summary: you find the shoebox of memories that xavier has kept of all your lives together.
★pairing: xavier x reader/MC
★wc: 1.3k
★content: fluff, emotional and really mushy. established relationship, reader is aware of past lives, nostalgia, talk of previous lives, in the moment proposal, very brief suggestive words. nickname for xavier: love. nickname for reader: starlight.
★a/n: I've had this idea for a while, and that trailer drop gave me the motivation to finally write it!
Silence isn't a foreign reaction when it comes to Xavier.
The man had always been quiet, aloof. Stoic with strangers, and it had taken you time to learn the subtle intonations of his voice, the shifts in his expression when he was happy or sad.
He'd slowly gotten better at portraying his emotions to you, just as you had learned to read him as well as his favorite books that lined the shelves of his apartment.
But when he walks into you sitting cross-legged on the floor of his bedroom, in the center of miscellaneous memorabilia, he's completely silent again, harder to read than he used to be.
"Sorry," is the first word from your mouth, setting down the folded paper in your hands.
Xavier stares at the pale blue paper, and the lavender colored paper ring it goes with, both sitting innocently in front of you.
There's a distant, hazy memory of folding them. A late afternoon, school uniforms, a wooden sword. A sweet smile that had always been for you, then and now. Butterflies in your stomach, heart racing in your chest. Promises in paper of never being apart.
Something that felt like yours, but not. A dream, or a vision. A promise of something that was supposed to come, or already had. The strangest rush of déjà vu you'd ever experienced.
Xavier's eyes glaze over, far away from here, and you rush out, "I just—I was looking for that photo album, and I didn't—I was curious, and I didn't think you'd mind. I'm so—"
"It's okay."
His voice eases you in an instant, and he carefully steps around each preserved physical memory until he's sinking down next to you. He lifts a folded note, handing it to you, and your heart skips a beat when you open it.
Words are scrawled back and forth along every inch of the lined page, along with doodles of shooting stars and flowers. You brush your thumb over the familiar scrawl of his letters, asking to meet up after class again, and then look towards the even more familiar handwriting.
"Was this…" You swallow, brows furrowed, still struggling with the surge of countless memories that swam through your mind now. "…me?"
"Yeah." His voice is soft, pensive, as he rests his chin on your shoulder. Reading over the innocent conversation passed between friends in the back of a classroom. "I kept stuff from the first time I met you. And the second. And now, too."
"I can tell," you murmur, glancing over the movie tickets from one of your first dates. Used hotpot coupons, pressed flowers, bookmarks he'd borrowed from you, leftover photobooth pictures.
"I'm sorry," he's the one to mumble it this time, and you try to look at him, but his face is buried against your neck, refusing to let you see. "I need you to know that I don't expect you to be anybody other than who you are now. I just…"
"I know, love," you whisper, carding your fingers through his hair.
For as long as he lived, and long it was, he never wanted to forget.
He never wanted to forget you.
You let him hide his expression against you until he's ready to show it, and you smile down at him when he lets you see his honesty, and his anxiety. Face flushed, eyes wide and uncertain, then fluttering closed when you press a kiss to his frown, easing all that tension away.
"Tell me about it?" you ask, any possible trepidation erased by hope, nostalgia you wanted to make your own as much as his. "About…me?"
You gravitate towards the faded charms that are tied together, two stars linked. His lashes flutter when you lift it, tears clinging to the ends when you smile at the plush fabric.
Turning back to him, your smile widens, thumb wiping away the tear that stubbornly escapes his eyes.
"About us?"
He blinks a few times, wiping his other eye, and reaches for the paper rings.
"The first time I met you, you were sweet, and shy, and saw me when nobody else did." He runs his thumb along the purple paper, tracing each crease in the folds. "I liked you so much, but we ran out of time."
He takes your hand in his.
"The second time, you were fierce, a force to be reckoned with, and fought me on everything." He smiles, a chuckle caught in his throat, as his fingers gently caress your ring finger. "I knew I was in love with you then. I knew I always had been. But I let you down. I'm sorry I let you down."
"And now?" you breathe out, meeting the question in his gaze with a nod.
"Now," he whispers, sliding the paper ring up onto your finger until it's nestled where it was always meant to be, "you're kind, and you're relentless, and I love you. You're the strongest person I know, and you feel like home, and the rest of my life. You're everything to me."
Xavier's forehead rests against yours, his nose nuzzling against yours. Then along your cheek, until his lips are pressed to your ear, so you don't miss a single word.
"I want our life in pictures that I can look at with you. I want our books sharing the same shelves. I want to grow a garden together. I want to go to sleep with you, to dream of you, and wake up to you."
He's holding you tighter and tighter, and you're giggling, burying your face against his neck when he keeps rambling.
"I want you to tell me my cooking is bad, and that I drive too fast, and that I snore a little sometimes. I want you to get mad at me and I want to make it better. I want to be a better person for you."
"Xavier—"
"I want to get a little jealous sometimes—"
"A little?"
"And I want to keep you in our bed for days until you can't walk—"
"Xavier!"
You're laughing, and he's laughing, and you pull back to cup his face in your hands. You see him now with no more masks, no cards kept against his chest. Just him, and you, and what sounds like…
"Xavier," you say again, slowly, watching his eyes widen when you ask, "are you proposing right now?"
The prettiest pink blooms across his cheeks, and his eyes dart away, then back again when you gently shake his face for his attention.
"I'll do it again. I'll do it better," he promises, and you laugh, a choked but happy sound. He looks back down at the paper ring on your hand, his blush spreading to his ears. "I'll get you a better one."
"I like this one," you stubbornly insist, and now he laughs, his body beginning to emit a golden glow that only grows brighter.
To make your point, you take his hand in yours, sliding the blue paper ring onto his finger until it fits just as snugly as the one on yours.
"I want all that too," you whisper, gazing up at him, and you hear his breath catch in his throat. "I want you when you laugh, and when you're pouty, and all jealous too. I want to kick you out of the kitchen when you make the smoke alarm go off again. I want to go grocery shopping with you, and hold hands on the subway after work, and do taxes together."
His nose wrinkles. "I hate taxes."
With a playful roll of your eyes, you kiss the pout right off his face again. He leans in for another when you pull back, and you melt into him, wrapped around each other for kiss after kiss.
"But I'll do them with you." Xavier rests his face against your neck again, your fingers running through his hair. "I'll do everything with you, my starlight. Always."
You smile, looking at the paper ring on your hand. Grateful for every version of you that you'd been, for every you that he's loved. That you found each other again, and get to be in love now.
"Always," you murmur, and hold him close.
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Warnings: non-mc!reader, hurt no comfort A/N: Idk how to write Caleb without angst heheh… I had ‘istillfeelthesame’ and ‘Start Over’ by 5SOS on repeat as I wrote this <33 Sometimes you want shit to work out but it doesn’t bc life is simply that way. AKA fic about how Caleb fucks up but it’s also kinda nuanced but shit doesn’t get worked out anyway bc #life
There hasn’t been a moment of peace since Caleb had arrived at your apartment. Though you both are physically at the same place, you both are worlds apart - this is a truth you’ve been denying for months. You’re finally realising that the truth has a way of catching up to you, one way or another.
He’s dressed in formal wear, the top two buttons of his dress shirt had already been left unbuttoned 40 minutes ago when he arrived in a frenzy. You’re dressed in contrast with your silk pyjamas, an outfit donned already for hours since you had thought it’d be a night in with Caleb. The night in was meant to be an opportunity to catch up with your lover after three long weeks apart, with even lesser meaningful texts and calls in between. The night in was intentional, you had tried to make the plan to be as easy and convenient as possible so that neither of you would have to worry about the logistics and preparations of a proper date outside.
Yet, you were the only one dressed for the occasion. Hell, if you had known that the night was gonna be spent fighting, perhaps you’d wear something even more appealing. Maybe the low-cut tank that Caleb loved on you, perhaps then, and only then, his attention would solely be on you.
But you stood there in your pyjamas and house slippers, the only colour on your face is the red on your nose as you fought the lump in your throat fiercely. Caleb wasn’t being mean, in fact, his voice was controlled and still ever-gentle. Yet ironically, he was still being mean.
He’d been mean the moment he came in with his tie half done, instead of his grey sweatpants and tank that he’d usually wear when he was going to stay the night. This smart attire he had on when he came in two hours later than he had promised — one that you usually would tear off anyway because it always fit him just right — was warning that there was nothing easy to happen tonight.
“Baby, I’m sorry. I know, baby, I kno—“ Caleb tries apologising for the nth time, pleading and guilt evident in his voice as his hands try reaching out to you again. You’re trying your best to not let your voice break as you cut him off, because you’re angry and you want that loud and clear, more so than you want him to know that he’s hurt you again. Feeling sad and hurt oddly also feels synonymous to feeling pathetic, and as someone who tries to mimic as iron clad grip on whatever’s left of her dignity, you play a facade of angry.
“It’s one night, Caleb! One night out of practically a month since I last saw you! And you couldn’t even spare me that.” You tried your very best, but your strongest efforts couldn’t even stop the break in your voice. “She calls you and immediately that’s the most urgent thing in the world for you.”
You get the gist of the story (his excuse) — the childhood best friend turned wondrous hunter of his had a favour to ask of him and his Colonel privileges. Hence, instead of clocking out when he was supposed to, he’d left work hours later to help whatever he could. As a result, he’d shown up to your place late and grossly overdressed.
You almost feel silly now, alike to a broken recorder. Because as he opens his mouth again, without a doubt trying to find a bridge between asking for your forgiveness and getting you to understand why exactly he had to do it, you feel the urge to ask him for the nth time: Why is she more important to you than I am?
Which you know, anyway, that he’ll deny. You won’t and don’t buy it.
It’s a cycle that you have tried to cut both yourself and Caleb from but the past months have proven to no avail. You feel the sadness and hurt bubbling up even further as the questions beg to escape from your mouth.
But beyond, sad, pathetic, hurt and anger? You feel exhausted.
His pleading voice, his guilt ridden eyes that are trying to meet yours, his desperate hands cupping your jaw, they all slowly quieten down to boil down to a single phrase in your head: I’m done.
The words that leave you next are not exactly the same, and they might even be worse. With a shake of your head, you take a step back, hands pushing Caleb away ever so gently, “We’re done.”
“W-What? Baby, no, what do you mean? We’re not, c’mon. Baby, let’s talk about this.” Caleb is spiralling, because yes, while this is a familiar dance you’ve both shared many times before, the waltz always ends in love-sick kisses and “never again” whispered in between your thighs. Never, this.
Truth is, Caleb is in love with you. That has never been a doubt he ever had. If it ever came down to it, he’d lay himself bare to and for you. Unfortunately, he is a man of many complexities. While he knows confidently that he is not in love with MC, he is thoroughly bonded to her in a way he wishes he isn’t. The two grew up together and survived many traumatic experiences together, and while he can try his best to explain this to you, until you’ve been caged in the laboratory like he and MC were, you’d simply not get it. He understands how it looks sometimes, and wishes desperately things were different but he’s also long dreadfully accepted his fate that he’d made a home on the bad luck of things.
Being in a relationship with you had always felt to be too good to be true. Caleb had always felt like an impending doom was due to come. You were too good, too beautiful, absolutely everything he had wished and cried for. It’d only be so long until this explodes into a doom, too. If only he’d realise sooner it was by his own hands.
He shakes his head, lips trembling as desperate hands try to reach out to you again. “We can work this out, I promise. Baby, please. I’m sorry — I.. I can change, please. You love me, right?”
“Of course I love you, Caleb. I am so in love with you, that’s the reason this hurts so much.”
You can no longer hold back the tears. “I love you so much as a person, Caleb. But I don’t like who you are as a partner.” Caleb swears he feels his heart drop into his stomach, and his jaw mirrors the emotion, his mouth agape as he listens to you. He realises he’s ran out of words. Respectable and admired as the colonel, dependable as a friend, unlikeable as a partner.
“I don’t like how this relationship makes me feel anymore. I feel insecure, and anxious. When you take hours to reply, I’m imagining you fucking and falling in love with her.” You almost choke on your words, the same words you feel so ashamed by. “And I’m not usually someone who feels that way. But your absence in this relationship, your presence in her life, it hurts me.” With a deep breath, as if to make it count, you say, “You make me feel so sad.”
Caleb feels like he doesn’t deserve to live. You’re slipping from his fingers and he knows that he’s the only one to blame. He thought he’d been able to juggle all the different roles in his life, but now realising that he simply cannot. For he is Caleb, and his life has been forged into misery. Who is there to blame, anyway? MC? EVER?
Caleb tries very hard to figure it out, but all roads simply lead back to himself.
The two of you stay silent for a very long moment, the only sounds the both of you hear are the sniffles and the sound of Caleb attempting to speak, but closing his mouth soon after.
At this point, both of you know there is nothing else to say. Tonight becomes the night you both discover the depth of your love for you. It looks very different for each of you, though.
You mistake Caleb’s silence for giving up. He’s not defeated - his limbs are begging him to crawl to you and beg. His heart begs his mind to cut ties with MC even, if that meant you would stay. Dedicate the rest of his life to you.
But, he’s well aware that his hands are tied and neither are things he can do without someone else getting hurt. He feels alike to a monster carelessly wielding a knife, no matter what he does, someone gets hurt.
If walking away tonight means that the knife stops pointing in your direction, he’ll gladly do so. So, he stays silent. Doesn’t fight for you because he believes he cannot give what you deserve, but doesn’t say anything in agreement either because he physically cannot bring himself to say it. If he opens his mouth, it’d only be the bile at the back of his throat that has already crept up from the hurt in his chest.
So, you break the silence.
“Leave your keys to my apartment on the table, please. Goodnight, Caleb.”
Warnings: non-mc!reader, hurt no comfort A/N: Idk how to write Caleb without angst heheh… I had ‘istillfeelthesame’ and ‘Start Over’ by 5SOS on repeat as I wrote this <33 Sometimes you want shit to work out but it doesn’t bc life is simply that way. AKA fic about how Caleb fucks up but it’s also kinda nuanced but shit doesn’t get worked out anyway bc #life
There hasn’t been a moment of peace since Caleb had arrived at your apartment. Though you both are physically at the same place, you both are worlds apart - this is a truth you’ve been denying for months. You’re finally realising that the truth has a way of catching up to you, one way or another.
He’s dressed in formal wear, the top two buttons of his dress shirt had already been left unbuttoned 40 minutes ago when he arrived in a frenzy. You’re dressed in contrast with your silk pyjamas, an outfit donned already for hours since you had thought it’d be a night in with Caleb. The night in was meant to be an opportunity to catch up with your lover after three long weeks apart, with even lesser meaningful texts and calls in between. The night in was intentional, you had tried to make the plan to be as easy and convenient as possible so that neither of you would have to worry about the logistics and preparations of a proper date outside.
Yet, you were the only one dressed for the occasion. Hell, if you had known that the night was gonna be spent fighting, perhaps you’d wear something even more appealing. Maybe the low-cut tank that Caleb loved on you, perhaps then, and only then, his attention would solely be on you.
But you stood there in your pyjamas and house slippers, the only colour on your face is the red on your nose as you fought the lump in your throat fiercely. Caleb wasn’t being mean, in fact, his voice was controlled and still ever-gentle. Yet ironically, he was still being mean.
He’d been mean the moment he came in with his tie half done, instead of his grey sweatpants and tank that he’d usually wear when he was going to stay the night. This smart attire he had on when he came in two hours later than he had promised — one that you usually would tear off anyway because it always fit him just right — was warning that there was nothing easy to happen tonight.
“Baby, I’m sorry. I know, baby, I kno—“ Caleb tries apologising for the nth time, pleading and guilt evident in his voice as his hands try reaching out to you again. You’re trying your best to not let your voice break as you cut him off, because you’re angry and you want that loud and clear, more so than you want him to know that he’s hurt you again. Feeling sad and hurt oddly also feels synonymous to feeling pathetic, and as someone who tries to mimic as iron clad grip on whatever’s left of her dignity, you play a facade of angry.
“It’s one night, Caleb! One night out of practically a month since I last saw you! And you couldn’t even spare me that.” You tried your very best, but your strongest efforts couldn’t even stop the break in your voice. “She calls you and immediately that’s the most urgent thing in the world for you.”
You get the gist of the story (his excuse) — the childhood best friend turned wondrous hunter of his had a favour to ask of him and his Colonel privileges. Hence, instead of clocking out when he was supposed to, he’d left work hours later to help whatever he could. As a result, he’d shown up to your place late and grossly overdressed.
You almost feel silly now, alike to a broken recorder. Because as he opens his mouth again, without a doubt trying to find a bridge between asking for your forgiveness and getting you to understand why exactly he had to do it, you feel the urge to ask him for the nth time: Why is she more important to you than I am?
Which you know, anyway, that he’ll deny. You won’t and don’t buy it.
It’s a cycle that you have tried to cut both yourself and Caleb from but the past months have proven to no avail. You feel the sadness and hurt bubbling up even further as the questions beg to escape from your mouth.
But beyond, sad, pathetic, hurt and anger? You feel exhausted.
His pleading voice, his guilt ridden eyes that are trying to meet yours, his desperate hands cupping your jaw, they all slowly quieten down to boil down to a single phrase in your head: I’m done.
The words that leave you next are not exactly the same, and they might even be worse. With a shake of your head, you take a step back, hands pushing Caleb away ever so gently, “We’re done.”
“W-What? Baby, no, what do you mean? We’re not, c’mon. Baby, let’s talk about this.” Caleb is spiralling, because yes, while this is a familiar dance you’ve both shared many times before, the waltz always ends in love-sick kisses and “never again” whispered in between your thighs. Never, this.
Truth is, Caleb is in love with you. That has never been a doubt he ever had. If it ever came down to it, he’d lay himself bare to and for you. Unfortunately, he is a man of many complexities. While he knows confidently that he is not in love with MC, he is thoroughly bonded to her in a way he wishes he isn’t. The two grew up together and survived many traumatic experiences together, and while he can try his best to explain this to you, until you’ve been caged in the laboratory like he and MC were, you’d simply not get it. He understands how it looks sometimes, and wishes desperately things were different but he’s also long dreadfully accepted his fate that he’d made a home on the bad luck of things.
Being in a relationship with you had always felt to be too good to be true. Caleb had always felt like an impending doom was due to come. You were too good, too beautiful, absolutely everything he had wished and cried for. It’d only be so long until this explodes into a doom, too. If only he’d realise sooner it was by his own hands.
He shakes his head, lips trembling as desperate hands try to reach out to you again. “We can work this out, I promise. Baby, please. I’m sorry — I.. I can change, please. You love me, right?”
“Of course I love you, Caleb. I am so in love with you, that’s the reason this hurts so much.”
You can no longer hold back the tears. “I love you so much as a person, Caleb. But I don’t like who you are as a partner.” Caleb swears he feels his heart drop into his stomach, and his jaw mirrors the emotion, his mouth agape as he listens to you. He realises he’s ran out of words. Respectable and admired as the colonel, dependable as a friend, unlikeable as a partner.
“I don’t like how this relationship makes me feel anymore. I feel insecure, and anxious. When you take hours to reply, I’m imagining you fucking and falling in love with her.” You almost choke on your words, the same words you feel so ashamed by. “And I’m not usually someone who feels that way. But your absence in this relationship, your presence in her life, it hurts me.” With a deep breath, as if to make it count, you say, “You make me feel so sad.”
Caleb feels like he doesn’t deserve to live. You’re slipping from his fingers and he knows that he’s the only one to blame. He thought he’d been able to juggle all the different roles in his life, but now realising that he simply cannot. For he is Caleb, and his life has been forged into misery. Who is there to blame, anyway? MC? EVER?
Caleb tries very hard to figure it out, but all roads simply lead back to himself.
The two of you stay silent for a very long moment, the only sounds the both of you hear are the sniffles and the sound of Caleb attempting to speak, but closing his mouth soon after.
At this point, both of you know there is nothing else to say. Tonight becomes the night you both discover the depth of your love for you. It looks very different for each of you, though.
You mistake Caleb’s silence for giving up. He’s not defeated - his limbs are begging him to crawl to you and beg. His heart begs his mind to cut ties with MC even, if that meant you would stay. Dedicate the rest of his life to you.
But, he’s well aware that his hands are tied and neither are things he can do without someone else getting hurt. He feels alike to a monster carelessly wielding a knife, no matter what he does, someone gets hurt.
If walking away tonight means that the knife stops pointing in your direction, he’ll gladly do so. So, he stays silent. Doesn’t fight for you because he believes he cannot give what you deserve, but doesn’t say anything in agreement either because he physically cannot bring himself to say it. If he opens his mouth, it’d only be the bile at the back of his throat that has already crept up from the hurt in his chest.
So, you break the silence.
“Leave your keys to my apartment on the table, please. Goodnight, Caleb.”
synopsis: it was just supposed to be a routine mission. but when things start to go wrong and time starts slipping through his fingers, gojo realizes a little too late he might lose you too.
pairing: astronaut!gojo x f!reader x teacher!choso
wc: 14.8k
content: mdni. HEAVY ANGST. smut. character death. inspired by interstellar, time dilation, sad ending, hurt no comfort, unprotected piv sex, teasing, kissing, gojo is so incredibly in love and obsessed with reader, accidental pregnancy, twins, pining, yearning, complicated emotions, misunderstandings, choso is also a lovesick puppy dog, video messages, gojo cries and throws up, moving on, absolutely sadness and despair
art is by @to00fu !! div by @tsumiinum !! this was an incredible commission to write for @dayanim <333
“You’re literally the prettiest girl on the planet.”
You giggled, your mouth curving up into a painfully cute smile as his palms spread your soft thighs further apart. Perfect face tilting to the side as you arched an eyebrow, “Just this planet?”
“All of them,” he easily chuckled, pressing a peck to the inside of your exposed thigh, admiring the expanse of your bare skin, completely naked in his sheets. Sprawled out like his favorite feast, waiting for him to devour.
If he could, he’d swallow you whole and take you with him to space.
Pack you up and bring you with him.
But unfortunately, NASA probably wouldn’t approve of him stowing you away on his final official mission before he moved to a different position.
“I don’t want you to go,” you pouted at him, running your fingers through your hair as he returned to dotting more kisses up to your hips, down to just below your belly button, trying to memorize the way your skin felt on his lips.
“I know,” he sighed, struggling to justify why he was going to you when he could hardly convince himself these days. “It’s just six months.”
A routine mission.
It was far from his first. He knew how it would play out. Shoko and Suguru would join him on the crew, so at least the time wouldn’t totally drag by. He hadn’t planned to join, but with what they promised to pay for it, it was sorta hard to refuse. Especially when he was still saving for a wedding and a house down payment.
Still, considering the fact that he’d only just gotten back from one less than a year ago, he knew that it wasn’t just him it was hard on.
“It feels like forever,” you complained, a crease between your brow as your hand shifted to cup his cheek, lift his face up to look at you. The cool band of your engagement ring resting on his skin reminding him of the promise he made to you when he popped the question. That he’d give up exploring the reset of the universe if you’d be his wife. “I’m so tired of missing you.”
“Baby,” he frowned, heart slamming into his rib cage at the disappointment he detected in the lines of your face.
He didn’t want to do this to you. Didn’t want to be the guy that wasn’t there for you.
But this was all just temporary. Soon he’d have secured a future where you could both permanently settle in a beautiful little house with a big yard for mini-yous and mini-hims to run and play.
Climbing back on top of you properly as you huffed at him, caging you in underneath his muscled arms, not stopping until your bodies were connected, skin-on-skin, his forehead resting on yours as your eyes met his.
“Don’t baby me,” you defensively murmured.
“But you’re my baby,” he pouted back at you. Your body shivered a little, thighs pressing together before he used his knee to nudge them further apart. “And you’re gonna be my wife when I get back.”
He liked the ring of it.
His wife.
All his.
He proposed to you the day he got back from his last mission. Maybe he should make it a tradition and marry you the day he returned this time.
Skip the whole big wedding he talked you into the past few months in favor of a courthouse ceremony. Maybe drag Suguru back after the landing to be the witness.
You made a face, nose scrunching up and lips parting like there was something you wanted to say, but you stopped yourself.
“This is my last mission,” he reminded you, a weak attempt at reassurance as his thick cock rubbed against your clit. Your breath hitched, getting caught in your throat as he dragged it over the sensitive bud.
“You said that about the last one,” you reminded him, and he didn’t have an argument to counter it.
“Well, I mean it this time,” he muttered softly. He wasn’t particularly good at being soothing. Spectacularly bad, sometimes, actually. But you still stayed.
Still smiled at him when he sucked at being what you needed.
The moon hung heavy outside the window, a thick crack running across the glass pane as the night sky filtered through it and bathed the room in soft light. The apartment you shared wasn’t much, pretty shitty honestly, but it was just a stepping stone. A way to save money for when you’d really need it.
Soon, you’d have the best.
“Besides, I can’t leave again once you start having my babies,” he teased, moving a hand down to your stomach, feeling your soft skin. Dreaming of a future where you’d be waddling around his kitchen pregnant, trying to decide if he’d prefer a boy or a girl – only to land on wanting both.
“So you’ll be here for them and not for me?” You huffed.
“I just want to make sure I make a good life for all of you,” he replied, struggling to sound confident when you were looking at him with a faint hint of hurt shining in your eyes.
You wanted to believe him.
“Uh-huh,” you exhaled.
He supposed he’d just have to remind you another way that you had his heart. That even if he left the planet for a few months, he’d always have to return back to you.
His home.
Your thighs opened up for him, letting him shut up all those awful thoughts with a kiss as he pushed the first few inches inside your pretty pussy. Felt you sucking him in, losing himself in your warmth as he pushed past that first ring of resistance. Filling you up until you were stuffed full, your head tilting back, lips parting in his favorite moan — his name falling from them in broken little gasps.
“Satoru,” you whined, wiggling under his weight as he leaned down to start trailing kisses across your jaw. Down the delicate skin of your throat, sucking greedily just to see what other sounds he could draw from you.
“Mhm, sweetheart?” He hummed, pausing to drag his tongue over all the sore spots he’d left, tempted to sink his teeth back over them, to leave little bruises just so you’d have to keep thinking about him even when he was planets away.
“I don’t want you to go,” you huffed, forcing the words out between little whimpers, your body shivering as his cock slowly thrusted in and out, deliberately taking his time to stretch you out. He hesitated mid-pump, lips still pressed just above your collarbone as he tried to come up with something that would make it better.
“I don’t want to either,” Gojo softly admitted, kissing you again as if it would cure the ache in his heart or the one in yours.
There was a moment of silence, seconds slipping by with tension that wouldn’t dissolve, and he wasn’t sure if he should keep thrusting or pull out.
But then your hips shifted, and his cock twitched, and he was already readjusting, palms moving to push your soft thighs against your chest with his cock still keeping you plugged up.
And really, you couldn’t blame him for how pretty you looked in a mating press.
Fucking you faster, the wooden bed frame creaking and bumping into the wall with every rough thrust, each harsh snap of his hips against your skin as he plunged his cock in and out, in and out.
Watching your face screw up in pleasure, lashes fluttering and nails scrambling for purchase in the sheets as his thumbs dug into your thighs. Holding onto you, keeping you firmly pinned between him and the bed, like he could imprint every ridge and vein inside you, supposing he’d just have to be satisfied with leaving the shape of both of you on the mattress.
“I love you so goddamn much,” he murmured, chest constricting, heart racing as the pressure built and mounted in the pit of his stomach. Some invisible thread being pulled tighter, or maybe it was just himself, wrapped around your finger without you even realizing it.
Ready to break just thinking about not getting to hear your voice every day, not getting to touch your skin, like he wasn’t still buried inside you.
“I love you too,” you whispered back, your voice quivering as you looked up at him with glossy eyes.
He kissed you hard, teeth nearly bumping into each other as his tongue slipped past your lips. Tracing over your canines, tasting the hint of toothpaste on your tongue. The remnants of the candy-flavored lip gloss you’d been wearing earlier too.
You were returning his fervor, squeezing down on his cock like you were trying to suck him dry like he wasn’t already struggling not to cum.
He had to hurry to shift his hand, fingers rushing to find your clit, rubbing rough circles over it just to swallow every cute moan of yours that tried to escape. Cock twitching and aching for relief that he refused to give it, keeping an iron grip on his restraint as he waited for that familiar tremble, for you to really clamp down on him as shudders wracked through your body.
Until you were crying his name in his mouth, whimpers muffled as he soothed you through your climax, rolling that sensitive bud between his thick fingers, only breaking the kiss to purr in your ears that it was all going to be okay.
“That’s it, baby. Just cum for me, okay? It’s gonna be fine,” he promised, his voice cracking on the final word as he came with you. Finishing with warm spurts of cum filling you up, each thrust pumping more into you as he groaned your name, head collapsing into the crook of your collarbone.
Sweat making your skin stick to his, your breathing mixing together as you both came back down to earth from your high.
“Fuck,” you murmured, trying to shift underneath him, roll out from his heavy body.
But he refused to budge, burying his face deeper into your neck just to smell your soap and shampoo, nuzzling his nose against your neck.
He didn’t want to let go.
And for a second, part of him considered cancelling. Backing out of the mission, coming up with an excuse or calling out sick. They had back up astronauts.
They had a few people, perhaps not as qualified as him, but still acceptable, on standby that could take his spot.
He might get fired. Shoved back to some bottom-tier desk position.
But he’d get to stay with you.
Would get to spend the next six months sleeping like this instead of alone in a spaceship compartment.
“Satoru,” you softly said his name, shifting as he finally released your thighs, letting you lay them back down more comfortably – but still kept you caged in.
“Can’t I just lay here for a while longer?” He groaned, jaw tightening at the idea that this was the last night he’d get this. You.
Cock still twitching as the last of his cum leaked out, some of it starting to spill down your thighs as he refused to take it out.
You ran your fingers through his hair, scratching a spot behind his ears, sifting through the silky strands with a long sigh. “Sure.”
That was just who you were.
What you’d do.
You gave him what he wanted.
Even when you didn’t like what he asked for.
“I’m sorry,” he muttered.
“Don’t be sorry,” you replied gently. “Just be sure you’re coming home.”
“The stars can’t keep me from you,” he promised, moving to leave another kiss on the tip of your nose as you rolled your eyes at him.
But you giggled, and that was good enough.
“Let’s get married when I get back,” he suggested.
“We already-”
“Like, the same day, sweetheart,” he insisted, lips curling up in a smile as he snagged your left hand, bringing it to his lips so he could press a kiss to your engagement ring. The big diamond glittering in the moonlight, accented with small gemstones that same shade as his eyes set in a white-gold band. One you picked out with him once upon a time.
“You’re ridiculous,” you laughed, shaking your head like you weren’t grinning at the idea too. “Didn’t you want, like, the whole huge wedding?”
“I just want you.”
Gojo could make it six months if it meant you’d be waiting there for him when he got back.
He just didn’t think everything would go to fucking shit in sixteen weeks.
Clinging to the same dream of you, the same memory his brain had chosen for comfort as he opened his eyes for another difficult day in a long line of them.
Waking up to a window that only overlooked the cold, dark expanse of space instead of the familiar city. Missing your warmth in bed – trading it for a sleeping bag and a stiff compartment that they somehow still hadn’t figured out a better alternative for despite how advanced their rocketships had become.
Sure, they could figure out how to simulate gravity inside the living areas now. But no, getting a good night’s rest was still impossible.
They were only supposed to be running a supply drop off. Sending equipment to a planet a few other astronauts were previously sent to, one they’d recently started establishing a settlement on. Shoko was planning on staying behind there to be their medic – but he was supposed to return with Suguru.
It wasn’t the only habitable planet that had been discovered. There were a few, all being explored, data being collected and catalogued by various astronauts like themselves, sent back periodically and retrieved by relief missions like the one they were on.
All just a galaxy away.
It meant going through a wormhole to get to them, but according to all the calculations and the previous voyages, it was safe.
Risky, sure, but it’d been done before.
And to be fair, getting through it hadn’t been the problem.
The problem was they were just outside the orbit of the wrong fucking planet.
Whether one of them had bumped into the navigation system, inputted the wrong thing at the wrong time, or maybe some internal error was to blame, it didn’t matter.
No, a more pressing issue had presented itself.
A distress signal was being sent up.
Someone was below – and begging to be rescued.
“I have a bad feeling about it,” Suguru murmured, scowling at the screen as if he could make the message go away just by glaring at it.
“You always have a bad feeling,” Shoko hummed, dark circles under his eyes as she scanned the data on her screen.
“I think we should just continue to the correct planet. It’ll be a waste of fuel and time,” Suguru scoffed, ignoring her as his fingers flew across the keyboard, inputting either calculations or coordinates.
Satoru reclined back in his seat, fiddling with a pencil as his friend glanced up at him like he was looking for support here.
“Aren’t you supposed to be the one who wants to save people?” He asked, cocking his head to the side just to get a scoff. He’d known Suguru most of his life. Went to school together, graduated from the same program just to end up colleagues too. Between both of them, Suguru was always the altruistic one. The guy who thought of everyone else before himself – even if he was looking down at them from his moral high ground half the time.
“Not if it means putting our mission at risk,” he argued, lips pressed together in a thin line. “Or us.”
“The last reported conditions there seem fine,” Shoko shrugged as she directed their attention back to what little data had been collected so far.
Most of the planet was made of water, a massive sea dotted with a handful of islands, some mountain ranges that rivaled the highest peaks back on Earth. Two fellow astronauts were supposed to have been there for the last nine months.
“You really want to just leave them?” Gojo asked, not sure how exactly to feel about it himself. Not wanting to totally throw away Suguru’s hesitation – but reluctant to just leave another astronaut stranded.
“There are other people counting on us,” Suguru insisted, and Satoru knew he was right. Knew that you were counting on him to come back in one piece. “We can just send a message back to Earth and let them decide.”
Suguru knew as well as he did that doing that would most likely mean death to whoever was sending the distress signal.
It would probably be months before they sent another ship up.
And given that they didn’t have the data to know how fast or slow time passed below. No way to know when the signal they were receiving had started.
There was a heavy pause, all three of them weighing whether or not to take the gamble — and imagining what it’d feel like to be the one stuck on the planet praying for someone to come save them.
“I think we should check it out,” Satoru eventually spoke up, although he wasn’t exactly excited about it.
He just wasn’t sure he could stomach the alternative. If he could handle coming back home to you and telling you the truth.
Risk you leaving him like they were about to leave the stranded astronauts.
“The extra data they have would be useful,” Shoko pointed out, tilting her head appraisingly. “If we needed to, we could bring them back to the other settlement.”
“Two minutes,” Suguru begrudgingly gave in, irritation pricking in his voice as he stood up, rubbing his temple. “We shouldn’t spend more than ten on the surface when we don’t know how much time we could lose. Get there, see what’s salvage, get the fuck out.”
Whether it was data or people, they’d just take what they could and leave.
There was a chance that the relative time on the planet was off. That even just an hour on the planet could be the equivalent to a year back on Earth.
“Yeah, agreed,” Satoru waved him off, watching him walk off, probably to start preparations for landing.
He told himself it was the right thing to do.
That it was what you would expect from him.
He stood up too, walking around to one of the communication terminals they set up – where they could send and receive messages.
You’d sent a couple videos, unofficial ones, of course, something he arranged in advance when he agreed to join the mission – that he’d be able to contact you and you’d be able to do the same. They were short, just a few minutes of you updating him on life back on Earth. How you were doing, how wedding planning was going, murmuring that you missed him in a soft voice before leaning in to kiss the camera.
But a new one was waiting for him as he popped his headphones in to listen, leg bouncing nervously as it loaded, automatically smiling when your face popped up.
“Hi, Satoru,” you greeted, but then you awkwardly looked down, fiddling with your fingers out of frame like you were shy all of a sudden. Biting your bottom lip, the skin there already broken like you’d been busy chewing it.
He wanted to touch the screen.
Caress your cheek and ask you what was wrong.
“I, um, was gonna wait until you came back. But, uh, I don’t think I can keep it a secret that long,” you breathed, eyes glancing up at the camera like you were imagining him on the other side of it.
And then you were picking something up, holding it out in front of you as the camera refocused and-
Holy shit.
“Surprise,” you excitedly called out from behind the tiny onesie in your hand. “You’re going to be a father.”
A baby.
He was going to be a father.
His brain stopped working. Shock freezing him in place as you peeked out from behind the onesie like you could see his reaction. Pride glimmered in your eyes as you grinned, his entire world sitting in front of him a galaxy away. His future wife and child just waiting for him to return.
“I wanted it to be a surprise, but it’s been so hard holding it in,” you continued, and he craved you even more than he had in the past few months combined. Dying to pick you up and press kiss after kiss to your lips, your cheeks, your stomach.
Aching to wrap his arms around you and start talking about baby names and nurseries, to take you out shopping for baby furniture and be there for your appointments.
“There’s something else,” you said, reluctance creeping in. Glancing down at your lap again before pulling up a second onesie.
No. You surely didn’t mean…?
“I’m having twins,” you announced, a little awkward like you started second guessing how he’d take it. “Are you surprised?”
It didn’t take his brain long to calculate the fucking odds of that, but his mind had a hard time accepting it, discomfort coiling in and mixing with the exhilaration in his stomach at the idea of you back in bed, carrying his babies, while he was up in fucking space.
Unable to be there for you. To rub the lotion on your stomach, to sing terrible impressions of lullabies to them, to drive you to the doctor and hold your hand throughout all of it.
You didn’t seem too bothered, or maybe just too excited to show it, holding up the ultrasounds next, proudly showing him baby A and baby B, talking about how you should find out their genders in just a couple weeks.
“You better be back before I have these two,” you murmured into the camera, fixing him in a serious stare, your eyes shining in the fading daylight drifting in through your window. “Don’t make me go to the hospital alone.”
Never.
He’d fucking be there.
“I love you, Toru,” you spoke softer, hesitating over actually hitting the button to stop recording. “Please don’t do anything stupid.”
He’d already done something stupid by saying yes to coming here, hadn’t he?
Still, he plastered on his best smile, sitting awkwardly in front of his own camera, recording you a message back. Making you a million promises, telling you how proud he was of you, how thrilled he was to be a dad. Selling you dreams of a life he was desperately trying to buy for your future family of four.
“We’re, uh, about to go down to a planet to check out a distress signal, but, it’ll be fine, baby,” he informed you, hearing how stiff the words came out as he forced his palm to press down on his thigh to stop his leg from bouncing. “It’ll just be a quick pitstop before the supply drop, promise.”
He paused, having to clear his throat, his tongue suddenly dry as he made himself look directly into the camera.
“I’ll come back for you.”
Gojo didn’t want to admit Suguru might be right when he had to sit with the heavy feeling in his stomach after he shut the camera off and sent the message back – knowing it would probably be a couple days before you saw it.
But it would be fine, wouldn’t it?
In a year, he’d be waking up in bed with you, laughing about how worried he’d been while you each held one of your babies. This would just be a memory.
He wasn’t sure how long he sat there. Staring at the screen long after it shut off, replaying your voice in his head, itching to really hear it, to feel it on his skin, to touch you instead of just clinging to a digital copy of you.
“You ready?” Suguru’s voice called out to him, and he snapped out of his daze.
Found his mouth opening, about to say no.
Tell him he changed his mind. Say he was wrong and that they should just save their fuel.
But if you knew, if they knew, that he’d left someone to die just to come home to them sooner, would they look at him the same way?
Would he be able to look his children in the eyes?
He swallowed hard as he glanced towards the doorframe Suguru was standing in, slowly nodding instead of saying what he really wanted to. “Yeah.”
Gojo wanted to believe that between their three-person crew, they’d be able to handle it.
He just hadn’t realized that only two of them would make it back to the ship.
𖥔 ݁ ˖
“You should move on.”
It didn’t matter how many people said it. How many times your therapist pleaded with you to put the past behind you.
You couldn’t let go of him.
Six months turned into six years without Satoru.
The one thing you were terrified of had come true.
You lost him.
Didn’t even have the fucking confirmation of his death. Just a gravestone with an empty casket, a plot picked out for you next to it — even if you’d never get to be buried by him.
Wasn’t that the funny thing about taking risks?
You always know what could happen. You just never think it will happen to you.
It’s always someone else.
Until it’s not.
Until you’re the one waiting for a phone call you’ll never get or a knock on the door that will never come.
“It’s not exactly like men are lining up to date me,” you muttered into the phone, tucking it between your ear and shoulder as you frowned at your reflection in the mirror, reaching up to fix a stray hair just for your still-shiny engagement ring to shimmer in the sunlight. Swallowing the lump in your throat before you turned away, nearly tripping on a toy. “With the twins-”
“Guys like MILFs,” your friend teased in your ear, and you had to stop yourself from rolling your eyes as you bent over to pick up the stuffed bunny and toss it in an overflowing toy basket.
You doubted they’d like one still in love with their babies’ father.
Still holding out hope he’d show up with that stupid smile and wrap you in a crushing hug.
Even if the rest of the world thought he was dead.
When the government had declared his ship missing and him deceased. Cut you a check for it even though you weren’t technically Satoru’s spouse yet since you had his babies. A little boy that could be his clone and a girl that looked a little too much like you.
Their check had been enough to get you out of your crummy apartment, to move the three of you in a small house in a quiet neighborhood.
Suguru’s mother had ended up moving next door, offering to babysit and watch them during the day so you didn’t have to send them to daycare. Helping you raise your children while her child was still out there in space somewhere.
She didn’t talk about Suguru with you. And you never spoke of Satoru.
But you knew she understood anyway. Coped with it the same way you did. Skirting around their existence like it would lessen the hurt.
“I know a guy who-” Your friend started, and your stomach lurched at the thought of being set up with someone who couldn’t come close to the man you were supposed to marry.
“Look, I’ve, uh, gotta go get the kids. Their teacher wanted to discuss Apollo’s behavior. I guess he bit someone,” you muttered, heels clicking as you slung your purse over your shoulder and snagged your keys.
She was disappointed, mumbling a goodbye that you tuned out, hitting end and dropping your phone in your bag with a sigh.
You wondered what Satoru would’ve thought of it.
If he would’ve laughed at his son picking fights at school or if there was a stern side to him buried somewhere beneath his goofy grins and cheesy jokes.
You tried to pick out names he’d like. Even if sometimes it stung a little to think about.
Apollo and Artemis.
After the space missions. He’d think it was cute. Probably dress them up like little astronauts and kiss their foreheads, promising that he loved them way more than just to the moon and back. Paint stars on their ceiling and hang planets up on strings in their nursery.
To be fair, you had done it in his place.
Worn one of his old t-shirts as you bit your lip and bent over your swollen belly to get all the corners, carefully standing on a ladder to hang everything on the ceiling, standing in a nursery full of furniture you built yourself a month after his return date came and went.
The last thing you heard from him was a video message where he promised he’d come back. If you shut your eyes, you could still see that look on his face, the flicker of nervousness that flashed across it as his mouth curled down into a frown before he admitted that they were about to go check out a distress call.
And then nothing.
NASA never told you if they had any additional information on it. But the conclusion they came to was obvious.
Their mission was a failure. And your husband was forever missing.
Somewhere you’d never be able to reach.
You snapped on the twins' first birthday. You hadn’t even managed to bring yourself to throw them a party when Satoru wasn’t there to take the photos, to pick them up and blow out the candles for them.
Carrying them next door to Suguru’s mom’s place, asking for her to watch them for a few hours just to come back home and rip down every stupid space-themed piece of decor you’d once painstakingly picked out. Throwing them all in a big, black trash bag before running out to the store to grab tarps and more paint.
You didn’t stop until the entire room was drenched in shades of blue and green, alien toys traded in for sea animals.
At least the ocean was on Earth.
It wasn’t like they were old enough to understand.
But you couldn’t fucking stand the idea of losing them too.
You had kept both their convertible cribs in your room since the day you brought them home from the hospital, unable to sleep without them in the same room. The crippling fear that you’d some intruder would sneak in and snatch them if you weren’t right there to stop it didn’t actually go away until they were big enough to toddle and talk.
Now they were old enough to be in school, no longer babies, no longer toddlers, big enough to ramble on about what they learned every day, bicker over their toys and pick them back up before they went to bed.
And Satoru had missed all of it.
Every first they experienced tainted by the never-ending reminder that he wasn’t fucking here to see a single one.
And like an idiot, you just kept recording message after message, setting up a camera and trying not to cry as you recorded yourself talking about the twins, showing them off to someone who should’ve been by your side every step of the way. You still had a few contacts with his old colleague, one who promised he’d send them all up anyway.
Just in case Satoru was still out there in space. Still trying to come home to you.
There wasn’t a single day that passed yet where you didn’t think about it.
Him.
But it appeared your attempts to keep him alive, to teach your kids about their dad, weren’t going so well when you replayed the voicemail you’d been left an hour earlier requesting you come in for a meeting after school was over when you picked up the kids.
The soft voice on the other end apologetically explaining that Apollo had gotten in an argument with another kid to defend his sister, that no action was being taken, but that he’d still like to speak with you in person over it.
You stared at the brick building of the elementary school, readjusting your purse as you swiped away another message from your friend sending you contact details of a man you certainly were not going to contact, steeling yourself for an uncomfortable conversation as you walked through the door and went into the office to get a visitor’s pass before you started navigating through the halls to look for the twins’ class.
Suguru’s mom handled most of the pick ups for you, kept them at her place until you got back home from work in the evenings.
Your boss had been annoyed that you’d taken off early, but you had to put them first. You were the only parent they had.
You heard Artemis first. Her soft giggle twinkling as your steps picked up, her brother’s grumpy voice scolding her as you stopped just outside an open classroom door, pausing as you looked inside and saw sitting cross-legged on the floor with another boy who looked a couple years older, a bunch of toys dumped out between them on a carpet with the alphabet on it.
“Are you their sister? I thought their mom-” A low voice spoke up, your head snapping over to see a dark-haired man stepping out from behind a desk. Warm brown eyes scanning your face as you stiffly shook your head.
“I’m their mom,” you interrupted him, swallowing hard as you pushed your sunglasses back up in your hair before holding your hand out to shake.
His hand was surprisingly soft when he took it, gently shaking it a few seconds too long before awkwardly letting go.
“I’m Choso, their teacher,” he said, and you forced a small smile.
“I, uh, know,” you muttered, averting your stare back to where they were playing.
“Yuji’s my little brother,” he added, pointing out the boy playing with yours, plucking out a toy from the pile and handing it over.
You wondered if it would be awful to just ask him to go ahead and skip all the polite niceties, that you didn’t need them.
“Sorry for making assumptions,” he awkwardly apologized, his dark eyes dragging over you again. “You just looked like you’re around my age, and I guess I forget sometimes that it’s normal for us to have kids of our own now.”
You blinked at him, trying to decide what to make of his slightly nervous rambling just for his mouth to open again.
“I wasn’t trying to comment on your appearance or anything, I mean, you’re beautiful-” His lips abruptly shut, cheek flushing pink in a painfully familiar way.
Your chest hurt.
Ached at the thought that Satoru was no longer the last person to call you beautiful.
“Um, thanks,” you murmured, looking at your outfit a little self-consciously. Wondering if he was just saying that to make you feel better or if he really meant it. You didn’t think you looked terrible. But without Satoru around, you’d sorta forgotten what it felt like to look in the mirror and see something pretty when you were struggling to survive most days.
“I’m sorry,” he apologized, glancing down to the ring on your finger. Your throat started to close, palms getting clammy as he ran his fingers through his hair. “I didn’t realize you were married.”
“I’m not,” you answered, a little too quickly as you folded your arms across your chest. Putting your left hand underneath your other arm as if it would make you stop thinking about it. Him.
“Oh, um-”
“I was engaged to the twins’ dad,” you explained, watching them giggle and pretend to eat the plastic food with their new pink-haired friend. “But, uh, he passed before they were born.”
People usually asked too many questions if you told them the whole story.
“I’m sorry for your loss,” he apologized, face falling the way everyone else’s always did. Regret etched into the soft lines of his face, nose scrunching up as the tattoo across his nose crinkled. “I had no-”
“It’s fine,” you lied, waving it off like Satoru didn’t still cast shadows across your thoughts. “So, um, what happened with Apollo? Is he in trouble?”
“No, no, one of the other kids tried to take a toy from Artemis, and he stepped in to stop it. I actually wanted to speak to you about him having a hard time making friends outside of her,” Choso spoke softly, obviously trying hard to pick his words carefully. “I was thinking of recommending they get put in different classes next year to help them socialize.”
You bit the inside of your cheek.
Torn between immediately shutting the idea down and trying to argue against it before second guessing whether or not your parenting was actually just fostering codependence.
Satoru would know what to do.
But he wasn’t here.
And all the decisions were yours to make.
Artemis was the outgoing one, inherited her father’s personality even if she pretty much got your face. Bright and brilliant, easy charisma that shined even at her small size. Apollo was reserved. Serious.
Scowling if he wasn’t with his sister, grumbling at the world like he already realized how it screwed them over.
“They’re just five,” you muttered, glancing over at where they were still distracted with his brother.
“Well, I guess we can see if there are any changes throughout the rest of the school year. I, uh, coach a boys soccer team on the weekends. He’s welcome to join, if you’re interested,” he said, running his fingers through the ends of his hair.
You guessed if it meant your twins wouldn’t be split up in school, you’d sit on the sidelines to watch little kids try and fail to kick a ball across a field.
Not that he was that happy about it when you told him he’d have to spend his Saturday morning in a soccer uniform with kids he barely spoke to before instead of playing with his toys at home.
Choso grinned when you first showed up, one of those crooked ones that gave away his surprise when he saw you setting up fold-out chairs for you and Artemis. Even jogging over to tell you he was happy you came, squatting down to get on Apollo’s level to ask him if he knew how to play.
He didn’t.
To be fair, after watching a single game, it was clear none of the other kids did either.
Still, you left it with a schedule of practices and games stuffed in your purse, a couple of them circled and marked for your days to bring snacks and juice boxes for the team.
You told yourself that you were being an active parent.
Showing up to every single school event. Refusing to miss a single soccer game even when Apollo spent half of it plucking weeds from the field to give to you afterwards.
Taking him to play dates with his new soccer friends before taking Artemis to sleepover with her school friends, juggling their new social lives with your own work.
And somewhere along the way, you supposed you’d made a new friend in their teacher too.
He went out of his way to talk to you at every game, greeting you at their school stuff with a shy smile and considerate questions while he updated you on how they were doing.
The kids loved him, coming home chattering about what he planned and taught them during the day, complaining whenever he was out sick and they got stuck with a substitute.
Wasn’t it normal to like someone if they made your children happy?
Smile back when they spoke to you?
Find your thoughts lingering a little on their dark-haired teacher when your son excitedly exclaimed that Choso promised to be his soccer coach next year too, your stupid heart stalling for a second when Artemis casually dropped that he helped her make a mother’s day card for you as she stuck it to the fridge with a magnet.
You definitely didn’t pick them up from school yourself more often, swearing to Suguru’s mother that you were just trying to spend more time with them.
But eventually, the school year wrapped up.
You couldn’t really comprehend why some sliver of you was disappointed by that.
Still, you suspected that it wasn’t just because Satoru wasn’t here to see it.
A strange flutter in your stomach stirring watching Choso pass out printed graduation certificates to the class, plastering on a bright smile as Artemis proudly bounded over to show you hers. Toothily grinning as you sat and clapped for her in a cramped chair, a paper plate with a tiny slice of pizza in front of you as the other parents tried wrangling their own kids.
Apollo was half-sitting on your lap, sneakily stealing your pizza after he polished off his own plate, enjoying their classroom party just to start bickering over which mini cupcakes they each wanted, eyeing the boxes Choso hadn’t given out.
“Are you excited for next year?” You asked, barely able to stop yourself from rolling your eyes at their arguing.
“No,” Artemis smiled immediately flipped into a frown as she flopped in her seat, folding her arms across her chest. “We’ll have to get a new teacher.”
“Don’t be a baby,” Apollo huffed at her.
“S’not fair, he’s still your coach,” she whined back, right in time for him to show up, holding out a plastic container with cupcakes to let them choose.
They were quick to snatch them, thank yous muffled when they stuffed their mouths the next second, but to your surprise, he held out the box for you to pick too.
“I, um, got enough for the parents too,” he awkwardly said, eyes hesitantly flicking up to meet yours as you chewed the inside of your cheek before accepting.
“Thanks,” you murmured softly, selecting one with purple frosting as he smiled softly at you.
It was nice of him.
This was nice, actually.
A classroom of sugar-fueled kids and hastily strung up party streamers wasn’t exactly where you pictured you’d be spending your afternoon a decade ago. Being a single mom had never been a part of your plans.
But it wasn’t terrible.
You loved your children. Loved being their mom.
Maybe you could learn to love your life too.
You stayed behind once the party wrapped up to help clean the classroom with a few of the other parents, stuffing greasy and frosting splattered plates into trash bags while the twins excitedly caught up with Yuji after his teacher dropped him off after the bell rang.
“Hey,” a quiet voice startled you, your head snapping back to see Choso stiffly standing next to you, nervously raking his fingers through his hair.
“Hi,” you breathed back, just as awkward. “The party was great. I think the twins will miss you next year.”
You didn’t want to consider if you would.
“They’re great kids. I know they’re gonna succeed some day,” he earnestly said, your mouth curling up as you nodded.
You didn’t really mind if they succeeded or not. Wouldn’t hold them to the same standards their dad once held himself to.
All you really wanted was for them to be happy.
“Thanks, um, seriously,” you swallowed hard, throat constricting as you thought about how much Apollo had started to come out of his shell thanks to him.
Choso’s intense stare swept over your face, scanning over your features like he was searching for something there.
His eyes were dark.
Not blue. They didn’t shimmer, didn’t sparkle when the sun hit them.
But they were deep. Warm.
“I’m glad I got to meet you,” he started, speaking slowly like he wasn’t sure if he should even say it. “Getting to know you, um, it’s been great.”
“Yeah, it has,” you agreed, actually meaning it too.
He stepped a little closer, taking a deep breath as his gaze settled on your face. “You can like, slap me if I’m out of line here-”
“I’m not going to slap you,” you intercut, biting back a laugh as his brows knitted together seriously.
“Would it be totally inappropriate to ask you on a date?”
𖥔 ݁ ˖
Their mission was fucked.
Suguru was dead.
Body stuck on a planet of water and waves, left behind with the other astronauts that had died long before they even received their distress call.
Swept under a fucking tsunami, unable to make it back on the ship on time in an attempt to save a stupid fucking data recorder.
Now they had neither.
The ship had been damaged in the process too, fuel wasted and plans derailed as they barely managed to get it off the planet before all three of them ended up as corpses. Water corrupting important systems as Gojo slammed his fists against the hard metal frame of a door, throwing off his helmet as Shoko said something his brain refused to process.
Grabbing his arm to pull it back before he could fuck up his suit. Telling him to just take it off and cool down before he damned both of them too.
Like his best friend wasn’t gone.
He’d never get him back.
No one would.
Gojo just had to leave his body there for the tides to take. What the hell was he even going to say to his mom? How was he supposed to tell her that her son wasn’t coming home?
He barely managed to get his suit off, stripping down and throwing it on the ground without giving a shit about proper protocol, storming off to his private compartment to stop himself from losing it in front of the only other person up here now. Shoko said something about getting everything back on course, but he wasn’t listening as he turned his back from her.
God, he felt like he was going to fucking hurl.
The edges of his vision kept blurring, going in-and-out of darkness as he forced himself to change clothes, sitting hunched over the edge of his bed and burying his face in his hands, replaying the look on Suguru’s face when he realized he wasn’t going to make it.
Rewinding and searching for some other way to change the past as he screwed his eyes shut.
But he couldn’t save him then and there was no way to save him now.
He wished you were here.
Wished you’d wrap your arms around him and run your fingers through his hair and promise him that it would still be okay. That Suguru wouldn’t blame him.
That his best friend was somewhere better.
Even if everything scientific in his body swore that there was no better place waiting for him.
Gojo pushed himself back up to his feet, jaw locked tight as he walked back over to the one piece of you he still had access too, tapping away at the controls to see if you sent any videos while he was out there making the worse fucking mistake of his life.
Foot impatiently tapping against the floor as he reclined his head back against the floor, wishing that he’d never even come on this mission in the first place – if he hadn’t, Suguru wouldn’t have even answered the distress call, would he?
He’d still be alive, and Gojo would be with-
The computer let out a beep, interrupting his thoughts as the screen came to life, loading everything up as he sighed with relief.
Seeing your smile, hearing your soft words might not heal him, but it was the only thing he could think of to help the raw wound of loss ripping through his chest.
Until the automated computer voice made an announcement right as he popped his headphones in.
Loading messages from the past eleven years.
No. No no no no no.
It was wrong.
It had to be fucking wrong.
The computer had to be fried. Some water must have somehow gotten in it and fucked with the wiring and-
Before he could even hit a single button, try to troubleshoot, there you were in front of him, your hand on your swollen stomach, scowling in the camera as you asked where the hell he was. Fear creeping in your pretty voice that no one had heard anything from any of them – reminding him that he promised to come back.
He did. He would.
The small lump in his throat getting bigger and bigger as the video auto-played into the next one, where you were obviously about to pop, filming in a space-themed nursery, your anger twisted into worry, telling him that you didn’t want to do this alone.
Begging him to not make you.
Gojo froze.
Shoulders stiff as he saw the tears rolling down your cheeks, stunned as his own brain short-circuited, the guilt swimming in his stomach threatening to drown him as you ended the message.
Part of him wanted to hit stop.
Like if he paused it now, he would be able to freeze time and somehow make it back to Earth in time to not miss any more of it.
But his fingers weren’t fast enough.
And the next frame came with the audio of a baby crying.
Two babies. One swaddled in blue and the other in pink. Their names on knitted hats he already knew Suguru’s mom must’ve made, a strangled sob escaping him before he even realized he was crying.
The twins. His twins.
Sleepily yawning and opening their eyes just a peek, enough for him to see his son had the misfortune of inheriting his looks while his daughter came out like a miniature you. Someone else was recording you in the hospital bed, but you were talking to the camera like it was him, face soft as you giggled that he would probably bawling harder than the babies when he realized he missed this.
Suguru’s mom laughed behind the camera.
He was.
Tears falling freely as the videos just kept playing. One after another.
His children were growing up without him.
From tiny and fragile bundles to bumbling toddlers to fuck, full-sized little kids.
In what? Fifty minutes?
Five entire years of their life, condensed down to a handful of clips. The first steps he missed, the birthdays and holidays and father’s day he’d never get back.
They didn’t even look at the camera half the time. Too busy playing and giggling and laughing while you did your best not to cry in front of them. They didn’t know him.
Their father was barely more than a fucking video camera being pointed at them.
And you, god, his pretty, perfect you.
Still sending him these even when you had to think he was fucking dead.
Dark circles under your eyes and a hollowness to your face that only got worse over the years. Exhaustion in your expressions as you spoke to him like you didn’t think he was listening.
You mostly updated them on the kids' life. Skimmed over the details of a job you obviously didn’t like. Told him how Suguru’s mom had basically become their grandma. Sometimes Artemis would be on your lap, squinting at a book or playing with a toy while you talked.
His girls a wormhole away.
Gojo wanted to scream. Shout at the world to stop fucking spinning for a while so he could make it back to you.
But five years turned into six, and six turned into seven, and he watched in horror as it started to set in that he was losing you too.
What if it was too late?
What if you moved on? What if your life had no room left in it for him by the time he made it back to Earth?
The twins were already in school and playing sports and clearly didn’t miss the man they’d never met.
Would you stop missing him too?
He didn’t know how many videos he watched. Guessing the time jump between each one based on how much the twins had grown in the background.
You looked more mature now too. More put together, hair styled differently, no longer bare-faced when you turned the camera on, in a different room that obviously belonged to a house that wasn’t his home.
Toys weren’t scattered around everywhere in the background anymore. But sometimes the twins would run through with one of their friends, some pink-haired kid that seemed to come over often judging by the way you barely blinked when they passed behind you.
Gojo felt like a stranger.
Some creep looking in the window of a happy family and thinking it should be his.
“Mom,” Apollo whined, trying to tug on your sleeve as his shaggy white hair hung around his shoulders, attempting to drag you away while you were in mid-sentence. “Me and Cho made a cake. Come try it.”
“Sure, honey,” you softly said, cringing a little before glancing back at the camera apologetically before signing off.
Was Cho one of his friends? One of yours?
He didn’t actually want an answer.
But the next video seemed to clue him in on one anyway.
You were wearing a shirt that was too big for you. The collar of it stretched out, your hair mused and down as you softly spoke, like you were trying not to wake someone up.
It wasn’t Gojo’s shirt.
An awful feeling settled in his bones. One that etched deeper with every little off detail he noticed.
A pair of men’s shoes in the background. A watch left on your desk, barely in frame. The Cho the twins occasionally chattered about affectionately.
Who apparently was taking them to soccer games and science museums like he should be doing right now if he heard them correctly.
Gojo didn’t want to believe that you were dating again. Even if he knew that it would be the normal thing to do.
Completely reasonable for you to move on after not hearing a word from him in nearly a decade.
But the idea of you loving another man, letting him into your life, letting him take his space-
He puked.
Head between his knees as he got sick on the floor, throwing up a mixture of salt water he swallowed earlier and the freeze dried breakfast he had this morning. Funny, wasn’t it? He’d lost over ten years with you and his best friends in just a day.
An hour on that horrible planet had cost him a decade.
Body wracking with shudders as he coughed and spit, wiping the back of his mouth just in time to look up at you while those pretty lips of yours pressed in a thin line. Sadness shining in your eyes, frustration and disappointment you rarely let show evident in your trembling frame.
“It’s hard to keep hoping for you,” you admitted, reaching out to shut off the camera, and he desperately wanted to scream for you to not give up, to just fucking wait.
But then the computer chimed in that there was one video left the second the screen went black after you ended it.
His hand reached out, desperate to touch you, desperate to stop you, but your world was spinning faster than his was.
And your face was back on screen, something inside him wilting and withering at the realization that another year had probably passed for you, maybe even two, more that he would never be able to get back.
A few more faint lines were etched by your eyes, subtle creases left as a sign of all the time he missed with you. But you looked healthier. Happier.
His beautiful girl sitting there and smiling at him instead of screaming like you should’ve been. Cursing his name for not coming home sooner, scolding him for being a piece of shit that should’ve stayed on Earth.
“Hi, Satoru,” you spoke softly, fiddling with your hands. “Been a while since I’ve made one of these.”
He was terrified to know how long.
“The twins are good. They’re gonna be ten next month,” you continued, not looking directly at the camera as you talked. “They’re both smart, like you. Apollo’s been more into soccer than school these days though.”
He wanted to see him. See both of them.
Hold them too, know his children outside of the information you would tell some distant relative, even if that was all he felt like right now.
“Artemis wants to be a scientist when she grows up. She sits on the sidelines of his games with her nose buried in books,” you told him, a little smile reflexively curling up on your lips just from talking about them. “I wish you could see them. Wish you were here.”
His chest hurt.
Gojo didn’t know he stopped breathing until his body forced him to suck in a breath, lungs screaming for air as he stared at the woman he was supposed to marry.
This wasn’t how it was supposed to happen.
The mission should’ve been routine. Simple.
Suguru should be setting up the navigation. He should be begrudgingly agreeing to being his best man and coming to the courthouse to witness the rushed ceremony.
“Sometimes,” you started, swallowing hard as your gorgeous eyes welled up with tears that threatened to spill out. “I dream of you. Us. Back in our old apartment in the creaky bed and the broken window. I wake up thinking I’m still there.”
The hard lump lodged in his throat was threatening to choke him entirely, the taste of bile still on his tongue as his nails digging crescent moons into his palms as he watched your mouth quiver.
“The government declared you dead a few years ago. One of your old colleagues came by one day, said that no one really knew for sure what happened, just that you missed the supply drop. Used a bunch of big words like I was too stupid to understand that the bottom line was that you weren’t coming home. Tried to make me feel better about it too,” you bitterly scoffed at the memory, resting your chin on your knees as you exhaled. On the brink of crumbling just recalling it, “Told me that you might’ve settled on a colony on a different planet or got stuck in some fucked-up time dilation. That you might still be alive out there somewhere.”
If his throat wasn’t already raw, he would’ve screamed at the screen that he was.
Wanted to beg you not to fucking believe whatever bullshit everyone else was feeding you and believe in him.
“You don’t feel dead,” you added. Sniffling a little, using the back of your hand to rub underneath your eyes. “Maybe it’d be easier to move on if you did.”
Even his relief was tainted by guilt, ruined with his own worry that he was ruining your future by wishing you’d be stuck on him forever.
“My therapist thinks I’m wasting my life waiting on someone who’s never coming back,” you murmured, speaking to him more like you were talking to your diary than truly believing he was going to hear any of it. “But how am I supposed to tell her I’m scared that some day you will, and I won’t be here?”
Everything hurt.
His body, his heart, his soul.
Aching for everything he’d lost. Everything you lost because of him. His own kids growing up without a fucking father because he was an idiot who put a career before his family.
The life he’d spent years carefully building towards lost because he miscalculated.
“I know it’s not fair, but fuck, thinking about you moving on with another girl, or fucking starting some colony up in space and having kids with someone else, makes me wanna throw up,” you admitted, clueless that he had just puked at the idea of someone else being the stepfather to his twins.
You hadn’t even confirmed-
“I’m being a hypocrite,” you muttered, burying your face in your hands to hide the fact you were crying — and that’s when it hit him.
The engagement ring on your finger wasn’t his.
Smaller. More subtle. A different cut and style.
No. You couldn’t-
“I’ve, um, been dating a guy for a few years. He’s sweet. Everyone loves to tell me how much you would’ve liked him,” you admitted, twisting the ring around your finger anxiously like you were confessing a sin. He didn’t like him. Already hated whatever bastard had snuck in and swept you off your feet. “They keep saying that you’d want me to move on.”
What a load of fucking shit.
The last goddamn thing he wanted was for you to move on. The idea of you marrying another man was enough for him to gag again, bile rising from his stomach as he struggled to stop it.
“I still love you,” you shrugged a little, guilt of your own etched in your face as his eyes stung with more tears. “I just love him too.”
Gojo would take getting stabbed over hearing those words from your lips again.
“Choso said maybe it’d make me feel better to make another video for you, y’know, get everything off my chest,” you exhaled. “I’m just so tired, Satoru.”
Okay, well, that kind of felt like being stabbed.
Knowing that this was all his fault and you were the one bearing so much of the burden.
“I know you’re probably never going to see this, but you’d want me to be happy, wouldn’t you?” You asked, eyes big and wavering as you struggled not to sob, reaching up to play with the silver chain of your necklace tucked under your shirt. “Would you hate me for choosing someone who cares about me and our kids?”
He could never hate you.
Even if you married ten other men while he was gone.
He would just always hate the man who got to call you their wife. Jealous of whichever one got to take family photos with you and take you on vacation and sleep next to you every night.
Gojo wanted to be that guy. Wanted to get down on his knees next to you now and dry your cheeks, kiss your mouth and murmur anything you wanted to hear just to make you feel better.
“I’m getting married in four months,” you murmured, wiping the tears away from underneath your eyes, mascara smearing on the back of your hand as you sniffled. “At that chapel we picked out. The one with the pretty hydrangeas out front.”
No no no.
He could still make it.
Couldn’t he?
If they skipped the supply drop entirely and went straight back through the wormhole?
Hadn’t he lost enough?
Gojo refused to let you slip through his fingers a second time. No matter how fast the hourglass was running out of sand.
You stood up, walking out of frame for a few seconds as he heard the sound of something unzipping. And then you came back, holding out something white and-
A wedding dress.
“You never got to see me in one, so I thought-” You didn’t finish your sentence, just swallowing hard as you draped it back down on furniture just out of sight.
The camera barely focused on your body as you peeled your clothes off, his breath hitching at the intimate sight of you slipping the dress on, struggling to zip the back by yourself before walking closer.
You looked like an angel.
And Gojo sorta wished he was dead.
Stuck in the stunned shell of his body as he watched the way the dress clung to your chest and flowed to the ground, his heart thrumming loud enough he was sure it was about to break through his ribcage.
And then a noise in the background startled you.
The thud of a door shutting. The excited clamoring of children, a girl giggling as a man said something he couldn’t quite make out.
Your face scrunched up, a million different emotions flashing across it as you both heard it at the same time. “We’re back, baby.”
Another man was calling you baby.
Footsteps echoing down a hallway he’d never gotten to walk down, your own body rushing over to block the door before it could open.
“I’m trying my wedding dress on, Cho,” you called out, lips pressing together in a pretty pout. “It’s bad luck if you see.”
“Yeah? We brought back your favorite takeout, want me to put it in the fridge or-” he started asking, his voice deep, gravelly.
“You can leave it out,” you replied, your voice softening as you spoke to him. “I’ll be out in a minute.”
You glanced back at the camera, guilt returning the second your stare hovered over at it.
And before Gojo could even really appreciate what a beautiful bride you made, you were rushing to get out of it, biting your lips before stuffing it back into a garment bag, putting your clothes back and returning to your seat.
“I’m sorry,” you said, fingers trembling as your hand reflexively reached for your necklace again. “I wish things were different.”
It could be.
It would be.
Even if a little voice in the back of his head suggested that you might not leave your current fiancé for him if he made it back in time.
That you might choose the man that had actually been there for you all this time.
Behind you, there was a knock on the door.
“Can I come in now?”
No.
This was supposed to be private, a one-sided conversation that was for his ears only, but you were glancing back over your shoulder.
“Yeah,” you quietly answered.
Gojo almost wished your fiancé was ugly. That it would make it easy for you to pick him instead.
But of course, he had to be annoyingly attractive, dark hair hanging around his shoulders and bangs that reminded him of the best friend he just damned as he casually walked over to you, concern etched into his sharp face as he leaned in to press a kiss on the top of your forehead.
“Everything okay?” He asked, but then his eyes shifted and he noticed what you were filming. “Oh, baby.”
The sound of someone who knew you were hurting. Who cared.
“I’m okay, really, I’m just saying goodbye,” you murmured, like they both couldn’t tell how close you were to breaking down.
“I’ll give you a few minutes,” he spoke gently, his touch lingering on your skin like it really was his now. “Apollo and Yuji want to go spend the night with one of their friends.”
Gojo wanted to strangle him.
Fly through the space and stars just to give him a black eye for just how casually he spoke about his son.
Although some sliver of him was well fucking aware that Choso had probably been more of a dad to Apollo than he’d ever gotten to be.
“That’s fine,” you shrugged, nodding a little as your body relaxed, tension lifting from your shoulders the longer you looked at him.
Gojo hated that he could see that you really did love him in your eyes.
See that familiar glimmer shining in them as you looked up at a stranger instead of him.
Choso left the room, but his presence didn’t.
You stared at the door for a few moments after it shut, but you didn’t say whatever you were thinking. Kept it bottled up before you eventually looked back at Satoru.
Not that you could even see him.
You thought you were talking to a ghost.
That’s all he’d become to you. To his children. A phantom haunting rooms he’d never entered. Lingering in empty spaces he should’ve been. A spectre living in the shadows of your heads.
“I miss you,” you murmured, reaching for the button one last time to shut it off. “I don’t think that will change. But I can’t keep believing you’re coming home.”
No. Please no.
He was.
“I love you, Satoru,” you half-whispered, choking the words out. “Goodbye.”
The screen went dark.
His reflection staring back at him. Cheeks wet with tears that wouldn’t stop, breaking down as he fell apart, nausea swirling as he forced himself to stand and step around where he’d thrown up, pacing the floor as his brain struggled to work through a problem he didn’t know how to solve.
He went back to the console, frowning when he tried to start recording to send a message back out to you, to beg you to just give him a little more time, but nothing happened.
Body and brain barely working together to frantically tap buttons, staring at what data was available to see if he could find when the transmission was received.
A faint flicker of hope stirring when he realized it had only been two days ago.
You weren’t married yet.
Maybe there was time.
And even if there wasn’t, he’d do his damndest to get there and wreck your marriage if it meant winning you back.
He was a wreck, stumbling out of the room to rush to find Shoko, nearly tripping on his own feet as he found her by the controls, her neat brunette brows scrunching together in disgust when she saw the state he was in.
“What the hell-”
Gojo wasn’t sure he was even speaking in full sentences when he started rambling about time dilation, about how they already missed a goddamn decade, her mouth curling down into a tight frown as he got into the details of how they needed to go home now.
“We don’t have the fuel,” she deadpanned, drawing his attention to the data on screen. “We can make it to our supply drop, but unless they have some there, we’ll probably be stuck on their settlement until another crew comes along.”
That wasn’t a fucking option.
They had to make it.
But even when he spent the next forty-eight hours crunching the numbers and calculating different ways to return, he still came to the same conclusion – Shoko was right.
And still said ‘I told you so’ when he said fine to going to the planet for the supply drop, figuring that at least if the load was lighter, he might be able to make what they had left stretch.
He was barely showering.
Barely eating.
Manic energy getting him through the long days and longer nights to avoid the dreams that would only mock him for all his failures.
They were just filled with your face, with Suguru’s, of children that called another man dad.
Filling his notebooks with different calculations he was desperate to get right this time.
Skin crawling with the fear that he’d fuck this up and lose you forever.
He didn’t get to mourn Suguru. Couldn’t mourn the years he missed.
Not if he didn’t want to miss the rest of them.
By the time they made it to the next planet, he was a wreck. Practically shoved in the shower by Shoko to get cleaned up before they landed, feeling ill when he was forced to get his suit back on, praying to whatever higher power might be out there to let there be fuel. Let him go home to his family.
This planet wasn’t full of water. Wasn’t one big ocean.
Landing in a lush green field, not far from real buildings, actual structures erected, fellow scientists rushing out to greet them as Shoko worked fast to unload the supplies with their help.
Gojo knew he probably sounded like a lunatic rushing to get his request for fuel out as soon as possible, counting the seconds in his head as he hoped that they weren’t months passing for you back home.
“I need to get back to my fiancée, my kids, please," he begged, pleading without caring how pathetic it came out when everyone here had given up their lives on Earth in the name of science and research.
“I’m sorry,” their de facto leader apologized, an astronaut he once grew up looking up to frowning at him as he glanced around at their simple setup to search for anything that could help him. “We don’t have any. There’s going to be another supply drop in a month, more people coming to live here. You could probably go back with them if-”
“No,” he accidentally interrupted, the word ripped from the back of his chest as he recoiled.
It couldn’t end like this.
He’d be too late if he stayed.
“Satoru,” Shoko hissed, pulling him back as his breathing got ragged, on the verge of a panic attack.
“Shoko, they don’t-”
“I know,” she cut him off, swallowing hard as she fixed him with her steady stare. “Look, I’ll stay here. You take the lander back. Without me and all this stuff, the fuel should last.”
“You want me to leave you?” He asked, automatically shaking his head no at the absurd suggestion.
“I don’t have anyone waiting for me back on Earth anyway,” she shrugged.
He didn’t have the seconds to debate it.
“Are you sure?” He asked, his chest already aching at the idea of being alone on the ship.
“Go get your wife back,” she huffed. “Name one of your next kids after me.”
“Deal,” he breathed, throwing her arms around her in a rushed hug before he had to sprint back to the lander.
Both his best friends left behind on planets he knew he’d never get back to.
And still, he wasn’t sure if he’d even be able to make it back to the one they came from.
He wasn’t even meant to be the navigator.
Wasn’t supposed to be the one frantically typing in coordinates and rushing through checklists to get back home.
Struggling and squinting at the consoles, breathing heavy when everything was inputted, running the numbers again and again.
He should make it.
Although, his current path put him at landing in some random field in the middle of nowhere, NASA would probably be rushing to get there once they realized it was one of their landers.
If only he could send out a fucking transmission.
He tried to figure out why it wouldn’t work, fiddling with it almost every day in failed attempts to fix it and rewatching your videos when his energy threatened to run out.
Gojo hadn’t cut his hair in months. That was something Suguru usually helped him with. It was nearly touching his shoulders, looking like a stranger in his reflection in the fogged-up mirror on the occasions he’d make himself shower and scrub his skin until it was practically red.
But maybe you liked men with longer hair now. Wouldn’t mind the fact that he changed too.
When he slept, he made it to the chapel just in time, rushing through the double doors right when the officiant asked if anyone objected.
He would whisk you away, dip you down and kiss you, fingers sinking into the silk of your wedding dress as he begged you to still be his.
Some part of him felt like it was all light years away.
Up until Earth was outside his window, his heart thrumming at the thought of you down there, sharing a bed with someone else while he was fighting so hard to come back to you. Did he fuck you as good?
Make sure you finished every single time? Dot your face with kisses and carry you into the bathroom? Make all your favorite foods and worship the ground you walked on every day?
Gojo didn’t know if he’d be able to handle knowing.
But fuck, if it meant he’d still get to have you, he’d share you with that asshole.
Gojo still couldn’t send a transmission, had no way of actually notifying anyone when he got in the lander, flipping switches and changing settings as he got behind the controls.
Shutting his eyes for a few seconds as he set the coordinates, palms sweating as he clutched the controls. If his math was right, today would be the day you were supposed to be standing at the altar.
He could do this.
Failing wasn’t an option.
Not after everything that had brought him here.
“I’m coming home, sweetheart,” he murmured, a little aware that he had probably lost it if he was talking to himself up here.
But he hoped you could feel him.
That even if you were wearing your wedding dress right now, you would be able to sense him somehow. Clinging to the hope that yours hadn’t completely faded yet.
The landing fucking sucked.
Hitting the ground too hard, his head snapping forward fast enough he was pretty sure he had a concussion or whiplash, body bracing for the impact as it skidded to a stop in a corn field an hour from that chapel he just toured with you last year. Even if it’d been more like twelve to you.
It still didn’t stop him from rushing to get out, nearly kissing the ground as he stumbled out. Sucking in the fresh air as he glanced around, his legs trembling as he forced himself to keep moving, well aware he definitely looked like shit even if he tried to clean himself up before his, ah, crash landing.
“Are you okay? What the fuck is-”
Gojo grimaced as he glanced up to find someone who pulled over on the side of the road, a stranger squinting at him and the wrecked lander in disbelief.
“Uh, could you give me a ride?”
Maybe the universe had decided to cut him some slack. Give him a helping hand as he sat in the passenger seat of a beat-up truck, rubbing the exhaustion from his eyes as he noticed the new phone in the cupholder.
“Do, uh, you mind if I make a couple calls?” He asked, the distant sound of sirens echoing as they put mile after mile away from the lander – and inched closer and closer to you.
“Sure,” his new friend shrugged, using his face to unlock his phone at the next stoplight and passing it over.
Gojo still had your number memorized.
Even if you didn’t pick up the phone for him.
No voicemail box set up either, just the generic ‘please leave a message at the beep’ he didn’t have it in him to oblige. He hurried to dial one of his old contacts from NASA he remembered, not sure if Ijichi would pick up either.
But they did.
“Hello?” Ijichi croaked, almost sounding like he just woke up, or maybe was sick.
“Hey, it’s, uh, me,” he said, tapping his fingers on the side of the window. “I sorta crash landed. You guys are gonna want to send someone out to take care of clean up.”
“Satoru?”
“Yeah, it’s, um, been a bit, hasn’t it?” He awkwardly chuckled, rambling off the coordinates twice, sure that Ijichi was scrambling to get them down before he exhaled. “Look, I’ve got a wedding to crash. I’ll check in later.”
Gojo hung up before he could get caught up in any more stupid space bullshit.
He was finished.
Ready to spend the rest of his years devoted solely to you and his twins.
Would you be happy to see him?
Let him pick you up and press kiss after kiss to your mouth and promise that you missed him?
He’d spent so long daydreaming about it that he didn’t really know what to do when the truck pulled into the very much empty parking lot of the chapel.
Was he too early?
Too late?
Walking up to the double doors and pulling them open to find barren pews illuminated by stained glass windows. He walked around like an idiot, something pricking at the back of his brain that he wouldn’t listen to as he looked outside at the cemetery next to it.
He didn’t have a real reason for going back out there.
Just some invisible string tugging him there as he held his breath, searching for proof in the last place he wanted to find it.
And there it was.
Sitting underneath a willow tree waiting for him.
He stared at the gravestone. Your name etched into the stone – with another man’s last name attached to it.
His knees gave out. Collapsed underneath him as a broken sob racked through his body, hitting the hard ground as his body surrendered to the pain. Fat tears rolling down his cheeks, sucking in shallow breaths as he cried for the life you had.
The one he hadn’t been there to give you.
You couldn’t be-
Someone tapped on his back.
He turned fast, shaking as his eyes landed on your face. His pretty girl, probably a good twenty years older than him, aged like a fine wine as your mouth fell open in a surprised gasp. He reached out, fingers trembling as he nearly touched your cheek from his position on the ground, but you froze.
“Dad?”
It wasn’t you.
Artemis tried helping him up, tears springing up in her eyes as she immediately hugged him, his brain fractured as he realized that his daughter was here. His daughter was older than him. How much time had passed? How fucking off was he?
“Oh my god, it’s actually you, when I got the call, I didn’t think-”
“Artemis?” He breathed her name, wishing he’d gotten the opportunity to say it to her a million more times. “You’re-”
“Holy shit, I have to call everyone,” she grinned, her smile hurting his chest when it looked so much like yours. “Apollo isn’t gonna believe it. You know, you’re already, like, a great grandpa thanks to him, by the way.”
Every word was a fresh punch to the gut.
A great grandfather.
He never even got to be a father.
Missed his kids growing up, getting married, having kids of their own, and even them having kids.
“How long has it been?” He asked, his voice raw, broken chords of disbelief as Artemis' face twisted up, looking behind him as it struck her that he hadn’t known any of it.
“Since you left?” She awkwardly spoke, tilting her head as she scratched the back of her neck. There was a wedding band on her finger. Did your husband walk her down the aisle? “Um, about fifty years?”
Four months had been forty years.
Gojo couldn’t stop himself from crying again, wiping away his cheeks faster, ashamed of what he’d done.
A fool masquerading as a man.
Artemis awkwardly wrapped an arm around him, trying to soothe him as she used her free hand to send texts like he couldn’t see through the tears.
Sobs wracking through him as the dam inside him broke, reduced to rubble as he fell apart. Painfully aware that he was only inches away from you, and still no closer at all.
He’d never hold you again. Never touch you again.
Wouldn’t get to see your smile or hear your laugh, feel the warmth of your affection.
His children wouldn’t need him.
For a while, his daughter just sat there with him. Let him cry until he managed to halfway collect himself, his eyes swollen and sore as he struggled to breathe, body aching and stomach starving despite how sick he felt every time he looked up and saw your grave.
“She passed away last year,” Artemis muttered. “She’d been sick for a while.”
God, he felt like he was going to die right now.
Figured it would hurt less than hearing about everything he missed.
“She talked about you a lot. Made you out to be a big hero,” his daughter smiled softly, obviously trying to make him feel better. You should’ve turned him into the bad guy. “I actually work at NASA. God, she was pretty pissed at me when she found out I even applied, but I promised that I wouldn’t go to space so, uh-”
It seemed like she inherited his ability to shove his foot in his mouth, her lips clamping shut as she realized that maybe this wasn’t the time.
“Apollo’s a teacher now,” she abruptly changed the subject, and he didn’t know what to say.
Just staring at her in shock, unable to form proper sentences when he thought he was coming home to a preteen – not a fully grown woman who looked so much like you it hurt to breathe. “Oh, there he is.”
He looked over to see his son was walking down the path with an old man, talking between each other with furrowed expressions.
Watched the shock register on their faces when they saw Gojo there.
He didn’t know what to say when they finally approached, the thick silence and tension simmering in the air as he stared at Apollo.
Strands of silver in his white hair, blue eyes burning with emotions he didn’t blame him for. Resentment. Reproach.
“You’re-”
“I’m sorry it took me so long,” he heard himself say, voice cracking painfully.
“Yeah,” his son huffed, arms folding across his broad chest. “Us too.”
“Apollo,” the older man next to him scolded, giving him a fatherly look that seemed so natural on his face before throwing Gojo a look that was almost like ‘kids, right?’ “It’s nice to finally meet you. I’m Choso.”
And despite the fact he had to be in his seventies now, Gojo still sort of wanted to hit him.
Rip the golden band off his finger and start a fight over the fact he’d gotten to spend decades with the love of his life.
“Was she happy?” He asked instead, hollowed out, no strength left in him to stand.
“She was,” Artemis softly confirmed, patting his shoulder like he was a child. And he wondered if she had kids too, or if even his son’s children were older than him now.
“She missed you,” Choso added, more mature than Gojo suspected he would ever be.
Because right now, he was filled with hate.
Anger and rage boiling and burning under the surface at the injustice of all of it. At everything he missed. Everything that should’ve been his that ended up in the hands of someone else because he was too stupid to hold onto you tight enough.
He hated Choso. Hated space. Hated the universe.
Mostly though, he hated himself.
“We should go get some food,” Artemis artfully pivoted away, trying to tug him upright. “You’re probably starving, right?”
Gojo thought he nodded, not that he was totally in tune with his body, dazed as he tried to sort through the thousand thoughts flooding through his mind.
Numbness creeping in now that he knew it had all been for nothing.
“Before I forget,” she murmured, taking off a necklace he hadn’t noticed her wearing. The thin silver chain weighed down by two rings dangling at the end. The engagement ring he once gave you – and a plain band of white-gold. “Mom always wore it. She told me she bought the band for you before you were supposed to come back and could never bring herself to put either of them away.”
She dropped it in his palm, his pulse pounding in his ears at the proof you never fully gave up on him. One last thread of you in his hands as he automatically unlocked the clasp and put it on himself, the weight of it sitting over his chest and tethering him back to reality.
To the two children he made with you standing in front of him now he was still lucky enough to meet.
Artemis interlocked her arm with her brother, laughing at something he said before immediately beginning to bicker about where to eat at, who to call next.
Giggling about their sister, his throat closing at the confirmation you had another baby after him. That you lived a full life he’d only get to see second-hand. Through photos and stories instead of in person.
Apollo grumbled something under his breath, throwing a glare back at Gojo, still protective over you after you passed. Artemis just elbowed her brother though, tossing the hair back over her other shoulder that reminded him of you.
And some depressing part of him wondered if that’s what you and him would’ve looked like together one day if he stayed.
He would never get to know.
His eyes drifted back to your grave. And then the one next to it.
His name etched next to yours. A plot you must have purchased for him back when you thought you’d never get his body back.
A loving fiancé and father.
Gojo was grateful he would at least get to be buried next to you one day.
𝜗℘ ˖ ࣪ . ˖˙ husband!satoru hates arguments. even more so when your conflicts upset your baby daughter :: tags. fluff, hurt & comfort :: wc. 1.1k
satoru hates having arguments with you. he hates it whenever an argument turns into the silent treatment. he apologises and apologises, yet nothing helps to change your mood sometimes.
ever since you got married and had your daughter, you were a bit more sensitive to the smallest of things than usual. it wasn’t like satoru despised you for it; in fact, he understands that motherhood was and is stressful. that man was nothing but supportive to you.
though, your little arguments were indirectly having an impact on the mental state of your baby. you didn’t realise an one year old could sense the tension between her parents.
“mama, mama!” your daughter appears out of nowhere, waddling over to you standing in the kitchen. she had barely just learnt how to walk. her tiny hand reaches for yours and she points at the doorway with her other, “go, mama, go.”
you curiously let your little girl lead you towards where she was pointing at, only to arrive at the living room. satoru was sitting on the couch, idly staring at the ceiling, other hand fiddling with one of your daughter’s toys. he seemed deep in thought. even exhausted and clearly not his playful self.
“mama, go! mama go papa.”
satoru’s head turns to the side at the cute sound of his favourite little girl. he smiles brightly at her return to the living room, only for his smile to fade just for a second at the sight of you next to her. he isn’t mad at you—more like sad that you still seemed upset with him.
your daughter tugs at your index finger. she apparently wants you to go to her dad—wants you to interact or talk with him. her big eyes were staring up at you with a pleading look in them.
you were in a dilemma. of course, you wanted to put your daughter’s mind at ease. you could just fake interact with satoru—or actually just make it up—but there was still a small part of you that needed time alone. you weren’t yet mentally ready for another confrontation. you needed time to think it out.
however, part of you also knows that your earlier argument was kind of silly. you don’t even fully remember what it was about, that’s how irrelevant it was to your brain.
“c’mon, pumpkin. ‘tis not nice for you to bother mama while she’s cooking.” satoru’s soft voice startles you back to reality. he had already gotten up and crouched down to pick your daughter up in his arms, kissing her chubby cheeks to distract her; “mama’s busy, ‘kay? let’s go play with papa.”
even satoru knew that your argument had caused your little girl to feel some kind of stress. she didn’t fully comprehend the situation, though she was clearly uncomfortable by the fact that her parents were not acting nice and lovey dovey like they usually would.
“no, papa. mama!” the baby whines and points at you and then at satoru, her little legs kicking. it absolutely broke satoru’s heart — shattered it into pieces. oh, how he wishes to never fight with you again. the sight of his little bundle of joy trying to mend things between you two with all she could was simply too much.
satoru looks down at you and notices the way you look at your one year old as well. the same way he did; with guilt and sadness. he sighs softly and without further thought, wraps his free arm around your shoulders and brings you close to his body.
“c’mere,” satoru murmurs as he holds both your daughter and you to his chest, “let me hold my two girls, yeah? may i, sweetheart? please.”
your husband asks for your consent. if you were okay with this—even when he needs it desperately, to hold you again in his arms and to make it right to you—your comfort comes first. if you weren’t ready yet to make up, he’d let you go. even if it’d hurt him immensely.
you don’t answer with your words and instead let your actions do the talking. you wrap one arm around satoru’s torso, the other cradling your daughter closer to both you and him.
it was like nothing mattered anymore in that moment, except for your little family. your worries, stress and anxiety about everything and anything had vanished into thin air as you felt the embrace of the two people you held dear.
your daughter finally giggles—a sound satoru and you had greatly missed. you close your eyes and just rest against your husband’s body.
“mama papa, wuv!” the little girl squeals in happiness as she excitedly babbles on, causing both satoru and you to laugh as well. the white-haired sorcerer leaves a big peck on the baby’s forehead before doing the same to you.
“mhm, papa loves mama veeery much.” satoru hums and kisses your forehead again, solely because he missed being affectionate to you, “papa loves his sweet little angel too.”
you can’t help but chuckle along with your one year old—who seemed to be extremely content in her parents’ loving embrace again. this is how it always should be.
“mama also loves papa very much.” you reply, causing your husband to regain his usual big grin. he finally got what he longed for; to have you look and talk to him with love. your silence may have lasted only a few hours, but it felt like it had been a couple cruel months to the sorcerer.
your eyes meet his again and all was well. you smile at him and he smiles back before leaning in to kiss you gently on the lips. satoru’s arm that was draped over your shoulder moves down to curl around your lower back, pulling you as close to him as your bodies would allow.
he pulls back after a few seconds and just lovingly stares at your face again—eyes holding an affection only you had ever been able to witness. your eyes told the same story; nothing could separate you two. ever.
“waaaaah! mama papa, me, me!”
the romantic air between you two suddenly gets interrupted by your daughter’s excited demands. she was demanding kisses as well, puffing her cheeks up as she got ready for it.
“ohh? seems like our angel wants some kisses too.” satoru laughs and nods his head at the baby in his other arm whilst looking at you, “shall we?”
you giggle and nod back—not able to refuse your little girl any longer.
it was not long before the living room fills with the sounds of your child’s laughter, which was caused by the continuous kisses and tickles she was receiving from both satoru and you.
author's note ⸺ HELLOOOOO, this chapter is now out for you to read..feel free to send me an ask to tell me your thoughts on the series so far :)
pairing ⸺ Suguru Geto x Reader
content ⸺ corporate-worker!reader, emotional tension, modern au, the good-ole-days trope, reader uses female pronouns, miss gorl finally realized her feelings, detailed descriptions smoking (weed + cigs), high tensions, I want them both so bad taglist at end, 4.6k, this is an 18+ series - mdni!!
divider credit: @/toastray ୨୧ art credit: @/juziluohai
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“Better?” He murmured, his voice just above the rain, low and careful.
You nodded, not trusting your voice. The closeness made the rhythm of your heart feel louder than the rain, the pulse in your chest syncing with the quiet, deliberate steps you shared down the slick sidewalk.
You leaned just a fraction into him, letting the protection of his presence—literal and figurative—anchor you as you navigated the steps toward the subway station.
Even in the rain, with the city glinting wet beneath streetlights, it felt like the two of you had created a small, suspended world under the navy-blue canopy of the umbrella.
The subway entrance came into view a half block ahead, the fluorescent lights beneath the awning glowing against the gray wash of rain. You both picked up your pace, shoes splashing through shallow puddles as you hurried for cover.
The moment you stepped under the overhang, the sound of rain softened from a roar to a distant hiss. Suguru tilted the umbrella away from you and gave it a quick shake before folding it neatly, the fabric snapping closed with a practiced flick of his wrist. He tucked it under his arm beside your laptop bag.
Inside, the station was warm and bright compared to the wet street outside. You fished your transit card from your pocket as the two of you moved toward the gates.
Tap.
Your card chimed and the turnstile unlocked. Suguru followed a second later, the soft beep of his own card echoing behind you as he stepped through.
You both started down the platform stairs at a quick pace, the concrete steps still damp from commuters tracking rainwater inside.
“Careful,” he murmured, his voice low. “These steps are pretty slippery.”
“I’m fine,” you said, though the small brush of his arm against yours made your stomach twist pleasantly.
He gave a faint smirk, the kind that didn’t need words. “Sure you are,” he teased softly, adjusting the laptop bag on his shoulder.
When the two of you reached the bottom of the stairs, the train lights were just appearing in the tunnel. You both quickened your pace, moving toward the platform edge just as the distant rumble began to build.
The doors slid open just as you got to the platform, and god did you love when it aligned like that…the subway platforms always smelled like piss…you hated waiting down there.
A rush of damp commuters spilled out first—umbrellas dripping, coats brushing past your shoulders. Suguru’s hand shifted lightly against your back, guiding you through the small wave of bodies before you stepped inside.
The subway car was already crowded, the air thick with the smell of wet fabric and metal warmed by too many people. Water dripped steadily from someone’s umbrella near the door, pooling in small dark spots on the floor that rocked gently with the motion of the train.
You barely had time to adjust your footing before the doors chimed shut behind you.
He released his hand from your shoulder, but couldn’t go far, considering how packed the train was.
“Finally dry,” you said, a small laugh escaping as you broke the silence.
“Yeah,” he replied, glancing at you, voice quiet but teasing. “Though I can’t say I minded the arrangement.”
A short breath of laughter slipped out of you before you could stop it, your head tilting slightly as you looked up at him. The fluorescent subway lights caught the damp edges of his hair, dark strands curling faintly where the rain had touched them.
“Oh, I’m sure you didn’t mind at all,” you said, the corner of your mouth pulling into a crooked smile.
He huffed a quiet laugh through his nose, adjusting the strap of your laptop bag where it rested against his shoulder. The movement shifted him a fraction closer in the cramped space, the sleeve of his coat brushing your arm as another wave of passengers pressed further into the car.
For a moment, neither of you moved.
The train lurched forward with a sudden jolt, metal screeching softly against the rails. Your hand shot out instinctively, catching the cool pole beside you before the motion could throw you off balance.
Suguru’s hand moved just as quickly.
His fingers closed lightly around your upper arm—steady, warm—holding there only long enough for the train to settle back into its rhythm before easing away again.
“You good?” he asked.
You nodded, letting out a small breath that almost sounded like a laugh.
“Subway’s trying to take me out, apparently.”
A quiet smile crossed his face at that, the kind that lingered more in his eyes than his mouth.
“Good thing I’m here then,” he said lightly.
You couldn’t help rolling your eyes at that. Lately, the more time the two of you spent alone together, the bolder his remarks seemed to get—small comments delivered with that quiet certainty of his.
Last night had been the first time it really stood out.
And, to your mild irritation, the version of him that showed up in those moments had begun to grow on you.
The car rocked gently as it picked up speed, the tunnel lights sliding past the windows in flashes of dull yellow. Around you, damp coats brushed together, and the faint scent of rain clung to the air.
Suguru glanced down at you again, something easy and familiar settling into his expression.
Suguru glanced down at you again, a quiet familiarity settling across his expression.
“So,” he said, adjusting his grip on the metal pole above you, “how many stops until yours?”
“Five,” you replied, leaning your shoulder a little more firmly into the narrow strip of space the two of you occupied. “Maybe ten minutes.”
“Not bad,” he said. “Could’ve been worse.”
“Yeah,” you said with a small shrug. “If the train behaves.”
A faint smile tugged at his mouth. “Bold assumption.”
The car swayed again, the movement sending a ripple through the line of standing passengers. His hand tightened slightly around the pole to steady himself, the sleeve of his coat brushing your arm as the train settled back into its rhythm.
For a moment, the conversation fell away.
The steady rumble of the train filled the space instead—metal wheels against the track, the low whine of the tunnel air rushing past the windows.
You shifted your gaze upward.
Suguru stood a good deal taller than you, the overhead bar forcing his arm to angle slightly above your head. The position pulled the fabric of his coat taut across his shoulder and down the length of his arm.
Your eyes drifted lower.
His hand wrapped easily around the metal pole, long fingers loose but steady with the movement of the train. Faint lines of veins ran beneath the skin along the back of his hand, shifting subtly each time the train car jolted.
Another sway of the train nudged your shoulder against his chest.
Your gaze moved again—this time higher.
The fluorescent lights overhead caught the edges of his features in pale bands of light and shadow. Damp strands of dark hair had loosened slightly near his temples, curling faintly where the rain had touched them earlier.
His lips curved almost absently at something happening somewhere else in the car—a quiet reaction to a conversation you couldn’t hear. The movement was small, barely there, but it softened the line of his mouth.
Then his eyes dropped.
Right to you.
For half a second, your eyes stayed locked on his.
The train roared through the tunnel, the lights outside the window flashing past in quick bursts.
Suguru’s brow lifted just slightly, his gaze not breaking from yours.
“You okay?” he asked, voice low, edged with something faintly amused. “Or did you find something interesting?”
A warm prickle climbed up the back of your neck.
“Mm, nothing interesting,” you murmured, your gaze slipping past him toward the opposite side of the car. “Just zoning out.”
The answer came a touch too quick, the words a little too light.
He didn’t move right away.
But the corner of his mouth shifted—subtle, restrained—like he’d noticed the gap between what you said and what lingered in the space between you. Something settled into his expression then, quiet and self-assured, like he’d arrived at a conclusion he wasn’t in any rush to hide.
“You checking me out on the subway?” He murmured, quieter this time.
There was no sharpness to it. No edge meant to corner you. Just a soft thread of amusement, the kind that settled low in his voice instead of rising to the surface. And you couldn’t stop the small rush that ran through you.
You scoffed under your breath, turning your head slightly. “Don’t flatter yourself.”
A pause.
Then, just as quietly—
“Ah,” he said, almost to himself, the faintest exhale of a laugh following it. “That’s disappointing.”
The words landed lightly, but something in the way he said it—measured, unbothered—left a small shift in the air between you, like he’d set something down and let it sit there without pressing further.
The train swayed again, pulling the line of bodies with it. His shoulder brushed yours once more, steadier this time, less accidental. His hand remained wrapped around the pole above, fingers flexing slightly with the motion, tendons shifting beneath the skin in the harsh overhead light.
His fingers wrapped loosely around the metal, steady, unhurried. The faint pull of his sleeve revealed the line of his wrist, the subtle movement beneath his skin as his grip adjusted with the motion of the train.
The fluorescent lights overhead flickered faintly, catching along the sharp line of his jaw, the slight curve of his mouth still holding onto that quiet amusement.
Your gaze lingered a second too long.
Then moved.
The train announcement crackled overhead, distorting slightly through the speaker.
“Next stop—”
Your stop.
Your head tilted up toward the display instinctively, watching the blinking line inch closer, confirming what you’d already heard. Around you, people shifted—small movements at first, bags being adjusted, hands tightening on poles, bodies angling toward the doors in anticipation.
Suguru followed your line of sight, then looked back down at you.
“This one?” he asked.
You nodded. “Yeah. Five stops go by faster than you think.”
“Depends who you’re with,” he said, easy, like it didn’t weigh anything.
The train began to slow, the hum dipping lower as the brakes caught. The sway changed—subtle, but enough to pull everyone slightly forward.
His hand found your upper arm again, lighter this time. Not catching—just there. Steadying. Making sure you didn’t fall backwards at the sudden speed change, as if you didn’t do this every day.
The car lurched once before settling.
The doors chimed.
A soft shuffle moved through the crowd as people began to filter toward the exits. Suguru shifted, turning slightly to create space, his hand brushing briefly along your arm as he guided you forward through the small cluster of bodies.
As you reached the doors, he eased back slightly, holding a hand out to keep the door open for you.
“After you.”
There was something faintly amused in the way he said it, but softer than before. Quieter. Suguru’s words left your cheeks burning faintly, unbidden.
You stepped out onto the platform, the air cooler here, tinged with the lingering damp from outside. The noise shifted instantly—the enclosed echo of the station replacing the tight hum of the train car.
Suguru followed right behind you, the doors sliding shut again at his back with a sharp chime.
Then the train pulled away, a damp wind rushing past you in its wake, stirring the edges of your coat.
You turned slightly, glancing up at him. “So you still planning on walking me allllll the way back to my apartment?" You asked, voice light and teasing, glancing over at him as you stepped toward the escalator, letting the motion of your shoulders carry the playfulness.
He didn’t answer right away.
Not with words, at least.
But he fell into step beside you without hesitation, close enough that the edge of his coat brushed yours as you approached the escalator. The movement of the crowd carried you both forward, bodies funnelling into a loose line, the low hum of the station settling back in around you.
“Thought that was already decided,” he said after a beat, voice quiet, threaded with something easy.
You huffed a small breath of a laugh, stepping onto the escalator first. The metal ridges caught under your shoes as you moved upward, the steady climb pulling you out of the fluorescent wash of the platform below.
Suguru stepped on just behind you.
The metal steps carried you upward in a slow, steady rhythm, the hum of the mechanism settling beneath the distant echo of the platform below.
After a few steps, you turned.
Fully.
The movement brought you face-to-face with him—closer than expected, the narrow width of the escalator leaving little space between you. The step above should have put you higher, created some distance.
It didn’t.
He was still right there, just below eye level with you despite it, his height closing the gap you hadn’t accounted for. The difference barely registered—only enough to make the closeness feel more deliberate, harder to look away from.
From this angle, the overhead lights caught differently.
They traced along the bridge of his nose, the line of his cheek, leaving the rest in softer shadow. Damp strands of dark hair had loosened near his temples, curling faintly where the rain had touched them earlier. One piece had fallen just slightly out of place, close enough that you noticed before you could stop yourself.
You wanted to reach out. But your hand didn’t move.
But the thought lingered for a fraction longer than it should have.
The escalator hummed beneath your feet, carrying you both upward, but the space between you felt suspended—untouched by the motion, held in something quieter.
His gaze shifted once. Not away—just lower, briefly, like he was taking in the angle, the closeness, the way you’d turned toward him instead of forward. Then it returned to your eyes, steady, unhurried, like he had all the time in the world to stand there and look.
The space between you wasn’t large—just a single step—but it didn’t feel like distance. Not with the way his presence settled there, steady and familiar.
You let the escalator carry you the rest of the way up, the gray wash of daylight growing clearer with each second.
You stepped off first, the motion automatic, your foot landing on solid ground just as the sound of the city replaced the low hum of the station. Suguru followed a half-step behind, close enough that you felt it before you saw it.
The air outside was cooler than you’d expected.
You paused just past the exit, glancing up instinctively.
The rain had stopped.
Not completely gone—there was still a thin mist from spraying down from above, the pavement slick and shining under the streetlights—but the steady downpour from before had softened into something quieter.
The kind of aftermath that left the city damp and reflective, the air cleaner than usual.
“Well,” you said, exhaling lightly, “that’s pretty convenient.”
Suguru followed your line of sight, gaze lifting briefly before returning to you.
“Good timing,” he said.
The umbrella stayed closed at his side.
You stepped out onto the sidewalk together, falling into pace without needing to adjust. The street was a bit quieter now, the earlier rush thinned out, leaving behind the occasional passerby and the low hiss of tires moving through wet roads. It helps that your apartment wasn’t in the heart of the city, but just outside.
Your shoes tapped lightly against the pavement, the rhythm steady.
A few steps passed before he spoke again.
“You take this every day?” He asked.
You glanced over, the question landing a second off-beat. “The subway?”
“Mm.”
His gaze flicked briefly toward the street, where a line of cars sat idling at the intersection ahead, brake lights glowing red against the wet pavement.
“You don’t have a car?”
You let out a short breath of a laugh, shaking your head.
“In this economy?” You said, glancing back at him. “No.”
As if on cue, a car inched forward only to stop again a few feet later, a horn blaring as the driver tapped their brakes a little too sharply.
Then, with a small tilt of your head—
“I’ll do you one better,” you added. “With this traffic? There’s no way I’m driving.”
Suguru watched the car line up for a moment.
Then huffed a quiet laugh.
“Fair enough, I guess,” he said.
“At least on the subway I can zone out and pretend I’m not wasting 5 hours a week commuting.”
His gaze shifted back to you.
“Zoning out?” He repeated, something faintly amused threading through it.
You caught it immediately.
Your eyes narrowed slightly. “Don’t start.”
“I didn’t say anything,” he said, too easily.
“You were about to.”
“Was I?”
You held his gaze for a second, unimpressed.
He didn’t look away.
The corner of his mouth moved—just slightly, like he wasn’t in any rush to deny it.
You exhaled through your nose, shaking your head as you looked forward again, though the small smile didn’t quite leave.
“Unbelievable,” you muttered.
“Mm,” he hummed beside you.
The conversation fell quiet after that, but not in a way that felt empty.
The city stretched out ahead of you, damp and dimly lit, the glow of streetlights reflecting in long streaks across the pavement. Your steps stayed in sync, unspoken, your shoulder brushing his once, then again a few seconds later.
Neither of you adjusted.
Somewhere behind you, a car horn sounded, distant and impatient.
Ahead, your street waited—just a few blocks more.
You didn’t speed up.
Eventually, your building came into view.
The soft glow from the lobby lights spilled out onto the sidewalk, catching in the shallow puddles along the curb. The rain had left everything slick and reflective, the city quieter now, like it had settled into itself.
You adjusted your pace as you approached the entrance, fingers slipping into your coat pocket, brushing against your keys. The motion was automatic—familiar, something you’d done every day without thinking. This time, you noticed it. The way the walk was ending. The way it was supposed to end.
You stopped just short of the door, turning slightly as he came to a stop beside you.
Close. Closer than he needed to be now that there was nowhere left to go.
For a moment, neither of you moved.
This was the part that should’ve been easy. A quick thank you. Something light. A step back. The door opening, the moment closing before it had the chance to stretch into something else. You’d done it before—with coworkers, with friends, with people who walked you home because it made sense at the time and nothing more.
There was a version of this that stayed exactly that.
Simple. Normal.
Your fingers curled loosely around your keys, but you didn’t reach for the handle.
It wouldn’t be weird.
The thought came quietly, settling into place before you could push it away. People invited friends upstairs all the time. It didn’t have to mean anything.
You were still just friends.
The word lingered a second longer than it should have. Because nothing had actually happened. No lines crossed. No moment you could point to and say that was different.
And yet—
Your gaze dipped for a moment before rising again—only to find his already on you. Lately, it felt as though they always were. Or maybe you’d only just begun to notice.
Your grip on your keys tightened for a second, the cool metal pressing into your palm before easing again.
“Thanks for walking me,” you said, your voice slipping in just enough to ease the quiet that had begun to settle too heavily between you.
His expression softened, just slightly. “Of course. I was in the area anyway…plus I’ve heard that the subway can be sketchy.”
“Mm,” you said, glancing over at him. “Guess I got lucky tonight.”
The corner of his mouth moved, faint but there. The moment stretched again.
You felt it—that point where it could end. Your fingers shifted slightly around your keys.
If you invite him up, he might take it the wrong way.
The thought came, clear. Not entirely the ‘wrong way’ anymore—just heavier than you intended, carrying implications you weren’t yet ready to stand behind. Your gaze flickered to him for a second, then back to the door.
But…would that be so bad? Would it truly be so bad if he mistook your gesture as something more?
A small pause settled in. Maybe it would be good to see the way he’d react. Whether anything in his expression would shift—just slightly—like it had been all night.
Your grip tightened briefly, then eased.
And if he did take it the wrong way—
You could fix it.
Play it off. Keep it light. Say you meant it casually, like it wasn’t anything more than that. Like he was the one who misinterpreted you.
Your gaze lifted again.
“If you want,” you said, those first words coming a touch quicker than the rest, “you can come up for a bit.” Your eyes tipped up to his—wide, a little too open, the look lingering just a second longer than it needed to, as if something in it might be enough to keep him there.
It sounded lighter than it felt.
The space between you seemed to settle into itself—not empty, but suspended, like something unseen had drawn tight and held the moment in time.
Suguru didn’t answer right away. His gaze stayed on yours, steady, like he was weighing something. Not the words themselves—you got the sense it wasn’t that simple. Something quieter. The timing. The shift.
For a second, it looked like he might say yes.
It wasn’t obvious.
Just the smallest change—the way his shoulders eased, the way his attention didn’t waver, like he’d already stepped a fraction closer to the idea of it.
Your grip tightened slightly around your keys.
Then—
A breath left him, quiet, almost thoughtful. His gaze dipped for a second, like he was pulling himself back from something he hadn’t fully stepped into.
“I—” he started, then paused, the word trailing off.
A small shake of his head followed, more to himself than to you.
“Sorry,” he said, softer now. “I actually have to head out.”
“I’m meeting someone,” he added. The words settled somewhere deep, quiet but undeniable, tugging at your chest in a way you couldn’t quite place. And noticing it—feeling it linger—only made it worse, left you turning inward, unsure why it mattered at all.
He glanced past you briefly, like he was checking the time without actually looking at anything. “About a space. I’ve been trying to sort something out.”
“Oh,” you said flatly. “Right. Yeah, of course.”
You nodded once, like it made sense.
He looked back at you then.
There was something in his expression—faint, but there. Not regret exactly. Not hesitation either.
“It’s for a party,” he added after a beat, voice a little lighter now. “For Gojo’s birthday.”
Your brows lifted, the tension in your chest loosening almost all at once. The tight, unfamiliar pull from before unravelled, leaving something steadier in its place—something easier to breathe through.
It wasn’t like he was meeting some girl - not that it should matter.
“A party?” You questioned, crossing your arms over your chest.
“Yeah,” he said, the corner of his mouth shifting faintly. “I was gonna tell you. Planning a surprise party for Gojo’s birthday. Figured I’d try to plan something without him catching on for once.”
A small breath of laughter slipped out of you. “Good luck with that.”
“Mm,” he hummed. “I’ll need it.”
The moment settled again.
Different this time.
You nodded, glancing down briefly as your fingers adjusted around your keys. “Well… let me know if you need help. With planning or whatever.”
“I will,” he said, easily.
A pause.
Then—His gaze lingered just a second longer than it needed to.
“I actually have been thinking, maybe you could help me out with some of the planning this weekend.” He added, quieter.
The offer hung there, just slightly off from the ease of everything he’d said before—placed more carefully, like it mattered where it landed.
Your gaze lifted.
His gaze drifted subtly, moving from your eyes down toward your mouth before returning, slow enough that you didn’t catch it—at least, not fully.
“Yeah?” You said, softer now, the word coming out before you fully settled into it. “You want help with that?”
A brief pause.
“Only if you want to,” he said, though it didn’t quite feel like an out. His hand adjusted slightly on the umbrella, a small movement that stilled just as quickly. “Thought it might be easier with two people.”
Your mouth curved faintly, not quite a smile. “Or you just don’t trust yourself to plan something without me,” you said, light, but your gaze didn’t leave his.
That subtle shift returned at the corner of his mouth.
“Something like that.”
The quiet stretched again—closer now. The rain tapped softly overhead, filling the space neither of you moved to break.
Your shoulder brushed his, barely there, the contact lingering a second longer than it needed to.
“Okay,” you said after a moment, the word quieter this time. “This weekend’s fine.”
His gaze held yours for a beat—just long enough to register—before he gave a small nod.
“Yeah,” he said. “Okay, great…Well, I’ll text you.”
He started to shift back, the movement small but clear—an unspoken signal that he was about to leave.
Your gaze caught the strap of your laptop bag still resting against his shoulder.
“Uh—” you began, a soft, awkward laugh slipping out. “Do you mind if I take that back?”
His eyes flicked down, as if he’d only just remembered it was there.
“Right,” he said, quieter now.
He slipped the strap off his shoulder, the motion easy, but slower than it needed to be. His hand brushed yours as he passed it back—light, brief, but enough to register.
“Thanks for getting it and I home safe,” you said playfully, adjusting the weight of it against your side.
“Yeah.”
He took a small step back, enough to ease the closeness that had hung between you.
“I’ll text you,” he said.
“Sounds good.”
He turned then, hands slipping into his coat pockets as he started down the sidewalk. The distance came back slowly—step by step—until he was just another figure moving through the dim wash of the streetlights.
You stayed where you were for a second longer, watching him as he walked away from you. Your gaze lingered on his retreating figure until he turned the corner and disappeared from view.
Only then did you move.
You stepped inside your building, the warmth of the lobby settling around you, familiar and unchanged.
The quiet hum of the air conditioning and the soft shuffle of papers from the older lady at the front desk filled the space, but it didn’t reach you. Your fingers brushed the strap of your bag, tracing the faint indentation where his hand had been. A small shiver ran up your arm—not from cold, but from the memory of how close he had been, how easily the air between you had shifted.
The elevator doors slid open, and you stepped inside, pressing the button for your floor. The small space felt impossibly quiet after your walk home, the soft whir of the machinery filling in around you.
And for a moment, trapped in the quiet silver of the elevator, you couldn’t quite tell if anything had actually happened at all.
Or if everything just had.
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chapter two || where the night softened - h. higuruma
Hiromi Higuruma x F!Reader - one shot series
“A shy teacher and a quietly intense lawyer fall into a soft, grown-up love full of family chaos, sweet devotion, and the kind of romance that feels gentle right up until it doesn’t. Between brunches, flu cuddles, moving boxes, and one very handsy Hiromi Higuruma, their love story becomes equal parts tender, funny, and impossible not to root for.”
cw; smut & fluff
masterlist | series masterlist | next💌
Your first date with Hiromi Higuruma began with you standing in front of your bathroom mirror in a slip and one sock, staring at your reflection like it had personally betrayed you. “No,” you whispered to yourself, squinting. “Why do I suddenly look like I’ve never dressed before in my life?” From your phone, propped up against a jar of face cream on the counter, Shoko snorted. “You looked fine ten minutes ago,” she said.
Utahime leaned into the FaceTime frame from somewhere behind her, one hand wrapped around a mug. “You still look fine now.”
The two of them were sitting on the couch in the apartment they shared, soft lamp light behind them, Shoko half-lounging into Utahime’s side like gravity had decided she lived there now. Utahime had one of those calm, patient expressions she always wore when dealing with either you or Shoko, and Shoko, as always, looked like she had just rolled out of bed and somehow still managed to be annoyingly pretty.
You narrowed your eyes. “You two are not helping.”
“We are helping,” Shoko said. “You’re spiraling. We’re observing.”
“That is not help.”
“That’s emotional support in our household,” Utahime said gently.
You huffed and turned to the side, looking at the dress hanging from the closet door. “Maybe it’s too much.”
“It’s not too much,” Utahime said immediately. “It’s literally a dress,” Shoko added. “You’re acting like you’re showing up in a wedding gown.” You looked at the dress again.
It was soft. Pretty in a way that made your chest warm. The fabric was light and floated around your body in a way that made you feel feminine without feeling exposed, the skirt easy and graceful, the waist flattering, the neckline sweet. It wasn’t flashy. It wasn’t designer. It wasn’t anything someone rich would call impressive.
But it was beautiful and more importantly, it made you feel beautiful.
Which was apparently why you were now panicking.
You groaned and grabbed your hairbrush. “I haven’t done this in so long.”
“Yes, you have,” Shoko said.
You stopped brushing. “What?”
“You’ve gone on dates.”
“Not like this.” Shoko gave you a knowing look. “Exactly.” And unfortunately, she was right.
This was not just a date.
It was your first date with Hiromi.
Hiromi, who had texted you every day since Shoko’s celebration.
Hiromi, whose messages always started off sensible and normal before quietly becoming sweet enough to make your stomach flutter.
Hiromi, who had asked you what your favorite tea was so he could “take note of something important.”
Hiromi, who had told you after you sent a picture of your classroom bulletin board that “the children were lucky to have you.”
Hiromi, who had a dry, devastating sense of humor you had somehow only uncovered after years of knowing him in passing.
And Hiromi, who was, as of thirty minutes from now, coming to pick you up.
Utahime softened at whatever expression crossed your face. “You like him,” she said.
You groaned louder and covered your face. “That’s awful. Don’t say it like that.” Shoko leaned forward. “He likes you too.” You peeked through your fingers. “How do you know?”
“Because he looked at you at my celebration like you had interrupted his entire life.”
You stared.
Utahime nodded. “That’s actually true.”
“Also,” Shoko said, “he texted Kento asking if the restaurant he chose was ‘too formal for a first date.’” Your mouth fell open. “He what?” Shoko grinned, lazy and wicked. “Kento told me.”
“Kento told you because you bullied it out of him,” Utahime corrected. “That is irrelevant.” You felt your entire face heat. “He asked Kento?”
“Yes,” Shoko said. “And Kento, being Kento, probably gave him a deeply practical answer in bullet point format.” Utahime smiled into her tea. “He was nervous.” That made your heart do something embarrassingly soft.
Hiromi nervous.
You liked that a little too much.
You started putting on your earrings, trying to look composed even though your pulse was already betraying you. “I don’t want to mess it up.” Utahime’s face softened further. “You won’t.”
“How do you know?”
“Because,” she said simply, “you’re you.” You looked down for a second, suddenly shy.
Shoko, because tenderness from her always came with a bite, added, “And because if he messes it up, I’ll hit him with my car.”
“Shoko,” Utahime sighed. “What? Very lightly.” You laughed despite yourself.
Then your phone buzzed in your hand.
Hiromi:
I’m outside.
Your stomach dropped straight to your knees. “Oh my God,” you whispered.
Shoko immediately sat up. “He’s here?” You nodded.
Utahime clasped her hands together under her chin. “Go.”
“I can’t.”
“Yes, you can,” Shoko said. “Put the dress on, grab your purse, and stop looking like a Victorian heroine about to faint from yearning.” You gasped. “That was hateful.”
“It was accurate.” You slipped into the dress quickly, smoothing it over your hips, then stepped back so they could see.
For a moment, both women just looked.
Then Utahime smiled wide and warm. “You look beautiful.” Shoko nodded once. “Yeah. You do.” And because that meant more coming from Shoko than most compliments did from anyone else, you smiled shyly and touched the skirt.
“Okay,” you said, exhaling. “Okay.”
“Call us when you get home,” Utahime said. “Or text if you’re too busy getting kissed,” Shoko said. “Shoko.”
“What? I’m manifesting.” You hung up on them while they were still laughing.
That gave you exactly seven seconds of silence to breathe before you were grabbing your purse, checking that your keys were in it, smoothing your hair one last time, and stepping out into the hallway with a heart that felt much too large for your chest.
By the time you got downstairs, Hiromi was already standing beside his car and for one brief, ridiculous second, you forgot how to walk.
He was in a dark suit again, of course he was. But this one was a little less severe than the one he’d worn to Shoko’s celebration. Still elegant. Still expensive-looking in that quiet way good tailoring always did. His dark hair was combed back a little more neatly tonight, and when he looked up and saw you, his whole face changed in one soft, stunned beat.
He did not speak immediately.
His eyes moved over you once, respectful but helplessly appreciative, and then back to your face. “You look…” He stopped, swallowed, then tried again. “You look beautiful.” Your cheeks burned hot. “So do you,” you blurted, then winced. “Not beautiful. Handsome. Although you could also be beautiful. That’s not—” You closed your eyes briefly. “I had a much smoother sentence prepared in my head.”
To your relief, Hiromi smiled. “No,” he said, voice warm. “I liked that one.” He stepped forward to open the passenger door for you, one hand braced lightly on the top of the car. “Thank you.”
“Of course.” When you slid into the seat, you caught the faint scent of his cologne as he leaned in just enough to make sure your dress wouldn’t catch in the door. It was such a small gesture, but it made your heart ache a little.
He closed the door gently.
Then rounded the front of the car and got in.
For a moment, neither of you spoke.
You were suddenly, acutely aware that this was real.
This was a date.
With Hiromi.
Your palms felt a little warm.
He adjusted his watch, glanced over at you, and something in his mouth curved. “Nervous?” he asked.
You turned to him. “A little.”
“Good.” Your brows lifted. “Good?” He started the car. “It would be unfair if I were the only one.”
You blinked.
Then smiled.
“You’re nervous too?” He pulled away from the curb, one hand steady on the wheel. “I am.” That made you relax instantly.
Well. Not relax.
More like melt a little.
The drive to the restaurant passed in a soft flow of easy conversation. He asked how your day had gone, and you told him one of your students had announced with full confidence that her goldfish was “emotionally manipulative,” which made him laugh hard enough to look away from the road for a second in disbelief. “What does that even mean?”
“She said every time she tried to leave the room, it stared at her.”
“That’s not manipulation.”
“You tell her that.” He shook his head, smiling to himself, and for a while you just watched the city lights slide across his face.
When the restaurant came into view, your stomach gave a tiny, uncertain turn.
It was beautiful.
The kind of place with glowing windows and polished brass handles and a host stand that looked more expensive than your rent. You tried not to let it show on your face, because it wasn’t that you had never been somewhere nice, but this was very nice.
Hiromi must have noticed the shift in you anyway. “If you hate it, we can leave,” he said at once, before even pulling fully into the valet lane.
You turned quickly. “No, no. I don’t hate it.”
“You’re sure?”
“Yes,” you said, then smiled. “I’m just trying not to get spaghetti on myself in advance.” That got a low laugh out of him. “There’s no spaghetti.”
“Oh. Even scarier.” He smiled again, and you went inside together.
At first, you tried to settle into it.
Really, you did.
The restaurant was dim and elegant and full of low conversation and clinking glassware. The kind of place where every plate looked arranged with tweezers and every person inside seemed to know exactly how to hold themselves. Your dress was lovely, but next to the women in luxury fabrics and the men with watches that looked more expensive than your car, you felt suddenly very aware that your clothes were not from some designer boutique, that your purse was practical, that your heels had been purchased because they were comfortable enough to stand in, not because some label made them valuable.
You smiled anyway.
You were not ashamed of yourself.
Still, you noticed the host’s eyes flick down over you and then back up in that quick little sweep people did when they thought they were subtle.
You noticed one of the servers do it too.
Then another.
Not overtly rude.
Just enough.
Enough to make something inside you shrink, just a little.
You kept your smile in place and tried not to think about it as you sat down across from Hiromi, napkin folded in your lap, candlelight flickering between you.
He was speaking—asking if you wanted sparkling or still water—but then he stopped.
Because he had seen it.
Of course he had.
Hiromi missed very little.
He looked at you for one moment too long. His expression did not harden, exactly. It simply went very still.
Then, with a calmness so deliberate it startled you, he stood.
The waiter had just approached. “Actually,” Hiromi said smoothly, already reaching for his wallet, “I think we’ll be leaving.” The waiter blinked. “Sir?” Hiromi gave him a polite, unreadable smile. “I apologize. This place is lovely, but I don’t think I’ll be able to enjoy a conversation here. I have the feeling everyone can hear me think.” The blame settled entirely on himself.
Graceful. Quiet. Intentional.
He was giving you an exit without putting the discomfort on you.
Your heart squeezed. “Oh,” you said softly, standing too. “That’s alright.” The waiter stammered something polite. The host looked flustered. Hiromi thanked them, perfectly civil, and then placed one warm hand at the small of your back as he guided you out.
The moment the cool evening air hit your face, you exhaled.
Hiromi glanced down at you. “I’m sorry.” You looked up at him. “For what?”
“For choosing badly.” Your expression softened. “You didn’t choose badly.”
“I did.”
“You didn’t know.” His jaw shifted slightly. “I should have.” You wanted to tell him that was impossible. That he couldn’t have known. That none of it had technically been enough to qualify as overt cruelty. Just the quiet kind of social staring people did when they made assumptions about class and belonging and worth.
But you also knew that what mattered most right then was not defending strangers.
It was the fact that he had seen you.
He had noticed the tiny change in your face and he had gotten you out of there without making you feel pitied.
That mattered.
A lot.
So you smiled gently and said, “Where are you taking me, then?” Something eased in his face. “There’s a ramen place a few streets over,” he said. “It’s smaller. Better food. Less posturing.” You let out a little laugh. “Less posturing sounds wonderful.” His mouth curved. “Good.”
The ramen shop was everything the other place was not.
Warm, soft-lit, and alive.
The windows were fogged slightly from the kitchen heat. The air smelled like broth and garlic and seared meat and soy and something sweet in the rice. There was a little bell over the door, handwritten specials on a board near the register, and a row of mismatched ceramic bowls on a shelf behind the counter. It felt lived in. Loved. Real and the moment you stepped inside, your whole face changed.
Hiromi saw it happen and smiled. “Oh,” you breathed, already softer. “Oh, this smells amazing.”
“I was hoping you’d say that.” The hostess, a cheerful woman with flour dusted faintly on the sleeve of her sweater, sat you by the window. The menus were laminated and slightly worn in the corners.
You nearly groaned when you opened yours.
“Hiromi.” He looked up from his. “Hm?”
“I could cry.” He glanced at the menu, then at you. “Good cry?”
“Yes.” You clutched it dramatically to your chest. “This is the kind of food that fixes a person spiritually.” That earned a laugh. “What are you getting?” You scanned the menu again, eyes widening. “I don’t know. Everything. The pork gyoza. No, wait—these crispy garlic dumplings. No, wait, this grilled rice bowl looks illegal.” He leaned his elbows on the table. “Illegal?”
“Yes. Look.” You turned the menu toward him and pointed. “Soy-glazed beef, soft egg, scallions, charred corn, sesame rice, pickled cucumber, crispy shallots?” His mouth twitched. “I see.”
“That’s wicked.” He smiled and shook his head. “Order it.”
“Really?”
“You don’t need my permission.”
“No, but I enjoy your support.” He let out a low breath of laughter and nodded once. “Then you have it.”
You ended up ordering the garlic dumplings, the rice bowl, and a little side platter of sesame cucumber salad and miso-roasted mushrooms because restraint abandoned you halfway through the menu. Hiromi ordered tonkotsu ramen with extra chashu and a side of fried tofu, then, after watching you debate whether you wanted one of the house milk buns for dessert, quietly ordered one of those too without telling you.
By the time your drinks arrived, you were already more comfortable.
So was he.
It was in the way he sat now, less rigid, the line of his shoulders finally easy. The suit jacket was still on, the tie still neat, but the severity of him had loosened in this place, in this gentler light.
You tucked one leg beneath the other in your seat. “This feels much better.” He looked at you over the rim of his glass. “I’m glad.”
“I’m also glad you rescued me before I had to pretend sparkling water made me feel sophisticated.”
“Doesn’t it?”
“No. It makes me feel like I’m drinking expensive television static.” He laughed again.
Really laughed and God, it did something to you every time. “You are,” he said, shaking his head, “dangerously easy to be around.” Your eyes flickered up to his. “That sounds like a compliment.”
“It was.” The blush that rose in your cheeks was immediate and traitorous.
Hiromi noticed and this time, instead of looking flustered himself, he looked quietly pleased.
The food came in waves.
The dumplings were crisp and steaming, the rice bowl smelled so good you nearly closed your eyes in public, and Hiromi, after one bite of his ramen, actually relaxed into a proper slouch by the window like a man whose soul had returned to his body.
You laughed, pointing your chopsticks at him. “There. That. I saw that.” He looked up. “Saw what?”
“The real you. The one who likes noodles.”
“That’s hardly a secret.”
“It is to me. Usually you look like you survive on coffee and legal documents.”
“I do survive on coffee and legal documents.”
“Well, now you contain multitudes.”
That got another small smile from him.
Between bites, conversation drifted more deeply than it had at Shoko’s celebration.
You told him more about your work, about the sweetness and chaos of teaching children who were still small enough to cry over a broken crayon and old enough to start forming little ideas about the world. You told him how much you loved seeing a child understand something for the first time. How one of your students had once hugged your waist so tightly after learning to read a full page aloud that you’d had to hide tears at your desk during lunch.
Hiromi listened the way he always did—fully.
Not half listening. Not waiting for his turn to speak. Just quietly, attentively there.
“That suits you,” he said finally. “What does?”
“Teaching.” You smiled. “You think so?”
“Yes.” His eyes held yours for a second. “You’re gentle. The world could stand to have more people like you around children.” Something about the way he said it—so plain, so certain—made you look down into your rice bowl with a shy smile. “You say nice things very seriously.”
“That’s because I mean them.” There was absolutely no defense against that.
You took a bite of rice just to buy yourself a second.
When the conversation shifted to family, it happened easily.
You asked about his parents first, and he rested his forearm along the table, thumb brushing the side of his glass. “They’re good,” he said. “Quiet. Steady. Still together. My mother calls every Sunday whether I answer or not. My father pretends not to care what I’m doing and then asks seven questions.” You smiled. “That’s sweet.”
“It is,” he admitted. “I’m an only child, so they’ve always… focused.”
“Oh, you poor thing.” His brows lifted. “Poor thing?”
“Yes. All that attention? No siblings to divide the damage?” He huffed a laugh. “I managed.”
“Well, I didn’t have that problem. I have two older brothers.”
“Really?” You nodded. “Ren and Mateo.” He repeated them softly, as if committing the names to memory. “Older brothers.”
“Yes. Which means I was bullied with love from birth.”
“How much older?”
“Ren is six years older than me. Mateo is four years older.”
“That explains something.” You tilted your head. “What?”
“You have younger sister energy.” You gasped. “I do not.”
“You do.”
“That is slander.” He was smiling now, slow and smug. “You absolutely do.”
“No. Explain yourself.” He leaned back slightly in his seat. “You’re sweet. Chatty when you’re comfortable. A little dramatic.”
“A little?”
He gave you a look.
You pressed a hand to your chest. “Wow.” He went on as if you had not interrupted. “And I suspect your brothers indulged you more than they admitted.” You narrowed your eyes. “Mateo did. Ren acted like I was annoying and then secretly carried snacks for me everywhere.” Hiromi smiled. “Exactly.” You pointed at him. “That does not mean I have younger sister energy.”
“It means I’m right.”
You made an indignant sound, which only made his smile deepen.
Then he said, softer, “I’d like to hear more about them.” And something in your chest went warm again.
So you told him.
About Ren being serious and dependable and somehow becoming the brother you called when your sink leaked because he never panicked. About Mateo being louder, warmer, more reckless, the kind who texted in all caps and showed up with food unannounced.
About family holidays and old fights and the way your mother still fussed over whether you were eating enough even though you were very obviously a grown woman with a fully functioning kitchen.
He listened, and then he told you about his own parents in return. About how his mother still overwatered every plant she owned and blamed “the changing weather” when they died. About how his father once tried to help him with paperwork and somehow made it worse. About childhood dinners where silence had not meant coldness, just comfort. About being the only child in a house where expectations had not been cruel, just constant.
You could have sat there for hours and, apparently, he could too.
Because sometime after the bowls had been mostly emptied and the dessert bun had arrived—revealing his secret order, which made you gasp in delight—he loosened fully in front of you.
It started with the tie.
You had been saying something about one of your students trying to mail a rock to the moon when Hiromi reached up and tugged at the knot with one hand.
Your eyes followed the motion before you could stop them.
He noticed.
Of course he noticed.
A very slight, very smug expression touched his mouth.
Warmth flooded your face instantly.
He loosened the tie and slipped it free, folding it once and setting it beside him.
Then the suit jacket came off and, really, that should not have been so devastating.
It was just a jacket.
A perfectly ordinary, dark suit jacket.
But when he laid it carefully over the back of the booth and reached for the top button of his shirt, undoing one, then another, before rolling his sleeves up his forearms with slow, thoughtless ease— you nearly forgot your own name.
His forearms were strong. Tanned a little darker than the rest of him. Veined in that unfair, distracting way men somehow never seemed to understand the power of. His collarbone showed just slightly at the open throat of his shirt. He looked less like a lawyer now and more like a man you would have written badly about in a diary if you were still sixteen.
You dragged your eyes back to your tea.
Too late.
Hiromi leaned in slightly. “You alright?” You nodded too fast. “Perfectly.”
“Hm.” You could hear the smile in that single sound.
You dared a glance up.
There it was.
Smug.
Cute.
Terrible.
“You’re blushing,” he said. “No, I’m not.”
“You are.”
“That’s very rude of you to point out.”
“I’m not rude,” he said mildly. “I’m observant.”
“You took your jacket off like a man in a romance novel and now you’re making it my problem.” His laughter came low and helpless, shoulders shaking once. “A romance novel?”
“Yes.”
“That’s a serious accusation.”
“You unbuttoned your shirt.”
“I was warm.”
“You rolled your sleeves.”
“I continue to be warm.” You narrowed your eyes.
He looked far too pleased with himself now and worse—somehow worse—was the fact that you liked him this way too. Less careful. More playful. More openly aware of the effect he had on you and willing, now, to enjoy it. “You’re flirting with me,” you accused.
He tilted his head. “Yes.” The honesty of it nearly killed you.
You looked away, smiling helplessly into your tea.
“Oh my God.”
“Should I stop?” You glanced back at him.
He was watching you steadily now, but there was gentleness under the teasing. A real question beneath the smugness and that softened you all over again. “No,” you said quietly. “You shouldn’t.”
Something changed in his eyes.
Not darker, exactly.
Just warmer. Fuller.
As if the answer had pleased him more than he’d expected.
The walk back to his car was slow.
The air outside had turned cooler, and your full stomach and warm tea had left you soft all over, sleepy in the nicest way. Hiromi carried himself more loosely now, jacket folded over one arm, tie in his pocket, shirt still open at the throat.
You tried not to look too much.
You failed often.
He opened the passenger door for you again, and when you settled in, you found yourself not wanting the night to end yet.
Apparently, he felt the same.
Because as he drove, fingers easy on the wheel, he glanced at you and said, “Would it be alright if I came up for a little while?” Your heart skipped. “Yes,” you said. “I’d like that.” By the time you reached your apartment building, you were acutely aware of every tiny thing. The sound of your heels on the pavement. The brush of your dress around your knees. The warmth of him beside you in the elevator. The quiet between you, no longer awkward but charged with something softer. More delicate.
Your apartment felt small in the sweetest way when you opened the door.
Warm lamp light. Books on the coffee table. A throw blanket half-folded over the arm of the couch. The faint scent of vanilla and clean laundry.
And then— A tiny streak of fur shot around the corner. “Well, there she is,” you said, immediately melting as your cat trotted toward you with her tail held high.
Hiromi looked down just as the little gray-and-cream cat stopped at your feet and let out an imperious little meow.
He softened instantly. “This is your daughter?” he asked.
You gasped. “Yes. Her name is Miso.”
“Miso,” he repeated, crouching down.
She stared at him with huge, suspicious eyes. “This is a very important moment,” you whispered. “She doesn’t like everyone.”
Hiromi extended a hand slowly, letting Miso sniff his fingers first.
She blinked at him.
Then, to your absolute disbelief, rubbed her face against his knuckles.
Your mouth fell open. “Traitor.” Hiromi looked over his shoulder at you, smiling. “I thought you said she was discerning.”
“She is. Which means this is devastating.” He laughed softly and stood.
You slipped off your shoes by the door and moved toward the kitchen. “Do you want tea?”
“Yes, please.” You smiled. “I remember.” He leaned one shoulder against the counter as you filled the kettle. “You remember what?”
“That you like black tea without sugar.” His face changed in a way so small someone else might have missed it.
But you didn’t. “You remembered that?” he asked.
You looked down shyly, smiling to yourself. “I was listening.” For a moment, he just watched you.
And the quiet between you grew more intimate for it.
You made tea together in the soft domestic hush of your kitchen, Miso winding around your ankles dramatically until you bent to scoop her up and kiss the top of her head. Hiromi watched you the whole time with that same steady, thoughtful look that always made you feel like the center of something important.
When the tea was ready, you carried the mugs to the couch.
Hiromi sat first, one arm along the back cushion, body angled toward you, and when you sat beside him—close this time, close enough that your knees nearly brushed—something in the room seemed to exhale.
The date had gone so well.
Too well, maybe.
In that dangerous way where everything felt natural enough to stop feeling like a date and start feeling like a memory you would want to keep forever.
You wrapped both hands around your mug. “Thank you for tonight.” His eyes moved over your face slowly. “You don’t need to thank me.”
“I do,” you said. “You made me feel…”
You trailed off.
He waited.
“Comfortable,” you finished softly. “Seen.” The words sat there between you.
Real. Bare.
Hiromi set his tea down carefully on the coffee table.
Then he turned toward you fully. “I wanted you to,” he said, voice quiet.
Your heart stuttered.
He looked different here in your apartment than he had anywhere else. Softer. Less guarded. The rolled sleeves, the open collar, the hair a little looser now. His eyes darker in the warm lamp light.
You could hear the faint hum of your refrigerator in the kitchen. The city muffled beyond the window. Miso jumping onto the chair in the corner with one indignant squeak and underneath all of that, your own heartbeat. “Hiromi,” you said, and his name came out almost like a question.
His gaze dropped briefly to your mouth.
Then back up.
He did not rush you.
That might have been the sweetest thing of all.
One of his big hands lifted slowly, giving you every chance to pull away, and brushed a strand of hair back from your face. His fingertips grazed your cheek.
You leaned into the touch before you could stop yourself.
His expression softened into something that made your chest ache. “Can I kiss you?” he asked.
Your answer was immediate and breathless. “Yes.” He kissed you like a man who had thought about it all night.
Softly at first.
Carefully.
His hand stayed at your cheek, thumb warm beneath your ear, as his mouth touched yours with a tenderness so quiet it made your whole body melt. It was not hurried. Not greedy. Just warm and searching and sweet enough that your eyes fluttered shut at once.
You kissed him back with a tiny, involuntary sound.
That was all it took.
His other hand came to rest lightly at your waist, fingers spreading there as he kissed you again, a little deeper this time, and the warmth of him, the scent of tea and clean cologne and the faint broth from dinner still clinging to his shirt, made your head spin.
You shifted closer without meaning to.
He let out a low breath against your mouth, then kissed you again, slower, savoring.
Your hand found his chest.
Then his shoulder.
Then the side of his neck.
He made the softest sound when your fingers brushed the skin at his open collar, and that little sound sent heat down your spine.
When he finally drew back, only an inch, his forehead almost touched yours.
You were both breathing a little harder.
Your lips were tingling.
His eyes searched your face like he was trying to memorize it. “You’re very sweet,” he murmured, almost to himself.
You smiled shyly. “You say that like it surprised you.”
“It didn’t,” he said. “This did.” And before you could ask what he meant, he kissed you again.
This time you were ready for him.
Ready enough to slide one hand up into his hair a little, ready enough to press into him with a soft sound when his hand at your waist tightened. His mouth moved over yours with more certainty now, more want, but still all gentleness—still that lovely restraint, like he was trying not to overwhelm you even while he very clearly wanted more of you.
He kissed like he spoke when he meant something.
Fully.
When the kiss broke this time, it was because you were smiling too hard into it to continue properly.
Hiromi pulled back just enough to look at you.
You laughed softly, embarrassed and happy all at once. “What?” he asked, voice rougher now. “Nothing.” His thumb stroked your cheek. “That’s not true.”
“You’re just…” You ducked your head for a second, then looked back up. “You’re very good at kissing.” For one beautiful second, Hiromi Higuruma actually looked flustered.
Then he laughed under his breath, low and disbelieving.
“That’s generous.”
“It’s true.”
His eyes held yours.
Then his mouth curved in that now-familiar way—smug, but soft around the edges. “I could say the same about you.” Your face burned again. “You flirt too much now.”
“I had to make up for lost time.”
The answer sank into you warm and golden.
You looked at him for a second longer than necessary.
Then, because you were feeling soft and silly and a little brave, you leaned in and kissed him once more yourself.
This one made him still.
Just for a second.
As if the fact that you had chosen it, you had reached for him, mattered in some deeper place than he expected. Then his hand slid to the back of your neck and he kissed you back with a tenderness so full it almost hurt.
When you eventually separated again, you ended up tucked against his side, your head resting near his shoulder, his arm around you as if it had always belonged there.
The tea had gone mostly untouched.
Miso had claimed the opposite end of the couch and was pretending not to watch the two of you with narrowed cat eyes.
The room felt hushed. Gentle. Full.
You could have fallen asleep like that.
Instead, you smiled into his shoulder and said, “You know, Shoko is going to be unbearable when she finds out you came upstairs.” Hiromi’s chest moved with a quiet laugh. “Gojo will be worse.” You sighed. “That’s true.” He tilted his head slightly against yours. “We could keep it to ourselves.” You smiled. “That sounds impossible.”
“It does.”
For a while after that, neither of you said much.
You simply sat there beside him, warm and close, your fingers resting lightly over the back of his hand where it lay on your knee and in the quiet, you felt it.
The way something had deepened tonight.
The way the nerves had softened into trust. Into laughter. Into comfort. Into the sweetness of tea in your own apartment and a handsome man with his sleeves rolled up kissing you like he had all the time in the world.
When Hiromi finally stood to leave, it was late enough that the room had gone sleepy around the edges. He slipped his jacket back on but left the tie in his pocket, and somehow that felt more intimate than if he’d left it off entirely.
At the door, he looked down at you with that same quiet intensity he always wore when he was feeling more than he said aloud. “I had a very good time tonight,” he said.
You smiled. “Me too.” His hand lifted, brushing once more along your cheek.
Then, because apparently he had decided your blush was his favorite thing to cause, he bent and pressed one last soft kiss to your mouth.
Brief.
Sweet.
Enough to leave you breathless anyway.
“Goodnight,” he murmured. “Goodnight, Hiromi.” He lingered one second longer.
Then he left and when the door closed behind him, you stood there for a moment in your pretty dress, lips still warm, heart full to the edges, while Miso rubbed against your ankle and meowed like she had opinions.
You bent and scooped her up, pressing your face into her fur with a helpless smile. “Well,” you whispered to her, still dazed. “I think I’m in trouble.” Miso, being no help at all, simply purred.
after all the pain you endured during your delivery, sukuna refuses to ever let his wife go through it again
[a/n: based of that one scene in "when life gives you tangerines"]
11 hours, 34 minutes, and 34 seconds. then 40. then more. sukuna counts them all without meaning to, like something wired too deep into him to stop. each second stretching, dragging, carving itself into his bones as time refuses to move fast enough.
his eyes burn, raw and unforgiving, a kind of ache he’s never known. not even in those long, merciless nights bent over a laptop back in his college days. this is worse. dark circles bruise the skin beneath his eyes, lashes still damp.
he sits rigid in a cheap, dark blue hospital chair, one that creaks every time he so much as breathes too deeply, yet he hasn’t moved from it in hours. maybe longer. his body feels locked in place, but his mind drifts, slipping in and out of a dull haze until the sound of a door jolts him upright again, sharp, alert, feral in the way his gaze snaps toward it. every time without fail. his hands rest on his knees, fingers twitching, trembling despite himself, nails pressing into fabric as if grounding himself is the only thing keeping him together.
the baby is fine. he knows she is. he’s checked too many times for anyone to comment on without risking the look he’d give them. each visit ends the same way: standing on the other side of the glass, large hand pressed flat against it, breath fogging the surface as something unfamiliar tightens in his chest. he doesn’t stay long. he can’t. not when you’re not there.
everything in him had gone cold— no, empty the moment they rushed you away. the world had narrowed down to the sight of you on that bed, face twisted in pain, your fingers clutching his with a strength that spoke of fear you rarely ever showed. and he had felt it too, sharp and suffocating, coiling tight in his chest in a way he couldn’t fight, couldn’t control.
then a clipboard had been shoved into his line of sight, a nurse speaking too quickly. “mr. ryomen, you need to sign this form in case the baby—”
“my wife.”
his voice had cut through hers without hesitation. not loud nor panicked. just final.
for a moment, everything had stilled. even you had looked at him, eyes wide despite the pain. He hadn’t even looked back at the paper.
“i choose my wife.”
after that, they had forced him out, the doors closing between you with a finality that made something ugly claw at his ribs. since then, all he’s done is wait, endless, suffocating waiting, counting seconds like they’re the only thing he has left to hold onto.
people came. of course they did. gojo, loud and insufferable even in a hospital, arms filled with gifts that cost more than necessary. geto, calm, offering congratulations that barely registered. toji lingering off to the side, megumi in his arms as he tried, awkwardly, to show him the newborn through the glass, jin nearby with itadori and choso, their presence filling the hallway with low conversation and quiet excitement.
sukuna acknowledged none of it beyond a glance at best.
because none of it mattered.
not the gifts, not the voices, not the child he had already seen and silently loved.
the only thing on his mind was you.
his wife.
“mr. ryomen?”
his name lands and something in him snaps taut and slack all at once. sukuna is on his feet before he’s fully aware of moving, the chair scraping faintly behind him. the sudden shift makes his vision tilt for a second, exhaustion catching up, but he steadies through it, jaw set, legs carrying him forward even as they threaten to give.
“she’s awake, everything is stable. you may see her now.”
that’s all he needs.
the door barely has time to open before he’s through it, pace quick, bordering on reckless, yet each step feels impossibly heavy as the weight of the past hours clings to him, refusing to let go. the sterile white of the room greets him, too bright, too clean, and then—
you.
everything else falls away.
you’re laid against the stark sheets, small in a way he’s never seen you before, exhaustion carved into every line of your face, the aftermath of something brutal and beautiful all at once. you look fragile. spent. human.
and still— still you’ve never looked more perfect to him.
his chest tightens, something sharp and overwhelming lodging itself beneath his ribs as his eyes lock onto yours. they find him easily, soft despite the fatigue, a faint smile ghosting over your lips as your hand lifts, barely reaching for him.
“my love…” your voice is hoarse, worn thin, and it nearly undoes him.
he closes the distance in seconds, dropping to his knees at your bedside without care for anything else, large hand immediately enclosing yours as if to confirm you’re real, warm and alive. here. he brings it to his face, pressing slow, reverent kisses to your knuckles, your palm, your wrist, lingering like he’s trying to memorize the feel of you all over again.
something wet slips against your skin.
“ryo…?” your voice is softer now, concerned, your fingers twitching as if to pull away, but he doesn’t let go not out of force, never that, but out of something far more desperate.
he tightens just enough to keep you there, head bowed, shoulders trembling in a way that doesn’t belong to a man like him.
“there…” his voice catches, rough, uneven, breath hitching as the memory crashes back; your face twisted in pain, the sound of it, the helplessness of being torn away. his brows pull together sharply, grip faltering for a second before tightening again. “there won’t be another.”
he presses another kiss to your skin, slower this time. like sealing a vow into you.
“there won’t be another,” he repeats, quieter, but no less absolute.
you blink at him, caught off guard, and then despite everythin a soft, breathy laugh escapes you. “don’t be stupid, ryo.”
his head lifts just enough for you to see the way his expression twists, raw and unguarded, eyes rimmed red, lashes clumped.
“i don’t—” his breath stutters, voice breaking in a way he doesn’t bother to hide, “—want to see you like that again.” his hand curls into the sheets beside you, gripping the fabric tight as if grounding himself, “not like that. not ever.”
you soften instantly, both hands coming up carefully to cradle his face, guiding him closer despite the way he resists for half a second.
“did you see her?” you murmur, thumb brushing beneath his eye, catching the dampness there.
he nods, quick, almost eager despite everything, leaning into your touch without thinking. “i did… but—” his voice drops, “i wanted to see my wife.”
“oh, ryo…” you pull him closer, pressing a gentle kiss to his forehead, then the bridge of his nose, and finally his lips; soft, lingering, tasting faintly of salt.
he exhales against you, eyes closing briefly, forehead coming to rest against yours as his hand finds its place around yours again, unwilling to let go.
“there won’t be another,” he says, quieter now. final.
you study him for a moment. at the fear still lingering beneath the surface, and the love that outweighs everything else, and your expression softens into something certain.
“okay,” you whisper, brushing your nose against his. “there won’t.”
it's 2:49am i should fucking sleep but i finally got the idea how to write this and i had to
author's note ⸺ well hey there....long time no see...I am sooooooo back. It's been 8 months. I accidentally took a break travelling the world and moving apartments. I have missed one of my favourite pastimes - writing. and I am excited to pick up where I left off. I hope some of you are still following this series lmaooo, if not, I hope to welcome some new readers. Thank you all for so many messages, I am okay and thank you endlessly for caring <3
pairing ⸺ Suguru Geto x Reader
content ⸺ corporate-worker!reader, emotional tension, modern au, the good-ole-days trope, reader uses female pronouns, miss gorl finally realized her feelings, detailed descriptions smoking (weed + cigs), high tensions, I want them both so bad taglist at end, 4.1k, this is an 18+ series - mdni!!
divider credit: @/toastray ୨୧ art credit: @/juziluohai
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That night, you went to bed almost immediately.
You moved through the apartment like someone trying to outrun something, drawing every curtain closed and flicking off each light as if dimming them could silence the way your thoughts were racing.
It didn’t work.
Lying in bed, you stared at the ceiling longer than you'd care to admit, eyes adjusting to the dark, mind doing anything but resting.
You flipped your pillow, tried breathing exercises, even contemplated putting on one of those high frequency background noise loops Gojo had once sent you—’for when your brain is being an asshole’—but none of it helped. The silence only seemed to sharpen the memory of his voice.
“I’ve always paid attention to you.” — “I think I started paying attention to you before you ever said a word to me.”
You ran those words through your mind so many times they started to lose their shape. By morning they didn’t feel like sentences anymore — just fragments you kept rearranging, trying to force them into something harmless.
He was just being kind, you told yourself. That was 110% platonic.
Yeah…well you can imagine how well that worked.
୨୧ ୨୧ ୨୧
Thursday came and went the way Thursdays always did. Work. Emails. A spreadsheet that wouldn't format properly, no matter how many times you sent the file to someone. But something was off-kilter.
By the time lunch rolled around, you gave up pretending.
You stepped out of the building without your jacket, leaving it hanging neatly over your chair. Your headphones rested around your neck, and you held your phone loosely in one hand.
The weather was deceptively pleasant—sunlight warmed your face, and a soft breeze moved through your blouse. It should have eased something in you, but it didn’t.
You didn’t even think about it. You just tapped Gojo’s name and brought the phone to your ear.
He picked up on the second ring. “Heyyyyyy,” he greeted, sing-song. “To what do I owe the lunchtime ca—”
“I think I’m losing it,” you said, abruptly cutting him off.
A pause. “Alright. Losing what, specifically?”
“My grip. On reality. On logic. I don’t know.”
“Okay,” he said slowly. “Well, lucky for you, I specialize in delusion. Walk me through it.”
You started talking. Or maybe rambling was the better word. You spoke so fast, Gojo didn’t even have time to speak—and that says a lot.
You didn’t say Suguru’s name—not yet—but Gojo didn’t need you to. You said “last night,” and “the way he looked at me,” and “he said something weird,” and Gojo made one noise of realization that told you he was already ten steps ahead.
The longer you talked, the more your feet moved. Past the café with the chipped tiles out front. Past the crosswalk with the busted button that never registered the first press.
“I mean—it wasn’t anything,” you said, more to yourself than him. “He was just being nice, probably? I’m definitely just reading too much into it. Like—it was just a friendly thing to say, right? People say stuff like that all the time.”
Gojo hummed. “Mhm. And if I looked at you all soft and said I’ve always paid attention to you—like, really paid attention—would you find that normal and platonic?”
Your nose wrinkled before you could stop it, mouth pulling to one side as the expression settled in. A quiet, wordless absolutely not written plainly across your face.
Silence stretched on the line—your answer given, just not out loud.
“Mhm,” he said again, smug. “Just as I thought.”
You were Olympic-level speed walking now, but guided by an unconscious direction.
A frustrated sigh escaped your lips as you tried to counter his point. “You know you don’t know everything, right? Suguru has always been a mysterious guy…”
You hesitated just a second before walking into the corner store, and then headed straight to the check-out counter, waiting for the man who was working to finish with a previous customer.
Gojo was still talking in your ear.
“Right,” he said. “Because men always say cryptic, emotionally loaded things for completely normal friendship reasons.”
You groaned, dragging a hand down your face. “Okay, well when you put it like that, I sound stupid for questioning things.”
“I’m just saying,” he went on, tone infuriatingly casual, “when I want to signal to someone that we’re just friends-of-friends, I totalllyyy make intense eye contact and tell them I’ve been silently observing them for years. Super normal. Very low-stakes.”
“I’m just tired. My brain’s being dramatic—It really isn’t that deep.” You kept your voice low, eyes locked on the rows of gum and lighters beside the counter, searching for something to focus on. The cold air inside the store prickled against your arms, too sharp after the sun, and still, a strange heat crept upward—starting in your chest, rising into your face.
“Oh, for sure,” he said. “That’s why you’re calling me on your lunch break, speed-walking across the city like you’re being chased by your own feelings.”
Gojo let out another dramatic sigh—though it was less exasperated this time, more thoughtful.
“Suguru’s not the kind of guy who dives in headfirst. He takes his time. Really waits it out.”
You stayed quiet, walking a little slower now as you approached the crosswalk.
“He doesn’t say things like that unless he means them,” Gojo continued. “And he doesn’t mean them unless he’s already sure.”
You exhaled hard through your nose. “Yeah? And what the hell is that supposed to mean?” You said, sharper than you meant to. “You know you’re starting to sound pretty cryptic to me now too–Uh–just hold on one sec, okay?”
You shoved your phone into your back pocket, ensuring that Gojo would not be able to eavesdrop, as you nodded at the guy behind the counter. He didn’t look up from his register when he asked, “What’ll it be?”
“Just a pack of reds,” you said quietly.
He reached for the pack, slid it across the counter with a flat kind of indifference.
The sound of the scanner beeped, harsh and sterile against the hum of the store’s air conditioning. You dug a few bills from your pocket, passing them over without thinking.
You mumbled a thanks, pushed the door open with your shoulder, and the bell overhead chimed as you stepped back into the sunlight.
“Alright, back to what I was saying…” You said bluntly, bringing your phone back up to your ear.
“You’re starting to sound pretty cryptic, for the love of god, please, just say what you mean Gojo.” You adjusted your grip on the phone, the cigarette pack still cool against your palm.
“I’ll pretend you didn’t just put me in your pocket…” You could hear him shifting on the other end—some faint rustling, a soft exhale like he was weighing what to say next.
The street noise around you faded a little, replaced by the muted pulse of your own heartbeat in your ears. For once, he didn’t sound like he was gearing up for another joke. “The question’s not about him anymore. It’s about you.”
You didn’t answer right away. Not because you didn’t have thoughts—but because there were too many, actually.
All tangled. All loud. And none of them felt safe to say out loud yet. You watched your own feet move along the sidewalk, scuffed the tip of your shoe against a crack in the concrete, and focused on the sound of your breathing instead.
“I mean,” he said, a little lighter, “you can keep spiralling and pretending you don’t know how you feel. That’s finee. To be honest, I don’t really care how long this takes. I find it quite entertaining…But he’s already decided how he feels, and you can obviously see that now. He’s just waiting for you to catch up.”
There was a long silence on the line. You could hear the quiet hum of traffic in the background—his end or yours, you weren’t sure.
Then, interrupting your thought process as per usual. “So. What’re you gonna do with that?”
There was a tight pull in your chest that hadn’t eased since you left the office—maybe even since last night. You wanted to say something, anything, but every answer felt like it might tip you too far in one direction. Too close to honesty. Too close to what you weren’t ready to name yet.
You reached the corner and pretended to study the walk signal, even though the light hadn’t changed.
“Not sure yet,” you said finally, voice quiet. “I’ll have to keep you posted.”
Gojo didn’t press. Just made a small noise of acknowledgment that sounded strangely fond.
“But I gotta go,” you added quickly, already pulling the phone away from your cheek. “I’m at my building.”
No you weren’t.
“You better text me later,” he threatened. “I need a play-by-play when you inevitably unravel again.”
You rolled your eyes. “Goodbye, Gojo.”
“Talk to ya’ later, emotional disaster.”
You slipped your phone into your back pocket again, the weight of it settling against your hip as you tore open the pack of cigarettes. The foil crackled under your thumb. One cigarette slid free, familiar between your fingers in a way that made something in your chest twist—not guilt exactly, just recognition. The lighter you’d forgotten was still in your jacket pocket sparked on the second try, a small flare against the afternoon light.
You took a slow drag as you started walking, the smoke catching at the back of your throat before you exhaled toward the street. It didn’t calm you down, not really. But it gave your hands something to do while your head stayed a mess—the illusion of control, or whatever.
Yeah, so maybe you’d lied a little to Gojo. You weren’t at your building. You were still a few blocks away. But if that aggravating white-haired prick knew you’d bought a pack, he wouldn’t have been nearly as easy to hang up on.
You slowed your steps once you turned the corner, the street quieter here, just the hum of distant traffic and the click of your shoes against the pavement. The cigarette burned low between your fingers.
Gojo’s voice lingered anyway—obvious, he’d said. Like it was that simple.
Maybe it was, for him. He’d always been good at saying things out loud, at naming them before they could turn into something complicated. But for you, it didn’t feel obvious. It felt… blurred. Unsteady.
You tried to think back—when had it started? When had the air between you and Suguru shifted from easy to careful? You’d spent so long convincing yourself it was nothing, just the way he was, the way he looked at people—soft, steady, kind.
But Gojo wasn’t wrong. He rarely was when it came to other people’s feelings.
You took another drag of your cigarette, slower this time, and let the smoke drift out in front of you.
If Suguru had already decided, if he’d been standing there, steady and sure—Then the only thing left unsettled was you.
The thought made your stomach turn, not unpleasantly, just with the kind of weight you couldn’t walk off.
You stubbed the cigarette out, tucked the pack back into your pocket and kept walking to your office building.
The air felt heavier now, like the city itself was leaning in, waiting for you to make sense of everything rattling around in your chest. You kept your eyes forward, counted the cracks in the sidewalk, anything to keep from circling back to his voice in your head.
By the time your hand touched the glass door, your pulse had finally slowed. Not settled—just slowed.
You exhaled, stepped inside, and let the familiar smell of the lobby wrap around you. Safe, neutral, anonymous. But standing there, you couldn’t tell if you felt steadier than before, or if you’d only added more weight to the mess already inside you.
You crossed the threshold anyway, carrying both possibilities upstairs to your cubicle.
୨୧ ୨୧ ୨୧
The afternoon dragged in its usual way — a haze of emails, phone calls, and the hum of the office air system that seemed louder than the chatter of your coworkers. You clicked through spreadsheets without really absorbing the numbers, fingers moving on autopilot.
Rows of data blurred together. You corrected a formula. Replied to an email. Moved a column over by one cell.
None of it stuck.
Every few minutes your eyes flicked down to your phone, where it sat face-up beside your keyboard, silent and dark. You told yourself it was habit—nothing more than the same restless checking everyone did during slow afternoons.
Still, your attention kept drifting there.
The cursor blinked impatiently in the spreadsheet. You typed another number. Deleted it. Re-entered it.
Across the office someone laughed too loudly. A chair rolled across the tile. The printer spat out a stack of papers with a mechanical whir. Everything carried on exactly the way it always did.
But something from last night lingered, quiet and stubborn beneath the surface of it all.
Suguru’s voice.
Not loud. Not dramatic. Just steady.
I’ve always paid attention to you.
Your fingers stilled on the keyboard as your thoughts became more persistent.
The memory didn’t arrive all at once. It came back in pieces — the cool night air on the balcony, the way the city lights had caught in the glass door behind him, the faint curl of smoke drifting between you.
And the way he had been looking at you. Not the easy, friendly look he gave everyone, no it was something far quieter than that—More deliberate.
You leaned back slightly in your chair, rubbing a thumb along the edge of your desk.
Gojo’s voice slipped back into your head too, annoyingly clear.
He doesn’t say things like that unless he means them.
The thought sat there, heavy and uncomfortable. Because the truth was—you’d always known Suguru paid attention. He was just that kind of person. He noticed things about people that others overlooked. Small habits. Subtle shifts in mood. The way someone’s voice changed when they were tired. It had always felt safe, somehow. Easy to assume that warmth was just part of who he was.
But last night…
Last night hadn’t felt like that.
There had been a difference you couldn’t quite smooth back into something harmless. The memory refused to settle into the neat, familiar shape you’d always given it—the easy explanation that Suguru was simply attentive by nature. Kind. Observant. The type of person who made everyone feel quietly seen.
What lingered from the balcony didn’t feel broad like that. It felt… distinct.
And the more your mind circled the moment, the more it began to pull other fragments loose—small things you’d never bothered examining before. The way his attention sometimes settled on you a second longer than necessary during group conversations. The way he’d remember details you’d mentioned offhand from years go, bringing them up again with that same calm certainty, as if they’d never left his mind. The quiet patience he showed whenever you spoke, even when you were rambling or half-distracted, like he was willing to wait out every unfinished thought until you reached the end of it.
Back in university, it had always just blended into the background of who he was. Suguru was simply like that with people.
But sitting here now, staring at the blinking cursor on your monitor, those moments rearranged themselves into something sharper. Something with clearer edges.
And a slow, unsettling realization crept in alongside them—
That difference you’d felt last night might not have appeared out of nowhere. It might have been there all along. You’d just never stood still long enough to notice where it had been pointing.
Your jaw tightened slightly. Gojo’s words returned again, irritatingly calm.
He’s already decided.
You stared at your monitor. The spreadsheet numbers had long since stopped making sense.
Your phone sat there beside your keyboard, perfectly still.
He hadn’t texted.
Which wasn’t surprising, really. Suguru wasn’t the type to chase a moment right after it happened. If anything, he tended to give people space — letting conversations settle before returning to them. Which meant the silence between you now wasn’t unusual.
Still, your attention drifted back to your phone. It sat exactly where you’d left it beside the keyboard, the screen dark, the glass catching a dull reflection of the fluorescent lights overhead.
You stared at it for a moment.
Then reached for it before you could reconsider.
The screen lit up beneath your thumb.
No notifications.
The message thread with Suguru sat a few rows down in your messaging upp, unchanged since the last time you’d looked at it. Something casual from earlier in the week — a half-finished conversation about grabbing drinks with Gojo that had dissolved the way most of your group chats did.
Nothing remarkable.
Nothing that hinted at the quiet shift that had taken place last night.
The cursor blinked patiently in the empty message field.
You could leave it alone.
Close the app. Set the phone back down. Let the moment settle the way Suguru always seemed to prefer—quietly, without rushing it into something louder than it needed to be.
It wasn’t as though there was anything urgent to say. Nothing that needed to be sent right now. But the thought of closing the conversation again—of letting the quiet stretch on indefinitely—sat somewhere under your ribs in a way that felt oddly unfinished.
Like walking away from a question that had already been asked.
Your thumb tapped lightly against the edge of your phone case.
You scrolled up through the thread without really reading it. Old messages slid past—random jokes, half-formed plans, the easy back-and-forth that had always come naturally between you.
Normal.
Comfortable.
Your gaze lingered there for a moment. Then drifted back down to the blinking cursor again.
There was a brief, stubborn moment where your brain tried to assemble something reasonable to send—something neutral enough to slip into the conversation without shifting the ground beneath it.
Nothing came.
A frustrated breath left your nose.
Somewhere along the line, you’d stopped caring how nonchalant your words would read.
Your thumbs moved before you could stop them. You typed. Paused. Then, with a small flick of your thumb—
Sent it.
You: I just realized you never rated my balcony hospitality.
For a second you just looked at it, cringing as you reread your own words.
Then you set the phone face down beside your keyboard, as if putting a little distance between yourself and the words might make them feel less deliberate.
Your eyes returned to the spreadsheet.
The numbers still didn’t mean anything.
A second passed.
Then a few minutes.
Your phone buzzed softly against the desk.
You scrambled to flip your phone over, and you felt a warmth inside you that grew when you saw his name light up your screen.
Suguru: Gonna have to give you a 7/10…
You let out a small laugh, which sounded much louder than intended in your quiet office.
You: Only a 7…what gives?
He responded immediately.
Suguru: Could've been a 10 if I hadn't been kicked out…
Suguru: But don’t take it personally, I’ll give you a second chance
It was impossible not to smirk at that. After your morning of reflection, you felt a newfound sense of confidence…well, almost.
You: Alright, well, you’ll still have to buy dinner to keep the experiences consistent.
You waited for his reply, thumb hovering over the screen, feeling the slight pull of anticipation with every second it took to appear
Suguru: Always.
You blinked, staring at the screen for a beat longer than necessary. There was a momentary pause—neither of you typing, just the soft hum of the office around you—and the silence felt loaded, like the tiny space before a wave breaks.
Suguru: Hey. I’ll be in your area after work today. Want a walking buddy?
Your fingers froze over the keyboard. Walking buddy. Just that, casually phrased, but somehow it carried everything—the familiarity, the quiet suggestion that he wanted to be near you, and maybe… more.
You typed quickly, unsure if you sounded too eager or not eager enough:
You: Uh…You wanna walk me home? Sure. Where are you headed?
Suguru: Just somewhere near your place. Thought I’d see if you wanted to keep me company while I run a few errands. Only if that’s okay, of course.
You: Yeah, of course. I’d like that.
Suguru: Great. Do you happen to have an umbrella? Looks like they’re calling for some heavy rain this afternoon.
You: Nope. I prefer to face nature head-on. Builds character.
Suguru: Ha. Alright, then suit yourself :)
The screen went quiet again, leaving you staring at it, the hum of the office suddenly louder. A slow pulse of anticipation threaded itself through your limbs. He’d asked. He’d made the effort. And just like that, the ordinary afternoon had shifted.
୨୧ ୨୧ ୨୧
You shut down your computer, the soft click of the final key echoing against the cubicle walls.
The office felt heavier now, charged with the quiet electricity of the afternoon. You grabbed your bag, slung it over one shoulder, and headed for the elevator, every step feeling slower than usual, like anticipation had stretched the space between you and the world.
The elevator ride was short, but long enough for your thoughts to ricochet between your conversation with Suguru and the drizzle you could already hear pattering against the windows outside. You checked your phone once more—no new messages, just the glow of an empty lock screen— then slipped it into your pocket.
Stepping out of the elevator, the lobby smelled faintly of wet concrete and polished floors.
You pushed the glass doors open, and the cold, damp air hit you immediately. It had always shocked you how this city could experience all four seasons in a day.
Rain coated the city in a slick, reflective sheen. And there he was.
Suguru stood under the overhang just outside the building, a big navy-blue umbrella in his hand. Suguru looked impossibly put together, as if the city itself had paused for him to appear.
When your eyes met, he gave a small, easy smile, and you waved.
“Hi.” He offered the umbrella with one hand and, without waiting, reached for your laptop bag with the other. “Here,” he said. “You’re carrying too much. Let me.”
Your shoulders stiffened, and your fingers unconsciously gripped the strap a little tighter. The sudden proximity, the deliberate care in his gesture, made your chest constrict in a way that felt equal parts grounding and alarming. You blinked, trying to mask the quickening of your pulse, and forced your voice into something casual. “No, it’s fine—I’ve got it.”
“Really?” His tone was gentle but firm, low and steady, carrying a quiet weight that pressed softly against your chest.
There was a calm certainty in the way he spoke, like a hand guiding you without force, and the sound of it—rich, measured, just a touch warm—made arguing feel suddenly pointless.
“Just let me.”
Before you could protest further, he took the bag from you and slung it over his left shoulder. It was surprisingly heavy, but in his grip it seemed to weigh nothing. You blinked at him, caught somewhere between amusement and disbelief.
“Okay, fine,” you said, letting him shoulder it. “I’ll hold the umbrella for us then.”
You adjusted your grip on the umbrella, holding it in your left hand so it arched perfectly between the two of you as he fell into step at your left. Rain had started to fall more steadily now, tapping a quick rhythm against the fabric above your head.
“Long day?” You asked, trying to keep your voice light as you walked.
“Not too bad,” he said, the corner of his mouth tugging into a smile. “Busy, but nothing I couldn’t handle. You?”
You shrugged, shifting the umbrella slightly in your hand. “Eh, nothing crazy, actually, I think the day felt so long because I was just so bored.” You exhaled softly, and for some reason, the sound felt too loud in the quiet space between the rain and the city hum.
He chuckled—a soft, low sound that somehow threaded around the raindrops and wrapped gently through the space between you.
“Tough life. At least you survived,” he said sarcastically, his gaze flicking to your face for a beat, warm and steady.
You smiled despite yourself. “Some days I’m not sure survival is guaranteed.”
He let out a short laugh. “Well, you’ve got me here to make sure you keep making it through.”
You borderline snorted at his remark; it was rather forward, but despite how his words made your heart flip, you couldn’t hold in your reaction.
“Yeah right, your heroic efforts are noted…”
The rain picked up then, heavier, and the small puddles along the sidewalk splashed under your feet. You tilted the umbrella, trying to shield both of you, but the wind caught it, making it almost impossible for you to keep the both of you covered.
Without a word, his left arm, still carrying your laptop bag as if it weighed nothing, reached over to take the umbrella from your hand. He tilted it slightly higher, angling it so the canopy covered both of you more completely. The motion was effortless, almost casual, but it brought you closer in a way that left no space between your bodies.
His right hand came to rest at your back, settling lightly against your right shoulder as he drew you in—close enough that the narrow shelter of the umbrella covered you both.
The movement was subtle, natural, deliberate—pressing you gently against his right arm.
Your sides were now flush, a shared space carved out from the rain, protected under the navy-blue dome above your heads. You could feel the warmth of his body through the thin fabric of your blazer, a quiet, grounding heat that contrasted sharply with the damp chill of the street.
“Better?” He murmured, his voice just above the rain, low and careful.
You nodded, not trusting your voice.
This closeness made the rhythm of your heart feel louder than the rain, the pulse in your chest syncing with the quiet, deliberate steps you shared down the slick sidewalk.
You leaned just a fraction into him, letting the protection of his presence—literal and figurative—anchor you as you navigated the steps toward the subway station.
Even in the rain, with the city glinting wet beneath streetlights, it felt like the two of you had created a small, suspended world under the navy-blue canopy of the umbrella.
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sleepily/drunkenly asking them if they love you over and over... hmmm...
❄️ zayne would be calm and patient and unbothered, answering with "yes, my love" and "of course, dear" and "i love you very much, darling" no matter how many times you ask. he has a sure and even response for every single one of your little questions and doesn't mind repeating himself however many times you need. every word is said with full sincerity and he makes sure you know he adores you.
"yes, i promise. i'll always love you."
"if you think i could ever grow tired of you, you must not know me very well."
"your heart is the most valuable thing i have ever earned. i will never throw away that blessing so carelessly, my love. do you understand?"
🍎 caleb would be more playful about it i think. maybe he's also a little tipsy, or maybe he just knows how to make you laugh when you're doubting yourself. he makes sure you realize you're being silly, and easily turns the tone of your conversation into one that's more lighthearted. "if i didn't love you, would i dooooo.... this?" before kissing all over your face until you start giggling. "still not convinced? hmmm..... how aboooout.... this?" proceeding to tickle you until you're laughing and squirming to get away and admitting surrender.
"'course i love you, pips."
"tired of you? no way. i'd have nothin' to do if you weren't here."
"who's puttin' these ideas in your head, pips? i love you now, always, and forever. more than anything. i'll promise you as many times as you need, 'kay?"
🐦⬛ sylus teases you a little at first. "what's this all of a sudden? just earlier today, you were calling me, and i quote, a "stupid asshole smug dragon"." but if you show a hint of a heartbroken expression or you pout a little too much, it doesn't take long for him to fold and start reassuring you with full sincerity. i think he might take a little more offense to it than the other two, simply because he had to wait for you for so long. what do you mean you're worried he might get tired of you? it's blasphemy to him that you could doubt his devotion, even if it's just your brain being mean to you.
"when have i ever said anything that would lead you to believe you are anything less than precious to me, sweetie?"
"clearly you need a bit of re-education if you believe i would leave your side so easily."
"you are my most cherished treasure. i would sacrifice anything in a heartbeat if doing so would keep you by my side longer. you underestimate my greed for you, my love."
