the length of his spine before disappearing beneath the loose waistband of the gray sweatpants hanging low against his hips.
the fabric has been rolled slightly at the waist, revealing the faint indentation of muscle along his sides, the effortless strength of someone who carries power without needing to display it.
your eyes linger for longer than they should.
the kitchen smells faintly of coffee and butter and something sweet, the low hum of the machine filling the quiet space while he moves with calm familiarity around the counter, completely unaware for several seconds that he’s acquired an audience.
until he does notice, the reflective surface of the microwave catching the movement behind him.
his head tilts slightly as he turns just enough that his profile becomes visible, one eyebrow lifting slowly as his eyes meet yours across the kitchen.
“good morning to you too,” the words land with quiet amusement.
the realization that he’s very clearly caught you staring hits all at once, heat rushing immediately into your face as you snap upright like you have been caught committing a crime, your brain scrambling wildly for something, anything, that might resemble a normal explanation for why you were frozen in the doorway studying his back like a museum exhibit.
“looks like you’re feeling better,” you blurt quickly, the sentence arriving just a little too fast to sound entirely natural.
suguru watches you for a moment before he nods slowly.
“i am,” he says calmly, the faintest hint of a smile lingering at the corner of his mouth before he gestures vaguely toward the counter. “made breakfast, too.”
your attention shifts instinctively to the plates beside him.
scrambled eggs sit piled on one dish beside crisp strips of bacon, while another plate holds cinnamon rolls glazed with icing that glints softly in the sunlight streaming through the windows.
your brows draw together slowly as the small details of the kitchen begin to settle into focus around you, food hot and readythat had absolutely not been sitting in his refrigerator the night before.
your gaze drifts slowly away from the counter, the trash can sitting a few feet away beneath the island, its lid tilted open just enough that the corner of a crumpled paper bag peeks into view, the logo of a grocery delivery service printed in clean lettering across the side.
for a moment you simply stare at it, the realization unfolding gradually in your chest, the pieces fitting together with quiet clarity as your eyes flick once more toward the plates he has arranged with surprising care, the coffee steaming beside them while suguru leans casually against the counter as though none of it carries any particular significance.
he had woken up before you, he had opened his phone, and somewhere in the quiet stillness of the early morning he had ordered groceries to be delivered to an apartment that had barely held enough food to cook miso soup the night before, all so he could stand in his kitchen shirtless in the early sunlight making breakfast for the woman who had run him over with her car less than twenty-four hours earlier.
the thought settles softly into your chest, blooming there in a way that feels strangely warm and unexpected, something quiet and private curling through your ribs before you even have the chance to push it away.
your eyes drift back toward him.
the morning light catches the length of his back again as he reaches for the coffee pot, the muscles along his shoulders shifting easily beneath his skin while the rolled waistband of his sweatpants sits low against his hips.
the entire scene carries a kind of domestic calm that feels almost absurdly intimate considering the way the two of you met, and your heart does something irritatingly noticeable in your chest as you step towards the countertop.
…
the late morning sunlight has shifted by the time you are finally standing near the door, the warmth of it spilling across the hardwood floors in long pale rectangles that stretch toward the hallway while the faint scent of coffee and cinnamon still lingers in the apartment behind you.
breakfast dishes sit abandoned in the sink, the quiet aftermath of a morning that had unfolded far more comfortably than either of you had expected, conversation drifting easily between bites of eggs and coffee refills while the city outside continued its slow weekend rhythm beyond the tall windows.
suguru stands a few feet away near the entryway, one shoulder resting casually against the wall as he watches you pull your slippers on, the easy quiet confidence that had been dulled slightly by the concussion the night before now settling back into his posture with noticeable clarity.
there’s something different about him this morning, something more composed in the way he carries himself, the faint haziness that had softened the edges of his personality replaced by a steadier, more deliberate calm that feels unmistakably like the man you would expect to command rooms and close deals across polished boardroom tables.
his hair is still slightly damp from the shower he took earlier, dark strands falling loosely around his face while the sleeves of a fitted black shirt have been rolled neatly to his elbows, revealing the quiet strength of his forearms as he pushes himself upright from the wall.
you finish tugging your shoe into place, glancing toward him with a faint smile that lingers somewhere between amused and reluctant, because leaving this apartment feels unexpectedly more difficult than it should after less than twenty-four hours of knowing him.
he watches you for a moment before he straightens slightly, his expression shifting into something thoughtful as he steps closer to the door and reaches past you to turn the handle.
“i owe you dinner,” the words arrive easily, spoken with the same calm certainty that has threaded through most of his conversation this morning.
you blink, your hand pausing halfway toward the strap of your bag as you look up at him, caught slightly off guard by the statement.
“you hit me with your car,” he continues, his tone measured and unhurried as though he is explaining a very simple equation. his mouth curves faintly at the corner. “that feels like grounds for at least one proper date.”
the sunlight catches briefly in his eyes as he studies your reaction, the quiet amusement there softened slightly by something more genuine lingering beneath it.
then, after a small pause, his voice lowers just a little.
“and i’d like to try kissing you again while medically competent, too.”
the unexpected bluntness of it pulls a startled laugh from you before you can stop it, the sound slipping out warm and incredulous as you shake your head slightly, heat creeping into your cheeks all over again at the memory of the previous night.
“wow,” you murmur under your breath, glancing up at him with a crooked smile, “you recover from concussions very confidently.”
his expression remains calm, though the faint lift of his brow suggests he finds your reaction entertaining.
he pulls the door open then, stepping slightly aside to allow you through while the hallway light spills softly into the apartment.
as you move toward the threshold he adds, almost as an afterthought, his voice carrying the quiet humor that seems to live naturally in his tone.
“and preferably without another vehicle involved.”
the laugh that leaves you this time is softer, warmer, the sound slipping out of you before you even have the chance to temper it, and it echoes faintly down the long hallway outside his apartment as you step past the doorway into the bright, polished corridor where the morning light filters through the tall windows.
you turn back instinctively, looking to see suguru still standing in the doorway, one hand resting against the frame while the other slips casually into the pocket of his slacks, his posture relaxed in that quiet, self-possessed way that seems entirely natural to him now that the fog of the concussion has lifted, his dark hair still slightly damp from the shower and the sleeves of his shirt rolled neatly to his elbows.
he watches you with that same steady gaze, the faintest hint of a smile resting along his mouth as though he already knows exactly how this will end. as though already certain you’ll say yes.
you lean back slightly onto your heels for a moment, pretending to consider the offer with exaggerated seriousness while your heart beats far faster than you are willing to acknowledge, the ridiculousness of the situation pressing in on you all at once as you stand there in the hallway outside the apartment of the man you ran over yesterday.
“well,” you say slowly, folding your arms as though weighing a complicated negotiation, though the grin already tugging at your mouth ruins the performance almost immediately, “since you did make me such an impressive breakfast, i suppose we can go out.”
your eyes flick up to his again, unable to hide the amusement brightening your expression.
“when were you thinking?”
suguru watches you for a second longer before answering, his smile widening just slightly as though he had anticipated the question.
“well,” he says, glancing down toward his wrist as though checking a watch that very clearly is not there, “since we have both apparently taken the day off already, i was thinking you could go get ready and i’ll be at your door by two.”
he lifts his gaze back to you then, the corner of his mouth tilting upward as he continues.
“there’s a little place along the river where they do afternoon boat charters, and afterward i have a reservation at a restaurant in the west loop that serves the kind of food you pretend to understand while someone explains the wine list to you.”
your brows lift instantly.
“oh my god,” you say, pressing a hand lightly against your chest in mock astonishment. “and how did you know i don’t have work today?”
suguru shrugs slightly, the movement relaxed as his smirk deepens. “just had an inkling.”
you stare at him for a moment longer before shaking your head softly, the grin tugging at your mouth returning despite yourself.
“well,” you say, tilting your head as though reluctantly conceding the point, “your inkling might be right.” your voice softens just a little as you take a step backward down the hallway, your eyes still locked on his. “and i might be very excited to see you again at two o’clock.”
he watches you with unmistakable amusement.
“i would certainly hope so,” he replies easily, his gaze dropping briefly toward you before lifting again, “considering you were looking at me like you wanted to eat me last night.”
“hey,” you protest immediately, swatting lightly at his chest as you step forward again, the contact quick and playful as heat rushes straight to your face. “no fair, that was all you.”
the laugh that leaves him then is quiet and genuine, his shoulders lifting slightly as he inclines his head in mock acknowledgment.
“i suppose,” he says thoughtfully, “it may have been a combined effort.”
the moment lingers there for a second, the two of you standing across from each other in the quiet hallway with the sunlight spilling across the floor between you, both of you smiling in a way that feels strangely easy for two people who had technically been strangers less than a day ago.
finally you take another step backward toward your own door down the hall, your hand lifting in a small wave.
“i’m glad you feel better,” you say softly. “i’ll be ready by two.”
suguru nods once, leaning casually against his doorway as he watches you turn and walk down the hallway, your footsteps quiet against the polished floor while your heart thuds steadily in your chest with every step you take toward your apartment.
behind you, you can still feel his gaze lingering, and as you reach your door and push it open, the thought slips quietly through your mind, warm and almost disbelieving:
a selection of my geto fics for your enjoyment! art from left to right is @dinneratgios @1amglow and @aransmind !
CHOOSE YOUR ACTOR!
✰ no. one party anthem starring...ROCKSTAR!GETO
✰ what's mine is yours starring...BODYSWAPPED!GETO
✰ how to baby trap marry your best friend starring...BABY DADDY!GETO
✰ milk and cookies starring...DILF!GETO
✰ only ones who know starring...HERO!GETO
✰ love me not! starring...BABY DADDY!GETO
✰ your eyes only starring...SORCERER!GETO
✰ simply ear-resistible! starring...BUNNY!GETO
✰ (don't) kiss me starring...FWB!GETO
✰ faking it starring...BROKE!GETO
✰ breaking news! starring...MOTHMAN!GETO
✰ the emperor's new pet starring...EMPEROR!GETO
✰ take a bite! starring...VAMPIRE!GETO
✰ rose-colored boy starring...YANDERE!GETO
✰ four dicks, one human starring...ALIEN!GETO
✰ sex.exe starring...SEX ROBOT!GETO
✰ made for you starring...EVIL SCIENTIST!GETO
✰ who's your whore? starring...GUITARIST!GETO
✰ falling snow starring...STRANGER!GETO
a/n: my gojo cinematic universe can be found here and sukuna's list is here, plus even more geto fics are under his name on my pinned post <3 reblogs + comments are always appreciated adore you all :3
I find it so funny, in light of TikTok’s imminent American demise, that even now they aren’t considering moving to tumblr. The last two social media refugee crises (Twitter -> X and whatever happened with Reddit) prompted a wave of wide-eyed new baffled tumblr users to flood this app and yet last I heard all of the tiktokers are flooding en-masse a Chinese social media app. That is entirely in Mandarin. Instead of moving to tumblr.
Like. People are learning mandarin to join this social media site. I’m not joking. There are tutorials going around to show people who don’t speak Mandarin how to sign up for this app. They’re all talking about how they’d rather learn a new language than join instagram reels and it is not a thought in ANYONE’S mind that tumblr is also potentially an option
To be clear im not mad about this. I’d rather see a generation of people learn a new language and engage in cross cultural connections than have a wave of tiktokers flood this app but I still think this whole thing is very funny
no because that is quite literally what is happening on Red Book right now like. All of the Chinese users went “hey why are there suddenly a gazillion Americans on here?” to which the Americans went “they’re banning TikTok and we’re moving out of spite” and the Chinese were like “oh cool send us pictures of your cats and help us with English homework and we’ll send you pictures of our cats and help you learn Mandarin” and as far as I can tell everyone is having a genuinely very nice time together.
catch of breath, choke, gulp, heave, inhale, pant, puff, snort, wheeze, huff, rasp, sharp intake of air, short of breath, struggle for breath, swallow, winded
I’ve never really wrote a tutorial before so apologies if this is bad
1. okay first thing I do is pick three colors, a mid, dark, and light. I like to check the colors in greyscale to make sure there’s enough contrast between each one.
I then plop down a blob of whatever my middle tone color is.
2. next, I take my dark color and just sort of randomly place it around. I try to make sure there’s a good amount of both the mid and dark tones spread throughout. I personally like to keep it kinda messy. I also have pen pressure on for both brush size and opacity, so I can have some blending action going on.
3. for the next step I do the exact same thing as before, except with the light color.
4. aight this is where we start adding details. see how you just have a bunch of colors and edges where two colors meet? use the eyedropper and go to an area where two colors meet, eyedrop a color, and then use that color to draw in your grass blades. I do this at every point where colors meet. should note I personally like to use a square brush, but you can really just use anything.
5. you can technically stop at the last step if you’re going for a more simple look, but to add more details I go to the “empty” areas of solid color and just draw in random strokes using a color nearby. it’s just a way to fill up the empty space.
6. basically more of the same idea of eyedropping and drawing. for more variety so things look interesting, I like to add random plant shapes.
7. and so the grass doesn’t look too plain, I add random dots of color and pretend it’s flowers and stuff.
and there you have it, this is how I approach drawing grass.
turnnoffyourmind
areudirty
2087
prguitarman
tangentwithtanner
dailybridgerton
origamiaround
yousharknotpass
gummygunk
